Page 262 of Ruin My Life
A year and a half ago, I had no plans to ever come back to Massachusetts. No plans to finish this degree. Revenge was my compass, and everything else felt irrelevant.
But then I met Damon and his stubborn, loyal, maddening inner circle. And I realized that just because mylife had been ruined once, it didn’t mean I had to leave it that way.
Because flowers still grow through cracks in concrete.
Once my leg had healed enough, Damon suggested I come back and finish what I’d started. I only had a year left. And MIT, to my surprise, had never rescinded my placement, probably out of respect for what I’d been through. All I needed was the nudge.
The only real downside?
The distance.
Damon stayed in New York, naturally. King’s Eye doesn’t run itself, and now that The Speakeasy is on its way to reopening—with a client list longer than some Manhattan therapists—they’re busier than ever.
Before I left, I rebuilt R.O.S.E. and taught Lee how to use it. We saved a copy of the program on King’s Eye’s server, but it’s heavily encrypted, even internally. Only two people have access: him and me. That was Damon’s request.
Connor’s betrayal left scars that still haven’t closed. Maybe never will. Damon still trusts his circle like family, but he’s become more measured. More protective. More aware of how easily a system can be used to destroy instead of defend.
I push open the heavy doors to the residence hall and head down the long corridor. New Vassar is eerily quiet now. Most students cleared out after finals. The common room is empty. The kitchen—usually a battleground of mismatched Tupperware and stolen granola bars—is spotless.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was walking into the opening scene of a thriller. The heroine makes her way down a suspiciously empty hallway… just to get ambushed by the killer lurking at the end.
But no. This is just campus at the end of May. Everyone’s either out celebrating success or drinking to forget failure.
I was invited out too, actually. One of my classmates—more like a study partner—texted about a group meet-up at a bar downtown. I probably should have gone. A normal person would. Closure, camaraderie, and all that.
But all I really want is to gohome.
And home isn’t here.
Home is arguing with Chavez about which Degrassi characters are the most chaotic. (We made it to Season 10 ofThe Next Generationbefore I left. He’s invested.)
Home is sparring with Monroe in the mornings while he dodges my questions about him and a certainred-headed vixenhe’s very obviously given in to.
Home is debating encryption strategy with Lee until he makes that scrunched-up face of defeat when I inevitably prove him wrong.
And Damon.
God.I didn’t know it was possible to miss a person the way I miss him.
I miss his chest pressed to my back when we sleep. His mouth at my neck, murmuring sweet Spanish nothings like confessions meant for another lifetime. I miss the way he fails—spectacularly—to stay out of bed when he’s supposed to be working. His rough hands on my skin. His breath against my throat. The weight of him between my legs.
I sound like I haven’t seen him in a decade.
It’s beentwo weeks.
He visits more than I expected—drives four hours down the I-90 just to spend the weekend. We get a hotel room. Order room service. Have sex like the world’s ending.
On his way home, he usually detours to Rhode Island to visit Rebecka.
He asked her once if she’d consider coming back to New York. It’ll never be fully safe for her there, but since I burned that bridge with Matthias and left him with enough blackmail to level his empire, he’s not exactly itching to pick a fight. Not when he knows I could end the Songbirds with a single keystroke.
But Rebecka said no. She likes the quiet. The ocean. Her beach walks. She’s close with the nurses who care for her, and she’s built something peaceful on that island.
So, Damon goes to her instead. Brings the boys when he can. She lights up like a lighthouse every time they show up.
I finally reach my dorm room and slide my key into the lock, twisting it open with aclickbefore pushing inside.
It’s nothing fancy—just a single room with a twin bed tucked into the far-left corner. A desk and chair sit opposite, with a tall wardrobe beside them, all matching in warm cedarwood tones. A large window spans most of the back wall, spilling in the afternoon sun.
