Page 135 of Ruin My Life
I wince at the thought.
It’s notmybedroom. Justabedroom. A space in Damon’s fortress that I briefly occupied.
The moment I push the door open, I find the clothes I laid out on the bed, alongside the black duffle bag I swiped from a closet in one of the other rooms. I’ve already decided that my suitcase will have to stay behind. It’s too big. Too noticeable.
Instead, I’ve packed light—and portable. Inside the duffle is everything I need—clothes, laptop, chargers, and all my bathroom essentials. I have to leave behind some of the lotions and creams Damon grabbed in haste at my apartment.
Little parts of me will still linger in this room when I’m long gone.
Not ideal. But necessary.
The last thing I’ve slipped inside is a single photo frame.
The album is too big and bulky to take, so I took all the pictures out of their protective sleeves and pressed them between the frame’s backing.
There’s a picture of Amie at the ice rink, of Dad holding burnt birthday pancakes, Mom in her robe with curlers still in—all the memories I keep, but can never seem to look at too long—hidden but safe in the back of the frame.
I peel off my T-shirt and shorts from earlier, folding them tightly and slipping them into the duffle’s side pocket. Then I slide into a black crew-neck sweater and fitted jeans.
Unassuming. Mobile. Just another shadow.
I tie my hair into a tight high ponytail before slinging the bag over my shoulder with a practiced motion, and I cross the room once more.
When I open the door, I pause in the threshold.
The hallway is quiet. Still.
I glance toward Damon’s door, and my chest does that thing again—that treacherous, suffocatingache.
Like my body is begging me not to do this.
Like my soul already know I’ll never be the same after tonight.
But I don’t listen.
I square my shoulders, shut the door softly behind me, and head toward the elevator.
My shoes are already lined up next to Damon’s in the entryway, my trench coat hanging beside his like it belongs there.
The sight is too domestic. Too settled.
Like I let myself get comfortable when I always knew I couldn’t stay.
The elevator comes fast. I step inside and hit the button for the first floor, my heart pounding like it’s trying to burst out of my ribs.
The ride feels longer than it ever has.
Maybe because this is it—the moment I cross the point of no return.
By the time I step out into the night, it’s almost four A.M. The streets are hushed. Sleeping. Even the air feels colder, like it knows what I’m about to do.
The Speakeasy across the street is winding down, the last few patrons trickling out in pairs, their laughter dulled by exhaustion. I slip into the shadows, moving fast—keeping my head down as I duck under the streetlights and security cameras I’ve already mapped out around the front entrance.
The door to The Speakeasy opens just as a group of women exit, and I slip in past the group, trying to blend.
Inside, the lighting is low, the music nearly off, and there’s a haze of end-of-shift fatigue hovering in the air.
It makes my task a little easier.
