Page 31

REMI

Did I hear Knox right?

“I think I may have lost my mind for a moment, but ... what?”

As I step back, my gaze snapping to Tripp—caught between fury and confusion—the air seems to thicken, charged with all the words unsaid.

Before the silence can settle, before anyone can demand an explanation or offer an apology, Knox and Boone move as one, crossing the threshold with a quiet surety that makes it feel less like entering and more like claiming territory.

They don’t ask, don’t hesitate. The line between out there and in here blurs as they step onto the worn wood floor, the door swinging shut behind them with a faint click that seems to seal our fates.

For an instant, the room holds its breath. The space between us is taut as a drawn wire—Knox’s expression unreadable, Boone’s jaw set with a fierce determination. Their presence fills the house, crowding out shadows and making the walls feel too close.

No invitation was needed; something heavier than permission pulls them in—a gravity born of all the turmoil now laid bare. I want to shout, to demand why they think they can just walk in, but the words tangle with the shock that knots in my throat.

Tripp stiffens, eyes darting between me and the newcomers, as if searching for a lifeline. I retreat another half step, needing distance, needing certainty, but finding neither in the thrum of energy now humming through the room.

Knox and Boone stand just inside the entryway, shoulders squared and eyes bright, radiating a blend of urgency and apology that dares me to challenge them.

The world narrows to the four of us—no boundaries left, nothing left to hide behind—and I realize, uneasily, that whatever happens next will change everything.

“You heard every word I said,” Knox states with a self-assured smirk on his face. “I don’t think it bodes repeating.”

The words barely register before a surge of heat courses through me—a wildfire racing beneath my skin, igniting every nerve ending.

Fury blooms in my chest, sharp and uncontrollable, until it burns away confusion and fear and leaves me incandescent, thrumming with the kind of anger that demands to be let loose.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles aching, and I feel it in my jaw, clenched so tightly my teeth might crack.

The world blurs at the edges, sound dropping away, vision tunneling until all I see is Knox—that careless smirk, that smug certainty in his voice.

I am vibrating with it, every inch of me alive with wrath so pure it feels electric, buzzing along my bones and making it impossible to stand still.

I can’t contain it; I don’t want to. The anger is a storm, gathering strength, and I am both the lightning and the thunder—unleashed and impossible to ignore.

I take a step forward, my eyes narrowing into tiny slits of fury.

“You dare come into my home and play your little games.” I unleash a laugh so maniacal, so crazy, that Knox's eyes widen as he takes a step back. Boone’s gaze jerks between Knox and me, not wanting to miss a thing.

“I gave your asses the benefit of the doubt twice. Twice . First at the restaurant and then again when we were supposed to meet up at Sip-A-Brew. Now, you’re telling me that not only have you done this twice, but now it’s a third time. ”

“Remi, I never—” Tripp starts, but I cut him off with a mean glare and my hand aggressively slicing through the air.

“I don’t give a shit what excuse you’re about to come up with, Tripp.

There is nothing you can say that will get yourselves out of this one,” I sneer at them, feeling a headache coming on I’m so upset and pissed off.

Then, as an afterthought, I shake my head and chuckle hollowly.

“Third time really is the charm, isn’t it?

Your screen name is perfect for you three assholes. Now, get out.”

The entire time, Knox stands silent and rigid. His eyes refuse to leave me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. I’d say he has this dreamy expression on his face, but that’s just wishful thinking. Knox doesn’t care about anyone but himself. None of them do.

All I wanted was a place to belong, a love so pure and deep you can feel it to your very core.

It’s not a lot if you ask me. Every person deserves to feel like they’re the center of someone’s universe, even me.

No, fuck that … especially me. I deserve better.

I deserve someone who will not only take me as I am but who will grovel at my feet.

Without another word, I spin on my heel, every muscle coiled and trembling, and stalk across the room toward the door.

My footsteps hammer out the cadence of my fury, sharp and unforgiving, echoing in the tense hush behind me.

I reach the door and, without pausing, sling it open with a violent sweep—hinges shrieking, the edge thudding against the wall.

The sudden rush of air snatches at my robe, snapping the hem against my legs and sending the fabric flaring around me like the tail of a comet.

For a single, blazing moment, I stand in the open doorway—robe askew, chin high, daring any of them to cross the line I’ve drawn with nothing but my will.

The world beyond is cold and empty, but I let it spill in, a promise and a warning.

I absolutely refuse to give anyone else the power to control me.

I have been allowing that for as long as I can remember.

No more. I don’t care who it is. I will rain hell down on them so fast, they won’t even know what hit them.

My adoptive parents did it when I was younger.

Everyone else throughout my life, except Windy and the other girls in my book club, has taken advantage of my generosity.

However, they don’t know the person that lies beneath the surface, ready to rear her ugly head.

