Page 23 of Ripped

Donnie pulls out a trash bag and holds it open for me as I go through the closet. Pants and shirts from the hangers, the three suits I own. Sweaters from the shelf above and shoes on the floor. T-shirts and shorts are in the dresser, along with underwear and socks. The laundry basket is overflowing and it takes me a few minutes to sort Miles’s shit from my own.

Thank god Donnie’s here with me. Even if I didn’t need the moral support—which I do—there’s no way I can carry all this stuff out by myself.

Linens. I bought most of them, so I should take most of them, right? They’re not super fancy, and I’m not super attached to them, but it’s the principle of the matter. The nicest set is currently on the bed though, and do I want the hassle of stripping it? On the other hand, it’d be a very satisfying fuck-you if Miles comes home to a naked mattress. Yeah, I’m that kind of bitch.

I round the bed and something on the nightstand catches my eye. It’s a mouthguard container. Not mine. Not Miles’s. Neither one of us uses one. But Wyatt does.

I step back from the bed, pulling my hands away like the thing is going to open up and bite me. If Wyatt’s keeping his mouthguard here, that means he’s sleeping here. Still sleeping here. On my nicest set of bedsheets.

I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want any of them anymore. They’re all contaminated now and I’d rather wash myself with bleach than touch them again. I’ll buy new fucking linens. Higher thread count ones. Miles and Wyatt can eat shit.

Donnie comes back from hauling another full trash bag to the growing pile by the front door. “You all right?”

I spin away from the bed, jaw set and rage roiling inside me. “Yeah, fine. We’re done in here.”

That’s when a key slides into the lock on the front door. I freeze. Blood rushes past my ears. My stomach drops past the soles of my feet.

Donnie’s right there, standing in front of me, facing the bedroom doorway, one arm extended back to hold me close. My hands go to his back, searching for something to grab on to. They sink into the extra material around the waist of Donnie’s coat.

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” Donnie whispers over his shoulder at me. He seems taller all of a sudden, or maybe it’s me who’s cowering behind him. He’s vibrating with an energy that makes me feel safe and protected even when I’m legit freaking out. He’s right—I’ll be okay, because he’ll make sure that I am.

Miles takes his sweet-ass time, dropping his bag on the floor and some other stuff on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t sound like he’s noticed the trash bags he’s walking right past. He’s head down, bent over his phone, as he comes through the living room toward the bedroom. He only sees us when he’s at the door.

He screams, drops his phone, and jumps, hitting the wall behind him. “Holy fuck! Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing here?” he yells, clinging to the door frame.

The fear, the anxiety, the panic of having to see Miles again, all of it evaporates into pure, unadulterated fury. I push past Donnie and get right up into Miles’s face.

“This is still my apartment, asshole. My name is on the fucking lease. I can be here if I want to be here. What the fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Miles stands up straight, tugs on the hem of his shirt, and lifts his chin. “I called in sick.”

If I could murder someone with my eyes… “You don’t look sick to me.”

“It’s been… a difficult few days.” Miles deflates a little, like he’s the one who walked in on his boyfriend fucking his best friend. Like he’s the one who’s had his dreams shattered. Like he’s the one who has to figure out how to put his life back together.

I want to wrap my hands around his puny little neck. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I roar. I’m the victim here. I’m the one they hurt. How dare Miles use my pain as an excuse to take time off? How very dare. He has no fucking right.

“Connor…” Whatever Miles is about to say dies on his lips when he notices Donnie coming up to stand beside me.

Donnie’s hand settles on my back, heavy and solid, and it brings me back down to earth.

“Who are—wait, I know you from somewhere.” Miles tilts his head to the side as he studies Donnie.

“Mars Fitness,” Donnie says, wedging himself between me and Miles and pushing me back with his body. His voice is flat and hard and I crumple against him a little.

Recognition lights up Miles’s eyes. “Oh yeah, the spin instructor. You’re the one Connor talks about all the time.”

I did not talk to Miles about Donnie all the time. Or maybe I did, but that’s completely not the point right now.

Miles’s brows slam together. “What are you doing here?”

Donnie doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m helping Connor get his things. He’s staying with me.”

Miles’s gaze drops to the half-filled trash bag at our feet, like he’s only now figuring out what we’re doing there. He looks between me and Donnie, at how close we’re standing to each other, and his expression turns ugly.

“You’re staying with him? Why the hell would you do that?”

I try to lunge at him, but Donnie’s a rock and he doesn’t budge. I rise onto my toes and shout over his shoulder instead. “It’s none of your goddamn business who I stay with. What, did you think I was sleeping on the fucking street this whole time?”

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