Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

1. Remy

1

Remy

Present

“ R emember when you shaved your head sophomore year?”

Of course, I remember. Feels like velvet . His voice haunts me at the most inopportune times. I smother the Ghost of Ex's Past whispering sweet nothings in my ear and scowl at my best friend.

“No?” Andrea asks, "Should I find some pictures to remind you?”

Red-painted nails rake through my light brown waves in the same way she pets my cat. I can’t stand people touching my hair and she knows it. She flashes a rueful smirk, skimming her talons to my cheek and stabbing the spot where my dimple typically pops out.

“Cut the shit,” I grumble.

It only widens her devious grin. She snickers, digging the point deeper into my cheek; at this rate, I’m surprised she hasn’t broken skin .

“Where’s my Remy? I miss him. He smiled more than this stranger in a Remy suit.”

I roll my eyes. Classic Andrea behavior: poke me both physically and metaphorically to get a reaction. Not that I blame her. I’ve been staring vacantly at the floor while nursing a Solo cup of flat soda and gin. I don’t even like gin— it tastes like an air freshener and burns like gasoline. But it was the first bottle I grabbed and I wasn’t in the mood to venture through the madness for something better. Around us, the party is winding up to be a blowout, but my ass stays glued to the navy blue, beat-to-shit couch as far from the idiots doing bar mat shots as possible.

I sigh, “Any particular reason you’re talking about me in third person?”

Andrea sits back, releasing me from her claw to shrug. “Because you’re chronically in your head. ”

Fine, she makes a valid point. Once upon a time, seemingly in an alternate universe, I was the life of the party with a smile permanently plastered on my face and a spring in my step. Shitting sunshine and pissing rainbows.

Whatever the saying is.

I can usually fake it well enough to avoid concerned whispers behind my back. Or nagging texts from Ma with links to new dating apps. Or the not-so-subtle follow-up text from Dad reminding me to take my medication and respond to my mother before she assumes I’ve offed myself in a ditch somewhere.

The key is staying suitably numb enough to function the way they expect. To be pre-diagnosis Remy. To cruise on auto-pilot, flashing programmed smiles and repeating regurgitated, acceptable responses like, “Everything is great! I love life!” To pretend my heart isn’t a hollow organ taking up valuable real estate in my chest.

Doctors don't tell you the impacts of this miserable brain sickness. You're an inconvenience to everyone. Having a bad day? Hide those tears before you’re told to up the dose of your happy pills. Did your useless brain decide to focus on the same bullshit chained to your ankles since you were sixteen? Better keep it to yourself or someone might try to give you some ‘much-needed’ advice like, “You should join that yoga class my depressed sister goes to!”

Don’t even get me started on the list of homeopathic recipes Ma’s friend Cathy flings at me like frisbees.

People want to feel useful. Helpful. Appreciated. I’ve become a master of masking to avoid the disappointed looks, exasperated sighs and repetitive advice.

As if I wouldn’t do anything on this godforsaken earth to feel alive again.

Give me a brain transplant. A lobotomy. A fucking exorcism.

If it’ll bring me peace?

D, all of the above.

“ Aaaand you’ve been abducted by the tiny sadistic aliens in your brain again,” Andrea groans, flopping dramatically into the corner of the couch, her spiked seltzer held high to avoid spilling.

For the first time all night, I let out the closest thing to a laugh: a scoff-snort. Andrea is the only one who doesn’t handle me with kid gloves after the catastrophe years ago. She also doesn’t take no for an answer, especially when I’m wallowing through a depressive episode.

Like right now.

I swirl the grotesque contents of my cup, blowing out a breath. “It’s just been a bad week.”

She huffs, “I know, right? Everyone is freaked out after the shitshow on campus.”

“The fight at the athletes' dorm? ”

Her brow lifts. “More like someone— probably multiple someones— beating a guy to shit for no apparent reason.”

I grimace.

Shaking her head in dismay, she sighs, “Poor dude doesn't even remember much since he got a concussion.”

“Remind me to never go to a party there.”

Andrea levels an unamused glare at me. “Babe, you don’t go anywhere unless I drag you kicking and screaming.”

I give her the middle finger and slump into the couch, resigned to drown in Febreze-flavored liquor.

“Maybe I'm not in the mood to socialize… ever.”

She sits up, crossing her legs like a child as she levels her soulful brown eyes at me. The playfulness has vanished; in its place is a look only my best friend can give me without making me feel like a pathetic piece of shit. Because from her, sympathy doesn’t equate to pity.

“The date didn’t work out, did it?”

I contemplate not answering but it’s Andrea— she’ll keep drilling me until I give her the truth. The girl can detect lies like a police dog sniffs out drugs.

“No.”

She nods, mulling over the confession like a sour candy.

“Be honest.” Her sharply lined glare narrows. “Did you even go?”

I chug the remains of my drink.

My non-answer earns me a frustrated growl.

“Why not? He's fucking hot!”

I deflate. Henry is hot in the preppy, mint-green polo and bleached teeth kind of way. And he's very, very interested. It’s been ages since I put myself out there, even for a one-night stand. I fully intended on meeting him at a bar down the street, but my excitement disintegrated when I reached the door. Like catching Medusa's stare, I transformed into an immovable stone statue.

“Being with a guy reminds me of…”

Admitting it is fucking embarrassing. It's not a matter of accepting my bisexuality; I like to think I’m lucky enough to have double the options. The problem is I’ve only ever wanted one person.

Andrea sighs, her pale hand landing on my thigh. “If you never pursue another guy again, I don’t blame you. Shit, I wish I hated dick! Men are trash— minus you, of course.”

A smile wants to form on my lips.

I open my mouth to tease her but she's not looking at me anymore. Her typically flushed cheeks drain of color and horror lines her pointed features.

Ice drips down my spine as prickling awareness raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I don’t want to turn but my body moves as if magnetized.

Either I’m drunk or I’ve finally cracked.

Did my anti-depressants get swapped with hallucinogens?

My eyes must be lying.

An injection of something ancient and powerful lights up my veins. My shriveled heart skips a beat.

“ Win ?”