The spine of steel I had to grow to be able to survive all of their taunting and ridicule.

A person can’t be my size and not be the butt of everyone’s jokes.

It’s always been that way, and I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.

People are so focused on looking their best and being fit.

They don’t understand that a person can be bigger and still be as fit as they are.

For so many years, I tried my best to fit in, even when I was born to stand out.

I stuck to strict diets and exercise regimens. Nothing helped. Nothing changed.

I learned to love myself just the way I am, and it took sticking up for myself to do just that.

I will not allow Knox, Boone, or Tripp to threaten the peace I have built over the years, the level of strength I had to develop to achieve it.

I may look like a bubbly, innocent person, but I can assure you, there is a viper that lies just beneath the surface, and these guys just riled her up.

“I said get out,” I grit between clenched teeth.

Knox finally breaks out of whatever spell he was in. He takes a step forward, his hands out in a placating gesture. When I said I couldn’t give a fuck, that would be an understatement.

“Remi,” he says, with eyes so different from what they were when he first came inside. “Maybe I should—”

“You should get the fuck out of my house!”

An uneasy hush settles over the room, thick as fog.

We stand frozen in the tension—me, arms folded tight, jaw locked, and them, fidgeting at the threshold, words dying on their lips.

Time stretches, the seconds heavy and sharp, until finally, the truth of my command settles in.

They shuffle backward, eyes darting, pride wounded, but not enough to make them linger.

One by one, they step out, the door standing wide with their exit.

They turn in perfect sync as if some invisible thread binds them—a single, awkward organism shuffling toward the porch.

Before any of them can muster a rebuttal or cast a final glance over their shoulder, I seize the handle and slam the door shut.

The sound resonates with a clean, final punctuation.

For a moment, only my ragged breath and the fading echo on the wood remain, sealing the boundary they cannot cross.

I turn away from the door, the adrenaline draining from my veins in an icy rush.

My shoulder blades press against the wood, cool and unyielding.

The strength that held me upright moments before flickers out, and I let myself slide down—slow at first, then all at once—until I'm sitting on the floor, knees drawn to my chest. The pain, long kept at bay by fury and pride, seeps in sharp and hot, curling through my ribs and into my throat.

I bury my face in trembling hands, and the tears come fast—unstoppable, unashamed.

Each sob racks through me, silent at first, then shattering the hush that had settled like a shroud.

The weight of everything—years of pretending, the battle just fought, the loneliness that lingers in empty rooms—crashes over me.

I cry not just for this moment, but for all the others I survived to get here, and for the strength it takes to go on.

For a fleeting instant, my mind reaches for Windy—a desperate urge to hear her voice, to let someone else hold the jagged edges of my pain.

My fingers twitch, wanting my phone, seeking the comfort of her name on the screen.

But I hesitate, the impulse snagged by shame.

I can’t let her see me like this: hollowed out, mascara streaking down my cheeks, voice raw and trembling.

Windy has always known the best of me—the laughter, the spark, the carefully constructed armor.

What would she say if she saw how breakable I really am, how easily the world can unravel me?

The ache for connection wars with my stubborn pride, and I stay frozen, the phone untouched in my purse, the silence stretching on while tears trace their slow, burning path.

It’s a strange, delicate ache—the kind that presses into the quiet spaces left behind.

More than anything, I want someone to love me.

Not to fix me or sweep away the wreckage I can’t hide, but to stay—to sit quietly beside the fragments and let me be exactly as I am.

I don’t need rescuing. I don’t want hands fluttering in worry or voices promising it’ll all be okay. I want presence—steady, soft, and real.

Let me unravel. Let me spill over, mess and all, and remain close enough for my heart to find its rhythm again.

I’m not asking for someone to carry my burdens, only to see them without flinching, to share the silence when words are too heavy.

Love doesn’t have to heal me. I only want someone who’ll stay—who’ll let their warmth brush the edge of my loneliness, who’ll remind me, by simply being here, that I don’t have to face the darkness alone.

I don’t have that. The unnerving reality is that I never have and never will. All the warmth I crave is something just out of reach. Neither time nor space will help with my feelings of insecurity. I’ve never been enough. Not once.

With the delicate tendrils of pain leaking out of me, I sit here and stew on just how my life went so wrong.

I’m twenty-eight years old, and yet, I’ve never known love in the capacity I should.

My adoptive father tries his best, but even his love cannot shroud the blistering words and actions of my adoptive mother.

No guy has ever made me a priority.

No one has made me a priority.

A sense of determination begins in my stomach. My tears slow but don’t stop. I sniffle, trying to stop the pain from exiting my body. I need to remember this pain. Remember that someone wanted to break me, but I won’t allow them to win.

It's time I make myself a priority.

It’s time I show everyone what it looks like when you put yourself first.