Page 253 of Ruin Me Gently

The beginning.

My stomach twisted.

The beginning.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

Thirteen Years Ago

Stale pizza, cheap beer,and damp laundry. The holy trinity of a college dorm.

The overhead light flickered every few seconds, casting restless shadows along the chipped plaster walls. Our single window was open a crack, letting in the cool autumn air and the faint scent of rain from the street below.

Empty takeout boxes teetered on the tiny desk we both shared, wedged between battered textbooks and a decaying fern Finn swore was essential for ‘good vibes.’ The only personal touch I’d added was a beat-up Colorado Buffaloes poster tacked above my bed, its corners curling from the humidity.

We didn’t have much, but it was ours.

Both twin mattresses were in their usual state—unmade, sheets tangled and slipping onto the floor. A half-full beer bottle rested beside mine, the condensation bleeding into the pages of my open notebook. I should’ve cared. But I didn’t.

Finn sat cross-legged on his bed, a slice of cold pizza hanging halfway out of his mouth, controller in hand as he squinted at the old boxy TV.

“Dude, focus—” I barked, hurling a basketball at his head.

Without missing a beat, he caught it one-handed, grinning as he lobbed it back, smacking it off my shoulder.

“Focus on what? Beating your ass in Mario Kart?”

I snorted, grabbing another slice of pizza. “Focus on not sucking.”

He flipped me off and leaned back on his elbows, unbothered.

I shifted, wincing slightly at the sting on my ass cheek.

Last night, we’d been shitfaced, and Finn decided that the only logical course of action was dragging me into a shady-ass tattoo parlour at two in the morning.

Now, I had a tiny, barely detailed stick figure with floppy hair permanently inked on my ass. And he had one to match on his, except his had curls.

Both were fucking awful, but he’d slung an arm around my shoulder, grinning through the buzz as he explained,‘So we’ll always have each other’s asses, dude.’

Idiot.

But it felt good.

It all felt good.

Simple. A kind of freedom I hadn’t known growing up. Just two best friends, a messy dorm, and a shared fridge full of nothing but questionable leftovers and protein shakes.

We’d busted our brains to get here. Every shift, every late night, every godforsaken summer job we could scrape together. Fast food joints, warehouses, mowing lawns in the dead heat of July—whatever it took.

It wasn’t just about getting into college. It was about clawing our way out of where we started. About proving—to ourselves, to the people who doubted us—that we belonged here, that we could carve something bigger than what was expected of us.

And now? We had dumb tattoos, too many arguments over the shared space, and a ridiculous amount of pressure riding on us to succeed.

Neither of us could afford to screw this up. So yeah, we messed around, we pushed limits, but we still took it seriously.

The classes, the work, the relentless grind.

And somehow, we were still here. Still scraping by, still making it work, still making it out.

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