Page 277 of Sin With Me

On my nightstand, I notice my usual pile of books is disheveled. A smaller stack on the right and a bigger one on the left. Next to it sits my worn copy of The Brothers Karamazov, a piece of paper shoved in the center like a bookmark.

Surprise flickers through me, and I finally close the distance between us. Tracing my finger over the embossed title, my gaze lifts to hers.

“You read it.”

It’s not a question. Of course she did. It’s called to her from the very beginning, just like it has me.

Eve scoots back on my bed and leans against the headboard. Reaching over, she slides it from the nightstand before bringing it close to her chest. She holds it gently, like it’s just as precious to her as it is to me.

“I did,” she whispers, looking up with a slow smile. “Read with me, Ro? Like old times.”

Unable to deny her a single thing, I kick off my shoes, slide my phone, wallet, and keys from my pocket, and drop onto the bed next to her. I’m shocked when she immediately curls into my side like she used to and something in me settles.

Reaching for the book, I crack it open on my lap and stare at the torn and taped pages from years of use.

Eve laughs quietly. “I’m surprised you still have this copy.” She looks up at me, questions dancing in her eyes that have my heart squeezing. “Why didn’t you just get a new one? It’s so old.”

The question is whispered, the words practically disappearing between us. It’s the vulnerability etched on her face, the barely there plea to her voice that has me answering honestly, despite the pain in my chest.

I look down and run my fingers over the busted spine. God, this book has been through so much. Just like I have. Like she has.

Maybe I keep it because it’s a reminder of where I’ve been and what it took to get here, to this moment.

It’s been almost a year since I last saw her face. I have nothing left. Nothing but what’s on my back, and the alcohol burning a hole through my stomach.

As I walk through the rainy streets of Mammoth, my skin throbbing from the heavy, wet on my back clothes, I hold on to that burn, letting it keep me company.

I have nothing left.

No home.

No car.

No phone.

No money.

No friends or family.

No sunshine.

No light.

My fingers wrap tightly around my almost-empty backpack, and I’m reminded of another rainy night from months ago where I stood under a tree full of hope instead of on a dirty street full of vodka. It was a night so fucking awful, but I still had her, and somehow that made it not so bad.

Someone yanks the water-logged bag on my back so hard, I stumble backward, the grey world around me spinning. My head snaps up just as a dark figure in a soaked hoodie tears off with it.

For just a moment, one singular moment, I feel something other than drunk and numb. As I watch some lowlife take off with all I have left in the world, I’m so fucking angry that I do something beyond simply existing; beyond waiting for my eventual death.

I take off, my feet moving like lightning across the slick, dirty ground. I catch up to him faster than I should be able to. The world spins again, but this time it’s not because of the alcohol coursing through my veins. It’s me because I throw the fucker to the ground, rolling with him until I’m on top, glaring down at him.

His hands fly up, letting the backpack fall to the ground, his eyes widening. “What the fuck, man? It’s only a backpack.”

“No, it’s not!” I roar. The anger, the hurt, the devastation that’s been my life tears through me. It eats me up, lighting me on fire from the inside out.

“You can have it back!” he cries, sensing the darkness in me.

But it’s too late.

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