Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

49. Remy

49

Remy

Six Years Ago

B rakes squeal as the bus comes to a stop in Kingsbury’s parking lot. I’ve been wearing a layer of sweat under my track uniform since three this afternoon. The sports drink I chugged earlier threatens to make a reappearance.

I feel fucking awful.

Not to mention I performed terribly. Coach Dennis pulled me aside for a “check-in.” I made some dumbass excuse of having a fever. He cares. They all do. But their concern only puts me on the defensive. Lately, I can’t do anything right. They act like I’m dying or something. I don’t make a big deal when someone else is having a tough time. Just because I don’t have a smile plastered on my face, there’s something wrong with me. I constantly have to stop myself from snapping, “ I seem down? Well maybe I am. It’s not my fault you’re uncomfortable with the fact I’m not hiding how I feel .” But that would open the door for them to ask why.

And I don’t have an answer .

Hoisting my bag from beneath the seat, I dart past groggy teammates into the damp night. Humidity smacks me in the face; it’s been storming off and on all day. Swatting off a cloud of mosquitos, I rush toward my jeep at the far end of the parking lot, sneakers kicking muddy water onto the backs of my legs.

The drive back from districts felt way longer than two hours. Maybe because Win hasn’t responded to any of my texts. It’s not like him to ignore me. Is he mad at me? I’m desperate to see him and make sure we’re good. My mind cycles through every word, every look, every breath but I find nothing that could've upset him.

I’m unlocking Jeanie when something tucked under the windshield wiper catches my eye.

A piece of paper.

Nausea sweeps through me. Dread solidifies my lungs into useless steel sculptures. With trembling fingers, I lift the wiper and gently tug it free.

It’s barely damp.

My hands are shaking so badly, that the note almost slips from my fingers as I carefully unfold it. The handwriting is unmistakably Win’s.

I can't keep our promise. You’re too sick to be what I need.

The words blur.

But… he promised. One day, we're gonna escape this place together .

He didn’t write this. He couldn’t have written this. He’d never write this.

Crushing the letter in my fist, I climb behind the wheel and call him. Straight to voicemail.

Again.

And again.

Againagainagain .

Yellow streetlights streak as I fly down the road, droplets splattering the windshield. Each strangled breath drives the knives in deeper. Minutes drag on for hours. I’m swerving and hyperventilating as the familiar two-story home only a mile from mine comes into view. I pull into the gravel driveway, fling myself out of the car and stumble up the steps.

Please. Please be here. Please talk to me. I’ll get better for you. I’ll do anything to keep you. I love you. I love you so fucking much. Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I’m begging you, don’t leave me.

My fist slams on the door.

“Win!” I howl. “Win, answer me, please!”

Suddenly, the door swings in—

My heart lurches—

Then falls.

And falls.

I’ve met Win’s stepdad one time. He barely said three words to me then, just nodded politely and excused himself to his office to work on some case. But the man standing barefoot in the doorway is the furthest thing from composed and professional. His wrinkled shirt is rolled up to the elbows. Worry lines carve around his eyes and forehead. A frown curves his lips.

“Winston isn’t here.”

Even his voice is battered and broken.

I swallow around the rocks in my throat.

“W-where is he?”

Sympathy stares back at me.

I want to scream.

“We… don’t know. He texted his mother saying he couldn’t be here anymore. His car is gone. We think he’s headed back to his father, but he hasn’t called him either…” He’s still talking but it’s all gibberish. I don’t understand a single fucking thing coming out of his mouth. “If we hear anything, we’ll let you know, alright?”

I’m not in my body anymore. My head bobs in a shaky nod.

The door closes.

My knees are jello. They want to give out but I can’t move, not even to collapse into the rubble of what could have been. Cicadas scream in the darkness, harmonizing with the emergency sirens wailing in my brain.

No, no, no. This can’t be real. This isn't happening.

Shock— that’s what this is.

I’m frozen to the core despite the smothering humidity of a post-storm Florida night. My fingers are numb with how hard I’m fisting the crumbled letter.

Win is gone.

And it’s my fault.