18. Ronan
R yan certainly didn’t tidy while she was here.
“What were you up to?” I muse, scanning my room for evidence. I knew messing around with her carefully organized belongings would get a reaction out of her.
My nightstand drawer is cracked open. With curiosity, I pull it all the way.
Tasha smiles up at me.
Collecting the framed picture, I study the two faces within for a long moment.
That was a good day. We’d only been together for a year or so, but I distinctly remember thinking she was the one.
We’d even talked about marriage once but agreed we weren’t in a rush—she’s a few years younger than I am—and things were perfect the way they were.
A mix of hurt, disappointment, and anger swells inside me. We were perfect, and she threw it all away for random dick.
This picture is the only tangible thing of her I brought with me. It’s time I toss it and be done with mourning. I’m not ready yet, though.
Gently setting the picture back, face down, I slide the drawer shut. At least she’s out of sight.
And out of mind for today. I’ve barely thought of Tasha, too preoccupied with my late-night visitor and how much I enjoyed it. Ryan and I may not be friends, but we’ve become a hell of a lot more than strangers.
Truthfully, I’d rather stay home tonight and see if I might get another visit, but Connor’s already tapped me as his wingman and resisting might make him suspicious.
Peeling off my socks, I head for the shower.