Chapter 32 Ruby's Unfulfilled Dreams

Chapter 32 Ruby's Unfulfilled Dreams
I drove across town that evening with the windows down, letting the cool air hit my face. Ruby had texted earlier: Come over when you can. The baby’s asleep. We should talk. No pressure. Just those simple words. I hadn’t seen her in three days. The pull was still there, but so was the weight. When I knocked on her apartment door, she opened it wearing an old gray sweater that hung loose over her belly and yoga pants. Her hair was down, no makeup, just the way she looked after a long day with the baby.

“Hey,” she said softly. She stepped aside so I could come in. The place smelled like baby lotion and fresh coffee. The crib was in the corner of the living room, our son breathing steadily and quietly. She closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a second, like she needed the support.

“Want coffee?” she asked.

I nodded. We sat at her small kitchen table. She poured two mugs without saying much. I watched her move—still graceful, still that same quiet confidence—but there was something heavier in her shoulders now. The unfulfilled part she’d always carried but never showed at family dinners.

She slid the mug toward me and sat down. For a minute we just sipped in silence. Then she looked at me and started talking, voice low and steady, like she’d been waiting to say it out loud.

“I was twenty-two when I married Robbinson,” she said. “He was charming back then. He had a big smile, nice suits, and always had a story. I thought that was enough. I wanted to feel wanted, Richy. Really wanted. Not just looked at. My own mom was cold—never hugged, never said she was proud. Dad left when I was little. So when Robinson paid attention, I fell hard. I told myself this was the dream. Nice house. Nice life. Kids someday.”

She traced the rim of her mug with one finger.

“Turns out the dream had holes. He started staying late at work. Then ‘business trips.’ Then I’d smell perfume on his shirts that wasn’t mine. I tried to be the perfect wife. He cooked his favorite meals. Wore the dresses he liked. Smiled at parties even when I felt empty inside. I became… seductive on purpose. Learned how to look at men a certain way and how to move so they noticed. Not because I wanted them. Because it made me feel powerful for five minutes. Like someone still saw me.”

She gave a small, tired laugh.

“Robbinson noticed too. But he liked the version of me that turned heads. He just didn’t want to be the one doing the turning anymore. After Susan and Lilly were born, it got worse. He’d come home, kiss my cheek like I was furniture, and then disappear into his study. I’d lie in bed alone and wonder what I did wrong. I started dreaming about something real. Someone who looked at me like I mattered. Not just for how I looked. For how I felt.”

She glanced toward the crib.

“When you walked into the reunion that morning—half-naked, cocky grin, no shame—I felt it right away. Not just attraction. Something sharper. You were young. Reckless. Alive in a way Robinson hadn’t been in years. And the way you looked at me… God, Richy. Like you actually saw me. Not the wife. Not the mother. Just Ruby. Hungry. Real. It scared me how fast I wanted that.”

I didn’t interrupt. She kept going, her voice softer now.

“I told myself it was wrong. You were family. Younger. But every time I saw you, the old emptiness got louder. I used the secrets I knew—Annie and Robinson, the DNA stuff about Susan—to quiet the guilt. If they could lie for years and survive, why couldn’t I have one thing that made me feel alive? It wasn’t fair, but it helped me justify it. I wanted to be touched like I mattered. Kissed like I was the only thing in the room. Wanted like I was enough.”

She reached across the table and took my hand. Her fingers were warm.

“That’s why I kept texting. Why I let it go further. The hotel. My bed. All of it. It wasn’t just sex. It was filling a hole I’d carried since I was twenty-two. You gave me something Robinson never did. Passion that felt honest. Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt everyone.”

She looked down at our joined hands.

“I’m not proud of the manipulation. I used the family secrets like a shield. I told myself it made us even. But the truth is simpler. I was lonely. Unfulfilled. And you walked in looking like freedom. I grabbed it before I could talk myself out of it.”

She let go of my hand and stood up. Walked to the crib and looked down at our son sleeping.

“I don’t regret him,” she said quietly. “Or you. But I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with the way things were. I spent years being the wife who smiled through the neglect. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

She turned back to me.

“That’s my story, Richy. The seductive woman everyone saw? She was just trying not to disappear. You reminded me I was still here.”

I sat there, letting her words settle. The unfulfilled dreams she’d carried. The justification she’d built. The way she’d used the family’s rot to give herself permission. It all made sense now. And it made the guilt heavier because I’d been the escape she needed.

She didn’t ask me to stay. She just looked at me, tired but clear.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” she said. “But I’m done waiting for someone else to make me feel alive. I’m choosing that for myself now. With or without you.”

I stood up. Walked over. Kissed her forehead. Soft. Honest.

“I hear you,” I said.

Then I left her apartment, the baby’s quiet breathing still in my ears, her words sitting hea
vy on my chest.

The unfulfilled dreams weren’t just hers anymore. They were part of mine too.