Page 3 of Ruin My Life
I roll my eyes. “Everything has a price, Dad.”
“Price-less,” he repeats, slowing down each syllable like I’m just now learning the word. “It’d be like if someone asked how much I’d sell you or your sister for—you don’t put a number on something irreplaceable.”
The comparison should be cheesy. Itischeesy. But knowing how much this car means to him, it almost sounds sweet.
Almost.
HOME HASN’T CHANGEDmuch since last December—except for the lack of snow on the ground and the way Mom’s rose garden now blooms wildly along the flagstone path. The driveway curves around the front of the house, sweeping past the wide stone stairs and the tall bay windows of the living room—sunlit and familiar.
It’s an older house, built back in the ’60s, but our parents have renovated it over the years to modernize it. They replaced all the windows and doors, upgraded the security system, and even built a six-car garage off the side to accommodate Dad’s growing collection of classic cars.
He pulls into the garage and carefully eases into one of the front spots. Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, the side door slams open with a sharpthud, ricocheting off the rubber door stopper.
“Easy!” Dad hisses, wincing like the door’s bruises are his own. I guess, in a way, they are—since he’s the one who’d have to pay to fix them.
But Amie doesn’t pay him the slightest attention. She bounds down the steps, all wide grin and long limbs, and tackles me in a hug.
She’s still three inches shorter than me—five-foot-three and barely a hundred pounds—but somehow, her joy-fuelled strength nearly knocks me off my feet.
I wrap my arms around her and hold tight, not caring that her pin-straight brown hair is tickling my nose or that she’s wearing my old high school alumni sweater.
She’s technically a student there now, but the“Class of 2021”embroidered on the sleeve definitely doesn’t belong to her—unless she graduated at thirteen.
“You smell like an old, musty closet,” Amie mutters into my shoulder.
I pull back with a grimace. “I was on aplane. You know how they smell.”
She shrugs and gives me a once-over, her hazel eyes scanning me like she’s checking for unsightly changes.
I freeze under her stare.
Younger or not, she has a knack for scrutiny—always noticing little things, like when my hair is frizzy or my shirt is wrinkled—and I’m embarrassed to admit she can still make me feel a little inferior sometimes.
“At least you’re still hot. Thenerdhasn’t taken over yet,” she teases, tugging at a loose thread on my sweatshirt’s embroidery until it snaps off cleanly. “Can I have this?”
I sigh and head to the trunk to grab my suitcase. “I haven’t even stepped into the house and you’re already looting my closet?”
“Obviously,” she says, her tone flat. “None of your old stuff smells like you anymore.”
The words hit like a soft blow—gentle, but bruising all the same.
She’s always been like that. So blunt. So painfully honest. But somehow it never comes out sharp or hurtful—just real.
I set the suitcase down, and Amie immediately snatches it up—partly to be helpful, but mostly so she can dig through it the second we get upstairs.
“I’ll leave it for you before I go back to school,” I say. “Let me at least wash it once—make it smell more like me and less like the airport.”
Amie’s whole face lights up, her cheeks glowing the way Dad’s do when he’s excited.
“Deal.”
AFTER DOUBLE SERVINGSof dinner and a thick slice of Mom’s cheesecake—topped with a full rainbow of fresh fruit—I’m fuller than I’ve been in months.
They’re not lying about college students’ eating habits. Ramen and boxed mac and cheese become your best friends whether you like it or not. Even with the luxury of a rich dad and a cushy bank account, there’s just never enough time to cook something real.
Nothing that eventriesto compare to Mom’s kitchen.
Now, Amie and I are curled up under our favourite chunky knit blanket—hand-knit by our grandmother. She swore it’d be big enough for both of us, but that’s a lie we’ve disproved at least hundred times. We tug and wrestle over it constantly—sometimes to cover frozen toes, but mostly just to drive each other insane.
