Page 268 of Ruin My Life
“Except maybe little Hope,” Lola tosses out from where she’s perched on the arm of the couch, elbow braced on Monroe’s shoulder.
All eyes shift to Hope. She squeaks and folds into herself, hands up in protest, cheeks flushed pink. “No, no, not even close—”
Dahlia wraps an arm around her shoulders, grinning. “Don’t be modest,” she says, then nods at me. “She just got accepted to NYU Law.”
My eyes fly wide and I dart forward, pulling Hope into a hug opposite Dahlia. Together, we sandwich her tight.
“Hope, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!”
“Thank you,” she squeaks again, giggling breathlessly between us. When we let her go, she exhales like she’ssurvived an ambush. “But today’s about you. So… how does it feel to be the smartest person in the room?”
I laugh, my cheeks already warm. “I think you’re overselling it.”
Then I smirk.
“But it feelsprettydamn good.”
The room bursts into laughter, teasing, and layered conversation—an easy, electric hum that pulses through the air like a heartbeat. Like home. Like family.
Damon helps serve dinner, and it’s all my favourites. Stuffed pork tenderloin with herbed potatoes. Fruit-topped cheesecake with caramel drizzle. And—because Rebecka can’t keep a secret—she lets it slip that Damon spent an entire week trying to perfect a split pea soup recipe, despite hating it, just because he knows I love it.
The gesture alone makes me want to cry all over again.
As the night winds down, the house softens around us. Rebecka retreats to her room, a gentle smile lingering on her lips. Monroe and Lola lounge on the couch together—her legs draped over his lap as she scrolls her phone, flashing him pictures on the screen that make him grunt or smirk. Chavez and Dahlia have claimed the living room TV for a movie, though they’re mostly arguing about which characters resemble each of them the most. In the kitchen, Lee and Hope wash dishes shoulder to shoulder, voices drifting in and out—about her future in New York, what kind of law she wants to study.
It’s perfect. And somehow, it still doesn’t feel real.
That’s when I notice Damon is missing.
But he’s easy to find. He’s outside on the back porch, settled into a wooden patio chair with a half-empty glass of Coke beside him. The sky has dipped into deep navy, stars barely blinking through the hush of clouds.
I step out into the cool night air and shut the door quietly behind me. My feet pad across the worn boards until he looks up and smiles—slow, sleepy, soft. He sets his glass down, opens an arm.
I melt into it without hesitation.
He pulls me into his lap, and I curl against him, my head on his shoulder, our eyes drifting out to where moonlight flickers silver across the water.
“All partied out?” I murmur.
He hums thoughtfully. “Not really. But I’ll admit… I might’ve come out here hoping you’d follow. Wanted a little alone time with you.”
I lift a brow, my tone teasing. “Didn’t we already have some alone time earlier?”
His laugh vibrates under my cheek. “We did. But that means nothing. I could never have enough alone time with you.”
My heart swells—impossibly, painfully full. No matter what language he speaks, Damon always says the right thing—even when he doesn’t say much at all.
The sea breeze curls around us like a familiar blanket. But under the hush of the waves, one thought keeps tugging me back: the words he whispered in Spanish—the words I’m still not sure I heard correctly.
In secret, I’d slipped away earlier with Rebecka and asked her to help me translate what he’d said. I even made him repeat it on the drive, repeating it to myself since, rolling it over my tongue like a promise I’m still trying to taste.
“Say it again?” I ask softly, curled into his lap. “A little slower.”
Damon’s fingers trail through my hair, gently brushing it back from my face.
“Un día, mi amor, serás mi esposa.”
“One day, my love… you will be my wife.”
