Page 49 of Ruin My Life
I’m gonna puke again.
Six years ago, I read his note and those cryptic words still haunt me. That letter pushed me over the edge. I blamed him, yes, but I blamed myself more.
Because I should’ve known better. I wasn’t worth the hassle. My bad days were too many and my illness too heavy. Of course, he left me. Who could stand to stay?
But he came back.
And he’s different. The same in some ways— witty, unfazed, and effortlessly sexy— but beneath his persistence and dry humor is an air of resigned acceptance. Those grey eyes are windows into a haunted house. Ghosts and horrors keep him locked away, only allowing fragments of his story out. Like misshapen puzzle pieces in the form of words strewn about for me to decode. He doesn’t deny responsibility for breaking us, nor does he imply or overtly state the reason had been me.
He’s only said the opposite.
Getting Win to open up back thenwas like pulling teeth, butmyWin wouldn’t hurt me in any capacity. He’d take whatever was bothering him to the grave if it meant shielding me from further suffering. The onset of my depression threw me into an emotional rollercoaster neither of us were equipped to handle. Had my sick mind, fed by fear of abandonment, twisted his subtle cries for help into something else entirely?
It's a nauseating thought.
My phone chirps from the bedroom and my heart skips.Win?
There have been no notifications from my doorbell all day. No lingering in the hall. I even peeked out the window: no Range Rover in the parking lot. Initially, seeing him again was like ripping open a festering wound. His face around every corner was a finger digging into a sore, aged gash.
But his absence hurts so much more.
Was he ever real? Had I imagined the whole thing? Am I having a psychotic break?
“God, I’m pathetic,” I groan and round the counter so fast I smack my other hip, “Motherfucker!”
Tripping over myself, I enter the room and immediately tear at the quilt in search of my phone—
A thump on the floor.
Tossing the blanket aside, I drop to my hands and knees, crawling to the little black brick lying screen down on the carpet.
I flip it over.
Two notifications.
One missed call. One doorbell alert.
My thumb taps the missed call first.Andrea. Disappointment tastes bitter. She probably stopped by to verify signs of life.
Mitz rubs against my arm.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll feed you in a minute, even though I totally caught you eating that Indian food, you little gremlin.”
She struts out of the room, tail like a flagpole. With a sigh, I drag my exhausted body to the front door, cursing to myself, “You seriously hoped it was your stalker ex-boyfriend? You need an icepick up the nose.”
I yank the door open to find a bag of takeout.
Win.
Mentally, I slap myself, then snatch the bag.
Andrea sometimes leaves me food. If she does though, it’s usually half-eaten.
I scan the hall.
No one.
The snick of the lock engaging doesn't settle my restlessness. I drop the bag on the counter and untie the handles. Wafts ofsomething greasy and fried fill my nose. I moan at the same time my stomach growls.
