Page 16 of Ruin Me Gently

I’d been there before. Felt the emergency brakes slam down, my mind shutting off the second it got too much. My old psychiatrist called it a survival mechanism.

But it didn’t feel like surviving when you had to piece yourself back together from nothing afterward.

“Delivery for Lilith Whitlock?” A voice echoed through the store, snapping me out of my spiral of self pity.

A man in a navy windbreaker and scuffed boots strode into the shop, barely visible behind a gigantic bouquet of aggressively pink roses. They were so bright, they practically screamed, ‘Look how much I care!’

Molly let out a huff, climbing down the rest of the ladder. “Well, well. Guess someone thinks flowers are the cure for being a raging asshole.”

I didn’t speak. The blood draining from my face was probably doing all the talking for me.

He grinned as he approached us. “Wheredo you want these?”

“Anywhere but here,” I muttered, glaring at the offensively pink petals, willing them to disappear under my gaze.

“Right there’s fine,” Molly interjected, pointing to the counter.

He set down the bouquet with a satisfied nod.

“Enjoy!” he chirped, before turning and disappearing out the door like he hadn’t just delivered the floral equivalent of a giant red flag.

“I mean, like, it is him, right?” she asked.

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “Obviously.”

She groaned, throwing her head back like the weight of his stupidity physically pained her. “Nothing says‘I’m sorry for being the world’s biggest douchebag’ like a bouquet that looks like it was involved in an explosion at a Barbie factory.”

“It’s his thing,” I said, poking at the flowers with one finger like they might bite me. “Screw up, send a bullshit gift, act like it never happened.”

And the worst part, that wasn’t the only gift I’d received. Oh, no.

The morning after the gala, I’d woken up reeking of cigarettes and shame and I’d run straight to the bathroom, throwing up the entire contents of my soul. Then, when I was scrubbing my skin raw under the scalding water of the shower, the doorbell had rung.

Annoyed, exhausted, and dripping in a towel, I’d checked the security app that was connected to it. Nothing. No one on the feed.

So, like the idiot in every horror movie, I’d dragged myself to the door. But what greeted me wasn’t a person. It was a tote bag sitting innocently on my doorstep. I’d stepped outside, clutching my towel, squinting up and down the street like I was going to catch someone darting behind a bush. But nope. The street had been empty, not a single soul in sight. Still, I’d brought it inside, because I’d been pretty sure someone wouldn’t leave a bomb on my porch on a Sunday morning.

And in the bag? Food. Not just food—heaven.

There were pancakes, waffles, a perfectly wrapped stack of toast that smelled like the bread had been baked that morning. Sliced fruits arranged so carefully they looked like they belonged in a fancy restaurant. A glass bottle filled with orange juice, and a thermos filled with fresh coffee.

And sitting at the bottom of the bag, like the cherry on a bizarre sundae, was a cream-coloured envelope with my name on it. I’d rolled my eyes as I opened it, fully expecting one of Clark’s usual apologies, something vague and insincere. But this? This was… different.

“I am no bird, and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.” - Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre.

I’d stared at it for what felt like forever. For all his charm and bravado, Clark couldn’t even recite the alphabet if it was written right in front of him. Depth was never hisstrong suit. He’d obviously enlisted some poor assistant or intern to piece it together, convinced it would erase everything. I could practically see his smirk, so sure he’d played his cards right.

The whole thing felt weird. Off. The food no longer looked like heaven, it looked like a pathway to hell. I didn’t overthink it. I’d grabbed the entire bag, marched straight to the kitchen, and dumped the whole thing into the trash. Pancakes, waffles, juice—all of it. Gone.

Maybe it had been wasteful, and maybe it had been a tad dramatic. But something about it made my skin crawl, and I wasn’t about to take it with open arms.

My fingers hovered over the bouquet for a moment before drifting to the card that was nestled among the sea of pink vomit. I plucked it free and flipped it open, skimming the single line scrawled across the centre of the card. I recoiled immediately, dropping it to the floor like it’d burned me.

“What?” Molly asked. “What does it say? Tell me, tell me.”

I hesitated, glancing down at the scrawled words like they might lunge at me. “It says,‘I love you, let’s talk.’”

She blinked once, her bright pink lips pressing into a thin line as she snatched it up off the hardwood. “Gross. He’s like a magician, only the magic tricks suck and the whole act is just him trying to distract you from the fact that he’s a trash human being.”

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