Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

13. Remy

13

Remy

D epression doesn’t care if you have an important psych exam or an essay due tomorrow. It doesn’t care if you promised to go to the gym with your best friend. It’ll tell you to bail because you can’t drag yourself out of bed. When you try to fight back by scheduling an emergency session with your therapist, it laughs in your face by reminding you she's booked until Monday.

Depression is a parasite. It gorges on beauty and happiness, leaving you an emaciated, empty husk.

My eyes ache from tracing the textured ceiling between the blades of the fan. Throwing an arm over my face, I’m hit with the pungent odor of sweat. I grimace.

When was the last time I showered?

With a groan, I hoist my sluggish body upright. The room spins. Shit, I need to eat too. An annoyed meow sounds from the kitchen. Even Mitz is over my brain.

“Alright, alright, you needy gremlin,” I grumble, shuffling to the bathroom at the pace of a sloth crossbred with a slug .

Just one task at a time.

Shampoo and condition my hair.

Scrub my skin raw.

Brush my teeth.

Shave.

Put on clean clothes.

Feed Mitz.

I’m opening my laptop, preparing to stare at a blank document until I miraculously develop the motivation to write a behavior analysis when a knock at the door startles me.

Andrea said we could go to kickboxing tomorrow. Who the fuck is here?

Another impatient knock.

“I know you’re in there,” a familiar, irritating voice barks.

Cold dread settles in my stomach.

The idiotic agreement I made two days ago comes rushing back. I haven’t left the apartment. Haven’t even opened the blinds. The black hole in my mind has prevented me from facing the consequences of my actions.

Massaging my tired eyes, I slide off the barstool I’ve been perched on for a whole three minutes and heave the door open—

My breath catches.

Grey eyes shadowed by inky strands sweep me from head to toe before locking onto mine. His unbothered visage falters. Miniscule cues give him away: the tension in his shoulders stretching his white tee taut, the delicate flare of his nostrils, and the veins bulging in his forearms.

He's pissed.

I glare at him expectantly.

He says nothing.

This is exhausting.

“What do you want, Win?”

“You haven’t installed your doorbell.”

“I've been busy.”

He scoffs, “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Not lying,” I shrug. “Avoiding you is a full time gig.”

That gets an eye roll from him. Rather than indulge my bullshitting, he lifts his arms to emphasize the plastic bags in his hands.

I blink at him, unimpressed.

“Food, because you look like you’re about to pass out,” he says, swinging one bag then rattling the other. “Tools to get your fancy doorbell working.”

“You know why I got it in the first place, right?” I'm given a deadpan stare. I scowl. “And I’m not hungry.”

My stomach chooses that precise moment to grumble loudly.

Win nods with feigned reverence. “I see. I guess I’ll have to eat this sushi all by myself…”

I’m going to murder him. Maybe choke him to death by shoving those sushi rolls in his mouth all at once. Or drill between those indecently expressive eyes.

“Not a chance. We’re doing the doorbell first.”

I snag the bag of tools—

The handles are twinned around his fingers. I stumble forward, tangled in plastic and Win.

The intoxicating scent of his cologne slaps me in the face. Musky and woodsy and mouthwatering.

I rear back, spinning—

And grab the door frame before crashing to the ground.

“Yeah, we’re eating first,” he snaps.

“I don’t need to be coddled, asshole.”

My stomach groans like a lonely phantom .

A plastic bag stuffed to the brim with white foam takeout boxes smelling of soy sauce, smacks my chest. I think I’m drooling. Reflexively, I cradle it.

“Preventing you from fainting and cracking your pretty head open isn’t coddling, sunshine,” he retorts, backing me into the apartment where I’ve been holed up like a hibernating bear for the last two days. It’s a fucking disaster.

But all my stupid brain can focus on is the ridiculous nickname.

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss.

He ignores me, plopping the bag on the cluttered counter where my laptop sits amid a shrine of unopened textbooks, dirty plates and half-empty energy drinks.

His attention is stolen from the mess by a chorus of excited chirps.

A ball of grey, black and white fur ambushes the tattooed stalker in my kitchen while I stand there with an armful of sushi boxes. Win catches Mitz mid-leap, a breathtaking smile overtaking his face.

I’ve been tasered. Or shot. Actually, both.

“Well, hello there, sweet thing. What’s your name?” Win coos, cuddling my fucking cat in his defined arms. (I’m not staring at them.)

“Her name is Mitz and she’s a goddamn traitor,” I mutter, busying myself with clearing shit off the counter. Dishes clatter in the sink. Aluminum cans clang in the trash. Textbooks thump in a stack. Nothing drowns out Win’s giddy murmuring to Mitz.

“You want some sushi too?” he continues to my cat who purrs loud enough to rival an engine.

“She already ate.”

Yellow-green feline eyes narrow at me threateningly.

I return the stare.

Win toys with her paw.

“Dad loved his cats,” he sighs, his smile tinged with sadness. My chest cramps. He shakes his head, “They weren’t really his, they were just a bunch of strays that hung around our apartment. I swear, he fed them better than me most of the time.”

Sympathies and condolences fill my mouth, but nothing passes my lips. He sets Mitz down, petting her as she weaves between his legs.

“H-How did he—” I stammer uselessly.

The black rings around his irises deepen into a somber vignette. “Pancreatic cancer.”

No matter how much I want to fight it, I can’t help but hurt on behalf of this man who obliterated my heart. He doesn’t deserve my empathy, yet…

“I’m sorry.”

“I've come to terms with it.”

I meet his mournful gaze. “It’s ok if you haven't. There’s no timeline on grieving.”

“Yeah, tell that to USLA,” he scoffs, sifting through the bag of tools, elegant fingers trembling. “They don’t give a shit that school isn't a priority when your dad is dying.”

My hand shoots to the counter to steady myself, but he doesn’t notice. He’s gritting his teeth, shaking as he meticulously organizes the items needed to install the doorbell.

“Sorry, I’m not helping by unloading all my baggage on you,” he says, tone raw and bitter. I don’t get a chance to protest as he collects the box and instructions. “I promise not to tamper with it… just eat something, ok?”

There’s a noose of bruising agony around my throat.

I nod.

He exits the apartment, closing the door gently. Moments later, a drill whirrs to life. I resume my seat at the counter and force myself to eat.