Page 172 of Ruin My Life
I never saw past it. Never believed there wasanythingafter revenge.
ButDamondid.
And when I look up at him now—into those dark, infinite eyes with their quiet flecks of gold—I see the man who’s been there through every worst version of me.
The one who chained me to a chair, and then unbound something I didn’t know I still had inside me.
He’s not the man I met in that cell.
And I’m not the girl he locked in there.
“I miss them every day,” I whisper.
Then I take a deep breath.
“But I think it’s time for me to get up off that floor.”
THE REST OF THEday passes in a blur of warm memories and quiet comfort—shared photos, laughter that doesn’t feel stolen, and the best damn beef stew I’ve ever had in my life.
Rebecka went to bed early, claiming her nurse was coming by in the morning, but I’m not convinced that was therealreason.
Part of me thinks she just wanted to give Damon and me some time alone.
Now we’re on the back porch, settled into matching patio chairs wrapped in thick wool blankets, mugs of mulled wine in hand. Another Rebecka courtesy even though she can’t even drink it herself.
I’m really starting to think sheplannedthis.
The air is crisp but not cruel, the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting off my wine as I hold it close. Waves crash in the distance, carving quiet rhythms into the dark.
“So,” I begin, watching Damon’s profile under the dim porch light, “how’d you pick this place? I mean, aside from the fact that it’s secluded and impossible to find unless you take a ferry and know exactly where you’re going.”
Damon’s mouth curves into something soft, his gaze fixed on the water.
“My mom’s always loved the ocean,” he says. “When I was a kid, we used to spend afternoons at Brighton Beach, looking for sea glass. She’d make jewelry out of it—bracelets, pendants, earrings—anything she could polish and twist a bit of wire around.”
His voice trails off like he’s watching the memory play out behind his eyes.
“She had this thing about matching pieces to people’s eye colour,” he adds, smiling faintly. “If she didn’t have a shade that matched, she’d tell them to come back to her stall the next weekend. She’d spend the whole week combing the shore until she found the exact piece she needed.”
I can picture Rebecka scanning the sand, holding up pieces of green and blue and amber glass to the sunlight like tiny treasure maps.
“She must have loved it,” I say quietly.
“She did,” Damon nods. “She’d probably still be doing it now if she hadn’t gotten sick. Parkinson’s made it harder to walk through the sand... harder to grip the wires.”
A beat of silence settles between us before I ask, “When was she diagnosed?”
“I was thirteen,” he says, setting his empty mug down on the little table between us. “But she’d been showing signs before then. Small things, you know? Her hands shaking. Trouble writing. Dropping things. We didn’t know what it was at first.”
He pauses, like he’s weighing whether to tell me the next part.
“When it got worse, she couldn’t go out as much. So I dropped out of school. Picked up a few part-time jobs so we wouldn’t lose the apartment.”
My grip on the mug tightens.
“At thirteen?”
He nods like it’s no big deal. “You’d be surprised how many people are willing to hire a desperate kid under the table. Easier to stiff them on wages. No paperwork. No taxes.”
