Page 3 of The Games We Play

“Oh, just self-diagnosing my issues.”

“Tess,” Ryan uses his serious voice. The one he only pulls out when he’s about to lay something heavy on me like, ‘You need help,’ or‘Talk to me, and we’ll work through whatever it is.’

“Ryan,” I deadpan, avoiding his gaze.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me. What are you watching that was more interesting than the movie?”

I turn my phone and show him the current video of a masked man transitioning to shirtless and covered in tattoos.

God, did I mention the tattoos?

Waiter!I’ll take one to go, please! My smile widens. The voices in my head are another indication I need therapy.

“Maybe I should be worriedforyour dates.” Ryan scrunches his nose. “Is that seriously what you’re into?”

I shrug and keep scrolling. I don’t expect him to understand. He had a stable childhood. His only mommy issues are he didn’t have one around to fuck him up. His dad is the perfect parent. At every school function, with a genuine smile and involved in whatever sport Ryan is playing for the season.

He didn’t take this new job that required travel until Ryan was in college. He still got the privacy of living alone, basically without the cost of it.

“Ryan,” Mr. Collins says as he steps into the room. Roxy’s ears perk, and she jumps from her comfy spot to beg Ryan’s dad to pet her. “I have to fly out in the morning. Something came up in Tulsa.” He always looks so manicured and put together. His hair always has the perfect length and style, with frosted sides highlighting his few gray hairs. His beard is perfectly groomed, with not a single hair out of place. It’s thick and perfectly maintained as if he belongs on a modeling cover for middle-aged men. He and Ryan share the same dark green eyes, and it’s easy to see the resemblance between the two. My gaze locks on his gray sweatpants, hugging low on his waist.

Mr. Collins lifts his hand to scratch at the nape of his neck, lifting the hem of his T-shirt enough to show defined muscle and a trail of hair disappearing under the elastic of his pants.

He looks fucking sexy as hell—And that’s my cue to leave.

“I should probably get going,” I state, standing and folding the blanket before placing it back quicker than necessary.

Ryan leaps over the back of the couch and grabs his keys. I find Roxy’s discarded leash, and she runs out when the door opens.

“Thank you for the pizza!” I shout over my shoulder and step into the cool fall air, refusing to look at Mr. Collins again in those damn gray sweatpants.

***

My house is silentafter Ryan leaves. The television muted, and I lay on my back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. If I look hard enough, I can make out images in the shadows from the topography of the rough design. My medication sits on the table next to the nearly empty fifth of Jack Daniels. Dad may not call and check up on me, but he makes sure my sanity medicine is delivered to my door every six months.

They’re to help with my mood, according to Dad and my virtual therapist. According to them, I have depression—but not just normal depression. Mine rears its ugly head whenever it wants, and things get really messed up fast. The medicine helps control that, and so far, I haven’t had anyepisodes.

Honestly, they stopped when my mom finally died.

I was free.

“Way to look out, Dad,” I slur and salute my head in the air.

Roxy lets out a low growl, and I jerk my head toward the front windows. She isn’t your typical dog to bark at nonsense. The hair on my arms stands when her deep guttural growl comes from her again.

“What is it, Rox?” I stand and sway on my feet. This is one of those times you don’t realize how intoxicated you are until you move.

Roxy lets out a quick bark and faces the front door. I move my steadying hand from the couch to the wall and slowly make my way to the door.

Maybe Ryan forgot something?

The room spins, and I cradle my head with one hand, thinking that it will make everything come into focus. Roxy’s growl turns into a whine, and she scratches at the door. “Did you seriously wake me because you wanted to go outside?” My mouth is so dry my voicecomes out hoarse.

Annoyed, I yank the door open to let Roxy fend for herself. I immediately scream, regretting that decision, and grab for her collar, but she slips through my hands.

From my bent position, I slowly tilt my head up, letting my drunken mind make sense of what is happening.

A man stands on my porch in a gray hoodie, dark-wash blue jeans, and a black ski mask that covers his entire face.

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