Page 40 of Ripped

It’s a little weird, to be honest, how peppy and focused and on I am. I fly through work stuff so fast that Rick jokingly asked if I was taking Adderall or something. I’m not. I’m just high on, I don’t know, Donnie maybe. Between breakfast and dinner, spin classes and movie nights, we manage to go see the cherry blossoms in the park, stroll through art fairs, and ogle hot sailors during Fleet Week. At night, Donnie takes me apart with his tongue and when I sink into him, it feels like I’m coming home.

I’m writing too. So much, so fast. The scenes are coming to me fully formed, like I’m already seeing them on the screen. It’s a completely new story about a gay couple who inherit an old dilapidated house from a mysterious great aunt, only to find that the house is haunted—guess how I came up with that idea.

For the first time in my life, I feel in control. I know what I’m doing. I know where I’m going. It’s just a matter of doing the work and getting there.

“So, um, I was thinking,” I say one evening as we’re cleaning up after dinner. “I should go get tested.”

It’s been niggling at the back of my mind for a while now. Miles and I didn’t use condoms and god knows what he and Wyatt were doing.

Donnie’s standing at the sink, staring at the backsplash with the faucet on and a wet tea towel in his hand. He’s been kinda distracted all through dinner, not saying much, his smiles not quite reaching his eyes. He looks tired. He says he’s had a long day, but I’ve never seen him this out of it before.

“Donnie?” I put my hand on his shoulder and he jumps.

“Huh? Sorry, what was that?”

“Are you okay?” Worry trickles into me. We’ve been on such a high and honeymoon periods don’t last forever.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head, turns off the water, and wrings out the tea towel. “I’m okay. What did you say?”

I don’t believe him. There’s something up and I know it. We’ve talked about a lot of serious stuff during the time we’ve known each other, and I’m not used to this feeling of him shutting me out.

“I said I was thinking about getting tested. You know, with Miles and Wyatt and all that…”

He nods and steps away from me to wipe down the counter next to the sink. It already looks clean to me. “Sure, great idea.”

My worry grows into something sharper and spikier. My mind starts jumping to all sorts of conclusions—is he sick? Did something happen at Mars?

I try to close the distance between us. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Uh, I…” He goes around the island to the kitchen table and wipes it down. Again.

“Donnie?” The spikes have morphed into fear now. Something’s seriously wrong. Does he regret getting involved with me? Does he want me to move out? “Please, Donnie. You’re scaring me.”

His eyes dart to mine and he blinks a few times before he focuses on my face. He sighs, and the tension drains from his body. “I’m so sorry, it’s…” He swallows like he’s trying to clear his throat.

“You can tell me. Please,” I beg.

He lifts a hand and places it on my cheek. It’s wet and cold but I hold it to my face anyway. His eyes are soft and tender and so sweet that my heart expands in my chest. I love it when he looks at me like that, like I’m precious and he can’t believe I’m here.

He takes my hand and leads me to the living room where we settle on the couch. He flips the fireplace on, even though it’s probably too warm for it. I’m tucked into a corner and Donnie fits right between my legs, his back against my chest. We melt into each other.

This is my favorite way of holding him. This and straight up spooning him from behind. He feels so good fitted against me like we were made for each other.

“It’s the anniversary of Roger’s death,” he whispers.

I close my eyes and press a kiss to the spot where his jaw meets his ear. All the fear from a moment ago dissolves into hurt for Donnie. It’s not about me—not everything is, genius. I feel so childish and self-absorbed.

“I’m so sorry.”

Donnie leans his head back on my shoulder and tilts it toward me. I tangle our fingers together and wrap our arms around his stomach. I hold him, just hold him, letting him know I’m here, for whatever he needs.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “It’ll be four years. Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Sometimes it feels like it’s been forever.”

I don’t know what that’s like. I’ve never experienced anything even remotely similar. So I say nothing and wait.

“It was an accident. Roger was working late—again. He did that all the time. It was already dark by the time he left. He was always the worst at crossing streets. Always so preoccupied, thinking about a million things at once. He never checked for cars before stepping out onto the road. The taxi driver was going pretty fast and apparently a street lamp was out. Roger came out of nowhere and…”

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