Page 165 of Ruin My Life
Because if the Songbirds did find her, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to be the one standing between her and a bullet.
And because…
I guess the real question is—would I have brought her here if she hadn’t already known the address?
If she hadn’t hacked my network and got her hands on my deepest well-kept secret, would I have just treated her like anyone else? Taken her to a safehouse where I know she’d be safe, but outside my reach?
Would I have even let her in at all?
But I guess there’s no point inwhat-ifs.
All that matters iswhat is.
I just wish I knew what this actuallyis.
“I know what you’re thinking,” my mom says softly as she rises, steadying herself on the table edge. “It’s the same look you’ve had for two years now. Maybe longer. You tell yourselfit’s about protection. That you keep people close so you can shield them. But that’s not it.”
She meets my eyes, calm but firm.
“You’re scared to lose someone else.”
She hands me her mug and I take it, quietly placing it in the dishwasher and starting the cycle.
I let the silence sit between us for a beat.
“Problem is…” I murmur, “even if I try to keep her close, doesn’t mean she’ll want me to.”
My mother’s eyes soften.
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Only because I didn’t really give her another choice.”
She scoffs. “Damon, that girl is no damsel in distress,” she snaps, still gentle but now with an edge. “She is perfectly capable of making her own decisions. If she didn’t want to be here, she’d have already left. But she hasn’t.”
“Yet,” I murmur.
“Well, if she really wanted to run, I bet she wouldn’t be hanging out in the back yard, now would she?” she says, tilting her head toward the window.
I blink and follow her line of sight.
Outside, past the sliding doors, Brie stands at the fence overlooking the water. She’s wrapped in a thick knit sweater—probably my mother’s. Her long hair whips in the wind like smoke, and she doesn’t move. Just stands there, staring at the ocean like she’s waiting for it to take her.
She looks… unreal.
Ethereal.
Like a myth made of grief and fire.
I’m drying my hands on a dish towel when my mom says, casually but without softness, “You know,mijo, you can’t force your protection on people who don’t want it.”
I glance over my shoulder, but she doesn’t wait for my reaction.
“The best thing you can do,” she continues, standing and patting my shoulder, “is ask what she wants—and then do that. Even if it scares the shit out of you.”
She rises onto her toes, and I lower my head so she can kiss my cheek.
“I’m going to bed,” she says, turning toward the hall. “Hopefully I’ll see you both in the morning. Maybe we’ll make pancakes.”
