Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

20. Remy

20

Remy

T here’s a crown of barbed wire circling my head. My eyes have been replaced with jagged stones too large for the sockets. Gritty sand coats my tongue and throat.

This hangover is a death sentence.

I shuffle into the kitchen, hip-checking the counter and hissing through my teeth. That’s gonna bruise. After waking up from a nap and vomiting, (I was convinced my stomach would end up in the toilet) I checked the clock.

Already seven in the evening.

I'm never drinking again.

Pretty sure I’ve said that before, but whatever.

I've spent my waking hours piecing together blurry and embarrassing moments from the night before. Slinging back tequila shots. Avoiding Win. Dancing with someone. Arguing with Win. Crying in the street. Riding home with Win. Falling up the stairs. Win catching me. Laying on the floor with Mitz. Win sitting at the edge of my bed. Closing my eyes.

Win kissing my forehead.

“Ask me, baby.”

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 then was like pulling teeth, but my Win 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 of something greasy and fried fill my nose. I moan at the same time my stomach growls.

As I reach for the Styrofoam box, a thick piece of paper tickles my fingers.

A note.

Win.

Like a brick smacking my skull, I remember the doorbell video and swipe my phone screen open, staring down the icon. Denial has worn off. Desperation flutters like fragile wings in my chest as anxieties crowd my mind.

Holding my breath, I start the video.

Tingles erupt, spreading from my scalp to my toes as a fallen angel crests the landing and walks towards my apartment. Each step closer brings clarity to the tiny details. His raven hair is damp like he just showered. He’s wearing black socks and slides. Tattoos peek through his white ribbed tank top, his sweats riding low on his hips. Concern and something heavier weigh down his shoulders as he sets the bag on my welcome mat.

Grey eyes stare directly at me through the lens.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me all day to get here but I… I had to go to a meeting after last night and the closest one was in Cape Cannon, but it wasn’t enough so I made an emergency call to my therapist from Crestview—” He cuts himself off with a scoff and shakes his head. His outline blurs from my tears. “Anyway, I decided something.” He clears his throat, dropping his head back and blinking rapidly. “I’m going to back off. Not because I want to— fuck, I want to be near you always, but what I want with you doesn’t come from forced acceptance. So I'm giving you the choice.”

Then he leaves. Tears roll freely down my cheeks as I carefully withdraw the note.

Sunshine,

My number hasn't changed.

I’m falling apart. I memorized those nine digits scrawled in his messy handwriting years ago and never forgot them. Crumbling to the tile, I recreate his contact and without hesitation, type out a message.

Neither has mine.