Page 22 of The Road to Ruined

I bring the comforter to my mouth and bite down, stifling a sob.

"You're not going to cry again, are you?" he asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to answer.

"I'm not Luca. I'm not going to baby you."

"Please?" I sniffle. "Please, will you hold me?"

"I thought I wasn't real."

"It doesn't matter," I tell him. "It still feels good."

"No."

I bring a pillow to my chest, wrap my arms around it, and squeeze tightly. I bury my face into the side of the pillow and pretend I'm not alone until I fall asleep.

FIVE

Iwake early the following morning, something I got used to over the past three months. After I pull myself out of bed, I catch my reflection in the mirror and, with a heavy sigh, pull an old t-shirt from my drawer and throw it on over my tank top before heading downstairs.

I miss the clothes River bought for me. I wonder what happened to them.

"Hey, Mom," I say, crossing the kitchen to the refrigerator.

"Hey, Teagan. There's some croissants over here if you want one."

I grab a take-out container with leftover egg rolls instead. "No thanks, I'll just have these. Hey, Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Before I left, I was supposed to interview to work with Austin."

"Yeah, that's not going to work," Mom says. "I've already spoken to him; they won't hire you now."

"What if I can't get a job anywhere?" I ask, remembering how the phantom mocked me. "What if no one will hire me becauseof what happened to me? Look at what happened when we tried on dresses the other day."

And when I tried to bang some fuck boy.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she says.

"Maybe I could work with you guys?"

She shakes her head. "Teagan, you're not qualified to work in pharmaceutical sales. And with your history, I don't think it'd be a good fit anyway."

"Maybe…you could talk to Blakely. Ask her to give me back the money Luca gave her—"

"I can't believe you would even suggest that," she says. "No. Don't bring any of them up to me again."

"Well, I need new clothes. I have nothing to wear; I'm going to need money," I tell her. "Does my car have gas in it? Where are the keys?"

"They're in a drawer in the credenza by the front door. And it has about half a tank." She opens her wallet and places two one hundred dollar bills on the table in front of me. "Make that last. Use it on gas, and get a nice outfit to wear on job interviews—something that covers your body. Maybe you could change your hair."

"I don't want to," I tell her.

"Well, you may have to. I'll ask around and see what I can figure out about scar removal, too."

I don't want that, either. Iwon'tdo it.

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