Page 60 of The Ruckup
I didn’t think anything could take the edge off the pain making it hard to breathe, but that does. “It does make me feel better, actually.” I take a deep breath, and try to bring some levity to the situation, because none of this is their fault. Turning to my best friend, I say, “I’m still probably gonna kick your ass for fucking my sister.”
Gavin grins. “Understood.”
If I wasn’t so fucking exhausted, I might even try to do it now. See if it makes me feel a little better to get some aggression out. It’s a shame Drake is still locked up waiting for his bail hearing, or I’d go find him.
If Maddie’s going to break up with me because she’s worried her life will ruin mine, it might as well be justified.
Getting into my car, I shove the other half of the scone I’m still carrying between my lips, chewing through it angrily as I go back home. I don’t know where to go from here. How to move forward when I’ve already found what I want.
But can’t have it.
Parking in the driveway, my eyes drift over my house. Maybe I should sell it. Get a condo the way Gavin told me I should. What’s the point of all the space when I’m not going to have anything or anyone to fill it?
Because I can’t imagine building a future with anyone but Maddie.
Letting myself in, I nearly trip over Gillette. She’s literally sitting on the rug just inside the door, sporting one of the many sweaters Maddie ordered for her, waiting for me to come back.
I crouch down, giving her a pet. “Were you worried you were being abandoned again?” I hated hearing the story of how Maddie ended up with her. Couldn’t believe anyone would dump their pet on a random vet clinic’s doorstep.
But now—since I seem to be entering my asshole era—I’m kind of glad. Gill and I both understand what it’s like to be left behind by someone we love.
Scooping her up, I cuddle my pet close, probably holding her a little too tight. She’s a connection to Maddie, and I cling to her. Tucking the chunky cat against my chest, I drop to the sofa and stare across the room.
I’ve been broken up with before. Plenty of women have found me to be too much too soon. They thought I was love bombing.
But that’s just who I am. One big fucking love bomb.
Except now I’ve got nowhere to detonate, and I’m starting to implode.
I thought I knew what I was getting into when I pursued Maddie. Believed even though it would be difficult, I would succeed in the end. That I would keep her safe. Appreciate her. Take care of her. Love her.
That everything I have to offer would be enough. That it would be worth the fight.
I still believe that. I just don’t know how to make her believe it too.
My stomach growls, angry at me for being so fucking emo and refusing to feed it anything besides the single scone I swiped from my mom’s kitchen. I want to suffer. I want to be miserable. I want to wallow in my pain.
But the need to feel close to Maddie is stronger. And the best way I know to do that—since I can’t physically be close to her—is by doing the thing that makes her feel the happiest. The thing that reminds her of a time when she was loved and cared for.
A time before she was loved and cared for by me.
Carrying Gillette, I shuffle into the kitchen, keeping the cat tucked under one arm as I work one-handed. She must sense my emotional instability and desperation, because even though I know the hold I have on her probably isn’t the most comfortable, Gill doesn’t wiggle around.
I somehow manage to juggle the cat and all the ingredients I pull from the fridge. Keeping Gill turned safely away from the stove, I put pasta on to boil then send the collection of peppers I need to char through the air fryer and into a bag to sweat. When it comes time to start chopping shit up, I’m forced to finally put her down. It’s ridiculous, but the second Gillette is no longer in my arms, my chest tightens and I feel even more alone.
Fucking hell. I wasn’t even this dramatic as a teenager.
Pulling out my Vita Mix blender—which up to this point has been used for nothing but protein shakes—I load in the peeled poblanos and jalapeno, half an onion, a couple garlic cloves, a pile of cilantro, some milk and chicken bouillon, along with a dose of seasoning that would make Abuela proud.
After blending everything up, I pour the creamy green mixture into the drained pasta, stirring it around as I heat everythingthrough. It smells just as good as it did when Abuela made it one of the nights Maddie and I visited her for dinner. I was happy she taught me how to make it then, but I’m even more appreciative of the lesson now.
Now that I’m sitting in silence on my couch with a hairless cat in a sweater, shoving Mexican spaghetti into my face, fully grasping why Maddie was so horrified by my flavorless chicken stir fry.
I could cook to feed my belly, and it tasted fine. But what I’m eating now feeds my soul. It brings me comfort I desperately need. Connection I wouldn’t expect from carbs and spicy sauce.
I’ve almost polished off the entire pound of spaghetti when my cell phone starts to ring. I consider ignoring it because I don’t fucking feel like talking to my mom or dad. I don’t want to hear their bullshit attempts at making me feel better. Honestly, I only grab my phone to silence it.
When I see Maddie’s name displayed across the screen, I stand up so fast the remainder of my depression meal hits the floor, spilling across the area rug as I rush to connect the call.
