Page 82 of Ruin My Life
“I’m fine,” I grind out, already exhausted by the phrase. “Just show me to a room.”
He grabs the handle of my suitcase and wheels it down the hallway. There are eight doors, four on each side, sleek and nearly identical—except for the last one on the right, which has a keypad lock bolted above the knob.
I file the detail away. Locked doors always mean something.
“These all bedrooms?” I ask as we walk.
“Yep,” Chavez replies. “Damon lets us crash here between jobs. Most of them are a little lived in—except the second-last on the left. No one’s claimed that one.”
I can’t decide if the thought of being surrounded by Damon’s inner circle makes me feel safer or more exposed. There’s something about being in close quarters with hisfamilythat scratches at old wounds.
I’m not part of this unit. I never will be. And I don’t trust them.
Chavez opens the door and gestures me inside. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe something cold and sterile. Spartan.
But it’s the opposite.
The room is bigger than my entire apartment. Soft, moody lighting spills across dark hardwood floors. There’s a king-sized bed wrapped in charcoal sheets, layered beneath a thick, quilted black comforter. At the foot, a chunky white velvet knit blanket is folded like a whisper of warmth.
It looks almost exactly like the one my grandma made for Amie and me.
I freeze for a beat, breath caught somewhere between my ribs.
There’s a full ensuite, a walk-in closet, and a balcony overlooking the city skyline where stars blink faintly against the smog-choked sky.
It’s beautiful. Too beautiful.
I don’t know what todowith it all.
“If this is the guest room,” I mutter, “what the fuck does Damon’s room look like?”
Chavez chuckles behind me, clearly not trying to hide the fact that he heard. “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to show you—if you asked.”
I shoot him a dry glare.
“Relax, firecracker,” he grins. “I’m only teasing.”
I brush Chavez off and sit on the edge of the bed, setting my laptop and DVDs beside me. The mattress is perfect—not too soft, not too firm. Supportive enough to feel expensive, but still plush enough to sink into.
Chavez leans over to inspect the box next to me, curiosity written all over his face.
“What?” I ask, nudging the case back like he might try to steal it.
“What the heck isDegrassi?” he asks, squinting like the name personally offends him somehow.
“A TV show,” I reply flatly.
He gives me an exaggerated eyeroll. “No shit. Not one I’ve ever heard of.”
I shrug. “It was more popular in Canada.”
“You’re from Canada?”
“My mom—”
The wordwassits at the back of my throat. It’s sharp, like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. I swallow it back down.
“I have family there.”
