Page 67 of Ripped

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Wyatt’s your best friend.”

“He was my best friend.”

That’s not sitting well with her and she turns on the faucet to wash her mug out. “So that’s it? One incident and you’re going to throw away the entire friendship.”

I curl my fingers into fists. My nails dig into my palms and that little spark of pain is the only thing that keeps me from saying something I might regret. I knew she was going to be this way. So unreasonable and so unfair. Like this whole situation is my fault. Isn’t she supposed to be on my side? She’s my mother for fuck’s sake.

She sets the clean mug on the drying rack and pats her hands on the towel hanging from the oven. When she steps back, her eyes are closed like she’s trying to talk herself down from something. Disappointment wafts off her, so thick I almost choke on it.

“I’m sorry that this happened to you,” she says. Her voice is quiet but her tone is edged with annoyance, like I’m forcing her to apologize or something.

It’s the last straw. I can’t be in the same room with her anymore. I rush out of the kitchen, not stopping when she calls my name.

I fly down the stairs, into the bedroom and slam the door behind me. I cringe at how loud it is. If Donnie wasn’t here, Mom would probably come down here and tell me how disappointed she is about that too.

Donnie’s already changed into his PJs, sitting in bed with his glasses on. His eReader is in his lap, forgotten, as he stares at me. Normally, I love the way Donnie looks when he’s wearing his glasses. There’s something so nerdy and intellectual about it that makes me hot.

But all I care about now is diving into the comfort I know I can find in him. From the concerned expression on his face, he probably heard every word Mom and I yelled at each other. He holds out his arms and I run into them. He’s warm and solid and real. My rock when things go to shit. My anchor when things are slipping out of my control.

“Shh,” he murmurs into my hair, hands running up and down my back. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

It’s so much like that first night at Mars that I can’t stop the tears from leaking out of my eyes. I bury my face into his chest. I don’t want to cry. I have no reason to. Fighting with Mom is not a new thing—I was expecting it all along. It’s just…

God, I don’t even know. I hate the fighting but I hated that moment when it felt like she’d given up on me even more. Why are those the only two options? Why can’t she be supportive like Donnie is?

I’m wrung out. Hollow. My head is throbbing.

Donnie shifts, trying to roll me onto my side. I lock my arms and legs around him. “I don’t need to fucking hydrate,” I mutter.

He chuckles and presses a kiss to my temple. “Okay, no hydrating. Let’s just get you out of your clothes.”

I let him move me like I’m a rag doll, stripping off my clothes and pulling on my PJs. He tucks us in, my head on his shoulder, my arm around his waist, my leg thrown over his thighs. This is where I’m meant to be.

I snuggle into him, breathing his woodsy, citrusy scent. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of his breathing. I sigh. “I love you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DONNIE

It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

I love you.

Connor’s softly murmured words echo through my head, through my heart. He was barely conscious when he said them, already overwrought from the argument with his mother. He might not have meant it. He most likely didn’t even realize he’d said it.

I manage to sleep for a few hours only to wake again at first light. The first thought that rocks through me is Connor’s I love you and it makes my heart ricochet around in my chest. Fear creeps up my spine and trepidation roils in my stomach. Does he really mean it? What if he does? What if he doesn’t?

I shouldn’t read too much into it. I shouldn’t draw any conclusions until we’ve had a chance to talk about it like adults. The problem is, I don’t know which answer I want to hear.

I ease myself out from under Connor’s heavy body and sneak out to the bathroom across the hall. Splashing some icy water on my face doesn’t help with the nervousness gripping me. I need to move, I need to ride, I need to do something that will work off the excess adrenaline in my system.

Connor’s still out cold when I quietly let myself back into our room to change into my running gear. I’m not a runner—it’s too hard on my knees—but it’s better than nothing when I don’t have any other options.

I make sure I have my phone and earbuds with me and leave the house through the sliding glass door in the kitchen. The gate between the backyard and the front yard is unlocked and I make sure it’s latched before I take off.

I have a running-specific music playlist with exactly the right beats per minute to help regulate my pace. This neighborhood is peak suburb, where all the houses are two-storied and detached with long driveways and perfectly manicured lawns. The streets bend and curve, some end in cul-de-sacs, and random little parks pop up when I least expect them to.

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