Page 115 of The Most Perfect Wrong

“No. I feel like I’m going to be sick. What if he’s here?”

“Then things will get ugly,” I admit. God, I hope he’s not here. I’ve only ever been in one fight in my life, but if Brad’s here? I don’t know if I could hold back. I wouldn’t want to.

The elevator dings, and we step into the hallway. Cooper’s grip on my hand tightens.

Inside the apartment, her voice trembles as she calls out. “Brad?”

Please don’t be here. Please don’t be here.Not just because I don’t want to end up in jail, but mostly because I don’t want Cooper to have to see him—deal with him. Not today.

She lets out a sigh of relief. “I don’t think he’s here.”

I stay close as she moves to the entryway table, where a pile of broken glass sits next to a folded piece of paper. My chest tightens as I step behind her, reading over her shoulder.

Coop,

I’m sorry about the bird. Here are the pieces. I hope you’re able to put it back together. I’ve always loved you, baby.

She crumples the note into a tiny ball, her knuckles white as she grips it. “God, that makes me want to puke.”

She marches through the living room without another word, and I follow her into the bedroom. A knot twists in the pit of my stomach as I take in the scene: everything from her nightstand—pictures, books, her jewelry box—scattered across the floor in a chaotic mess.

Fucking dick.My jaw tightens.Real mature, Brad.

She shakes her head, exhaling sharply. Without a word, we move to the bathroom, where the chaos continues. Drawers hang open, her belongings scattered across the floor in a deliberate mess. Watching her take it all in, the fury inside me rises like a furnace about to explode.

She mutters something under her breath and strides through the bathroom into the closet.

“Motherfucker!” she yells, her voice shaking with rage. I rush to her side. “Goddamn him.”

The knot in my stomach twists tighter as I take in the sight. Most of her clothes are heaped in a pile on the floor, shredded, slashed, completely ruined. The few pieces still hanging have been defaced with thick black Sharpie—‘whore,’ ‘bitch,’ ‘slut,’ and other sick words scrawled across the fabric.

My teeth clench, fists tightening at my sides, and I have to fight the urge to punch the wall. “Jesus Christ.” I mutter under my breath.

Her eyes well with tears, her breathing quick and erratic as she presses a trembling palm to her forehead. “Ryan,” shechokes out, her voice raw. “I need you to go on the balcony for five minutes so I can flip the fuck out.”

Her hands lace behind her head as she starts pacing the closet. Each inhale is deep and slow, but the exhales are loud, shaky, like she’s barely holding it together.

“Ryan,” she snaps, her eyes wild. “Please. I don’t want you to see me this way.”

She grabs my hand, tugging me out of the closet toward the hallway.

“Coop, I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, Ryan, please. I’m going to lose it.” She tugs harder, but I plant my feet firm, pulling her into me.

I cradle her face in my hands. “Then lose it. Scream. Cry. Throw shit. Do whatever you’ve got to do. But I’m not leaving. I’ll be right here, no matter what.” I look her straight in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

Her bottom lip trembles as tears streak her face. I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a second. “How about I wait on the couch?”

She nods faintly, and I let go, giving her space.

As I head to the living room, her cries erupt from the closet, raw and guttural. I force myself to keep moving.

The living room’s a disaster. Pillows scattered across the room, torn photos of the two of them litter the floor like shrapnel. An empty whiskey bottle and crushed beer cans sit on the counter like some pathetic monument to his rage. I take it all in, anger simmering just below the surface.

He ruined her clothes.

What a fucking prick.

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