Page 3 of Ruin Me Gently

“Fuck!”

I let my hand rest against the wall for a moment, the sting in my palm grounding me as the water poured over my skin. I needed to breathe.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

The sting dulled, but the tension didn’t. I peeled my hand away, flexing my fingers, watching the faint pink bloom across my palm. I focused on the sensation, the burn, the way my skin pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

Exhaling long and slow, I willed myself to let it go, to let the questions, the doubts, the voices in my head all wash away with it, swirling down the drain in foamy spirals.

It didn’t work. Because no matter how hard I tried, one thought wouldn’t leave me. I’d become the one thing I’d sworn never to become.

I didn’t even know how it had happened.

Eight months ago, I’d packed up my tiny life and moved across the country.

It wasn’t some bold, cinematic move. I didn’t dramatically throw a dart at a map or torch the town on my way out as a finalfuck you. It was a quiet, awkward escape. I’d stuffed what little I owned into a rental van, blasted a playlist I pretended was empowering (but mostly made me cry), and drove until I was convinced my old life couldn’t catch up with me.

All I’d craved was distance. Silence. Maybe a shred of safety, wrapped up in the idea that if I put enough miles between me and my past, I’d finally be able to catch my breath and feel like a person.

It’d taken years to get out. Years of scraping by, working awful jobs, living in homes that were never really homes, and making vague promises to myself that someday I’d leave.

Two months after I’d landed in Seattle, Clark had come into the bookstore I’d miraculously landed a job at. He was browsing the horticulture section and had asked something about indoor plants and soil pH levels. I’d made some sarcastic remark, and for some reason—we’d clicked.

It was so intense. So easy. Maybe that should’ve been the first red flag.

I gripped the sink harder, staring at my own blurry reflection through the fogged mirror.

I wasn’t Evelyn.I wasn’t. But the longer I looked, the more I saw. Not just my own face, blurred by steam and exhaustion—buther.

It wasn’t in the shape of my eyes or the curve of my mouth. It was in the poisonous apology wrapped in flowers in my kitchen. It was in the gold necklace sitting untouched on the counter, still curled in the velvet box it came in. A gift, waiting. Like the vanilla and amber candle on my nightstand, unlit. Like the beige sweater, folded too neatly on the chair, soft and warm, waiting for me to slip into it.

Each one after a fight.

Each one after an apology.

Each one after something I wasn’t allowed to call what it really was.

I used to watch her stand in front of the mirror in the same way, adjusting a necklace she didn’t pick, spritzing a perfume she didn’t like, folding sweaters she never would’ve bought herself.

And I used to think,how did that happen?

How do you let someone change you so slowly, so carefully, that you don’t even notice until you’re looking at a stranger in the mirror?

CHAPTER TWO

“You’re late.”

“You said nine.”

“Nope. Definitely said eight-thirty. But don’t worry aboutit.” He stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come on in.”

I hesitated for a second. Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl. But I stepped inside anyway. I always did.

Clark reached for my coat before I could take it off myself, sliding it down my arms, brushing his fingers over my shoulders, lingering at the curve of my neck.

“Missed you,” he murmured, lips pressing against my skin.

I hummed into his touch and forced a smile, letting my gaze drift over the apartment.

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