Page 15 of Ripped

I stop, but I don’t turn back to Beau.

“Are you okay?”

I don’t know. This kind of reaction isn’t normal for me and I feel off balance, off-kilter.

“Gavin and I are always here if you need to talk.”

They are. They always have been, especially after Roger died. I’m not being fair to Beau and a trickle of guilt zaps away most of my anger. I slump, the outrage draining out of me, and I glance back over my shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

CONNOR

I force myself to finish the breakfast Donnie made for me and then I lie back down on the bed. I haven’t turned on my phone since I shut it off last night and honestly, I kinda don’t want to turn it on ever again. I don’t want to talk to Miles. I don’t want to talk to Wyatt. I don’t want to hear what they have to say. I don’t want to have anything to do with them.

I want them to go throw themselves off a tall building.

Oh, god. I slap my hands over my face. I’m such a fucking horrible person. Who the fuck thinks shit like that? Especially since Roger is actually dead.

I groan and bury my face into a pillow. I’m so angry. Like, deep in my gut, churning lava, consuming-my-soul angry. I hate them. I despise them. The feeling is so potent, so strong that it scares me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I didn’t think I could feel this way.

It’s such an ugly feeling, so twisted and dirty, and it terrifies me, but I kinda revel in it at the same time. It gives me a rush, a sick pleasure to think about all the ways I can make Miles and Wyatt hurt. I want them to hurt as badly as they’ve hurt me. I want them to hurt more. I want to teach them a lesson and laugh in their fucking faces when they beg me for forgiveness.

Jesus Christ, I’m a terrible, terrible person. No wonder they cheated on me.

They were probably like, Connor’s a bitch, we don’t need him, we’re so much better off together, without him, blah, blah, blah. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am a nasty bitch. I certainly feel like one right now.

I push myself up. I can’t lie in bed with nothing to do but think the same thoughts over and over again. I hate them. Why did they do this to me? I must’ve done something to deserve this. I hate them. The thoughts are spinning around in my head, so many of them, so fast that my head’s going to explode.

I get up, not sure what I’m doing or where I’m going, I just need to get out of the room. Maybe Donnie has some books lying around, or maybe I’ll go downstairs and check out that theater room he mentioned. I grab the bag of peas that’s melting on my ankle and stand up to take a few careful steps. It’s fine, only hurts at certain angles. Nothing to worry about.

There’s a door at the other end of the second-floor landing. It’s unlocked and I push it open to peek inside. It’s an office with bookshelves, a filing cabinet, and a leather executive chair. The desk is one of those big solid things, complete with an old-fashioned blotter.

I’m halfway across the room to go scan the bookshelf when I stop short. There’s an ancient-looking laptop sitting off to one side of the desk. A corkboard hangs from the wall, next to the bookshelf, cluttered with yellowing birthday cards and photos of Donnie with another man. They look happy together, smiling into each other’s eyes.

Is that Roger? I inch forward for a closer look. Donnie looks younger in the photos. There’s no salt in his dark hair. The other guy—it has to be Roger—has a shiny bald head and a full lush beard. He’s a big guy, taller than Donnie and wide like me. Love and joy radiate out of the picture and hit me right in the gut.

That. That’s the kind of relationship I want. I want someone to look at me the way Donnie and Roger are looking at each other, like there’s no one else in the room, no one else in the entire freaking world. I want to feel that kind of love, the all-consuming kind that sweeps me up and carries me away, that makes me do all kinds of wild and unthinkable things.

Miles and I didn’t have that. Not even close.

Donnie did and he lost it. All of my insides hurt merely imagining what it must’ve been like for him. Like what I went through yesterday, but a million trillion times worse? That’s agony. That’s unbearable. That’s fucking heartbreaking.

I shudder and put a hand on the desk to steady myself. The blotter has letters embossed in gold on the corner.

From the desk of RA.

RA? Roger? I snatch my hand back. Is this Roger’s office?

Everything makes more sense now. The ancient laptop, the yellowing birthday cards. The books on the shelves that don’t look like anything a spin instructor would read. Not unless he was interested in how to influence people, how to motivate employees, how to be a good leader. They have to be Roger’s books.

Almost four years, Donnie said. And he still wears his wedding ring, still has some of Roger’s clothes, and from the look of the place, he hasn’t touched this office in all that time. Now that I know to look for it, his grief is dripping off all the things in this room and the way they’re immaculately maintained.

My insides hurt all the more. My guilt at being in the house doubles and triples and I stumble out of the room. I close the door firmly behind me.

Fuck. There was a reason the door was closed. There was a reason Donnie hadn’t mentioned it when he’d told me about the theater room and home gym downstairs. Those, I’m welcome to. This, I’m not.

I back away from Roger’s office, sending up a silent apology to wherever Roger is now. Maybe I should sequester myself in the guest room until Donnie gets home, just to be safe. Or like, as a punishment or something.

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