Page 22 of Ripped

Connor’s gaze snaps back to mine and the hope in his eyes is staggering.

“I can come with you if you’d like.” To pack, to carry boxes, or you know, because I can’t stand the idea of Connor having to go back there by himself. Even if it means getting closer to him when I should be maintaining my distance. Even if it means wading deeper into the emotional and sexual quagmire when I should be trying to get out.

“Yeah? I’m not like, derailing your plans for tomorrow or anything?”

If I had plans for tomorrow, they’re canceled now. There’s no way I can say no to Connor when he looks at me like that, big doe eyes brimming with anxiety. Helping him get through this next hurdle is more important than my need for self-preservation.

“No plans, I’m all yours for the day.” I tack on the last three words quickly, because saying that I’m Connor’s, whew, that’s stirring something inside me that I don’t want to examine too closely.

“Thank you,” Connor says shyly. He goes to his room and pauses in the doorway. We stare at each other for a moment and a wordless message passes between us. Something’s happening here, something that neither of us expected. Something that we might not have any control over.

I force myself to turn away from him and climb up the stairs. His door snicks shut behind me and I let out a big sigh of… not quite relief, not even resignation, more like an acknowledgment that Connor isn’t merely a temporary house guest. His being here is changing me and the way I’ve been living for the past four years.

I’m not sure I like it, but I’m not sure I have a choice. I’ve been in a kind of holding pattern since Roger died, somewhere between an unmitigated disaster and thriving. I’ve been functional and it’s been enough. I’ve gotten used to it and I’m not looking for anything more. Life doesn’t always give me what I want though.

I mindlessly change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and slap some skin products on my face. I climb into bed with my reading glasses and eReader. The words blur together and float around on the screen. After a few minutes, I set it aside, take my glasses off, and turn off the light.

The bed is still big. The sheets are still cold. It hasn’t bothered me in a while, but I can’t help dwelling on it now. It was so nice to lie on the couch with Connor, to feel the warmth of someone beside me, to hear the steady inhale and exhale of his breathing. My body misses that feeling, it aches for it.

I hug a pillow to my chest and try to imagine that it’s Roger. But as I drift off to sleep, I’m not entirely sure it’s still Roger I have in my mind.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CONNOR

We’re standing across the street from my apartment. My old apartment. The building is familiar, the street is familiar, but I’m seeing it all through new eyes. It used to make me smile to be here, to be coming home to my boyfriend and the life we’ve built together. I used to feel so damn special. Not everyone gets to share an apartment with their boyfriend and build a fabulous career as a filmmaker with their best friend. I had it all. I had it made.

And now… now, if I never set foot on this fucking street again, it’ll be too soon.

“Are you okay?” Donnie asks. “We don’t have to do this today if you don’t want to.”

We do though. Unless I want to keep borrowing Roger’s clothes, which would be fine, if I have to. But like, I’d like my own, if I can.

Also, I don’t entirely trust Miles with all my things. It’s not that he’s going to do anything drastic like burn my collection of Blu-Rays or anything like that. I just don’t like the idea of him and Wyatt having unfettered access to my stuff. It’s mine. They can’t have it.

It’s going to be a quick in and out. I’ve timed it so that Miles should be at work so there’s no risk of running into him. We’ve got extra-strength trash bags to throw everything into and once it’s done, I never have to come back.

I want to grab Donnie’s hand as we cross the street. I need the calmness he exudes, the way he anchors me with nothing more than a touch. My stomach is all twisted up in knots, and every little sound, every sudden movement at the corner of my vision makes me jump.

His hand comes to my back as I unlock the door to the building. It’s a gentle pressure, barely there, but it’s everything. My lungs expand and my heart stops trying to leap out of my throat. I want to collapse into his arms, but I can’t—we need to do this thing.

The building is quiet when I let us in. “It’s on the third floor.”

We climb in silence. The only sounds are the thump of our footsteps and the jangle of keys in my hand. My ankle doesn’t hurt anymore, but I’m still careful with it anyway.

At the door to the apartment, I slide the key into the lock and pause. Deep breath. No one is inside. Nothing bad is going to happen. Donnie’s hand is on my back again.

“You’ve got this.”

With him, I feel like I do.

I turn the key and open the door. The apartment is empty and I let out the breath I was holding. Thank-fucking-god.

It’s messy. Dirty dishes sit on the kitchen counter. Dirty cups sit on the coffee table. Clothes are strewn all over the freaking place—on the couch, on the floor, on the unmade bed. I itch to start cleaning it all up.

No. I curl my fingers into fists. This isn’t my mess, this isn’t my apartment, and it’s not my responsibility to pick up after Miles anymore. He can fucking pick up after himself. Better yet, get Wyatt to do it.

The rush of righteous anger is exactly what I need to get my ass into gear. “Let’s start in the bedroom.” I march in there and bite back my annoyance at the mess—ignore it, it’s not my problem.

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