Page 253 of Ruin My Life
Monroe’s always claimed to hate Lola. Said he never trusted her. Never wanted her around. But when he glances up at the window, it’s not my face he searches for first.
It’s hers.
“You should be safe now, with Connor gone,” I say, watching her reaction.
She startles a little, like she forgot I was still here. Her shoulders stiffen before she rolls them back into that old, practiced indifference. “Issafeever really possible in this line of work?” she murmurs.
“No,” I admit. “Probably not. I just meant—you’re safe to go back home. If that’s what you want.”
She doesn’t answer at first.
“But if you ever want out,” I add, “you let me know. I’ll do what I can.”
Her eyes flick to mine, then back to Monroe. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she whispers.
Then, the mask returns.
Back straight. Chin high. Emotions detached.
“I’d better go,” she says, already turning away. “But give me a shout if anything here changes, yeah?”
I nod once, and she walks toward the elevator. Poised. Elegant. Then gone.
When I step back into Brie’s room, Monroe rises from his chair, gaze pinned to the hallway, like he can still see her ghost trailing away.
“She said she had to go,” I say, sinking back into the seat beside Brie.
Monroe nods, but I can see the wheels turning in his head. As composed as he is, Monroe wears his thoughts in his spine. In the tension in his neck. In the way he shifts his weight.
In the way he frowns slightly without realizing.
“I forgot to tell her she can move out of that safehouse whenever she’s ready,” I add, watching him. “Think you can catch her in the lobby?”
“Yeah,” he says easily.
But when he leaves, he doesn’t wait for the elevator.
He heads for the stairs. Fast. Like somethingurgentis pulling him that way.
She already knows she can leave.
And deep down, Monroe knows that too.
The room settles into an eerie silence. The softbeep—beep—beepof Brie’s heart monitor is the only sound left to anchor me.
Her email replays in my mind, line by line, like a curse I can’t shake.
It read too much like a goodbye.
She promised she’d stop running—then wrote herself one last escape plan. One last out, whether she wanted it or not.
Even love stories have to end.
Her voice echoes in my head. I can hear it like she’s saying the words right into my ear.
But promise me you’ll get up off the floor.
How could she think I wouldn’t blame myself? That I could just get up and keep moving? She never should’ve carried this alone.
