Page 8 of Ruin Me Gently

Molly would tell me to leave. Just go. And I knew she’d mean it with love, with nothing but good intentions. But it wouldn’t feel like love. It would feel like judgement. Like proof that I’d been a complete idiot. That I’d walked myself straight into this, just like Evelyn had.

And I didn’t want to be her.

I didn’t want to be the woman who stayed. The one who made excuses. The one who convinced herself things would change.

I wanted to be better than her. To be stronger.

But if I left, what did that make me? A failure? A disappointment? Someone who let it happen in the first place? Someone who should’ve known better?

I didn’t know which was worse—staying and becoming her or leaving and admitting I’d been her all along.

All I knew was that I was running out of time.

Molly stretched out, glancing at her phone. “Alright, I should head out before I pass out on your couch again. You sure you’re okay?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

Her lips pressed together like she knew I was bullshitting her, but she didn’t argue, just wrapped her arms around me. I bit back a wince at the pressure on my bruises, but I didn’t pull away.

When the lock clicked into place, I sank back onto the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders as the silence settled in. I just sat there, staring at the muted glow of the TV, my body heavy and mind blank.

Then my phone buzzed, the faint vibration rattling against the edge of the coffee table. My lungs constricted at the sight of the notifications.

FIVE UNREAD MESSAGES.

Shit.I hadn’t looked at myphone all night.

Clark

Hey, angel. Big night tomorrow. You got your dress picked out?

Clark

Lilith?

Clark

You’re not with Molly again, are you?

Clark

Don’t ignore me.

Clark

Lilith. Answer your fucking phone.

A cold shiver skittered down my spine and I swiped the screen, rereading every message like they’d somehow change. Like if I stared hard enough, they’d shift into something softer, something sweeter.

They didn’t.

I’m not Evelyn.

I repeated it to myself like a prayer, like a mantra. Like saying it enough times would carve it into my skin, etch it into my bones, make it true.

This wasn’t the version of Clark Iknewwas in there.

The Clark who’d once stayed up with me all night when I was sick, running his fingers through my hair, pressing cool cloths to my forehead.

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