Page 170 of Ruin My Life

“Yeah.”

My voice comes out thin, but steady.

“I just... wanted to share something.”

I sit down beside her and lay the pictures between us, careful not to bend the edges.

“This was my parents on their twentieth anniversary,” I say, handing her the one from Banff.

The mountain range in the background is breathtaking, the turquoise water so vivid it barely looks real.

“It’s the place where they met. Where he proposed.”

Rebecka smiles—the kind that doesn’t come from politeness, but understanding.

Her fingers graze the corner of the photo like she’s holding something sacred.

Next, I show her the one of us in our hideous thrifted Christmas sweaters—my dad showing off the car-themed crewneck he found, my mom laughing, Amie mid-eye-roll, and me trying to strike a pose that made me look like a discount runway model.

We did that every year, sending out the most ridiculous holiday cards to my grandparents.

Then a picture from my mom’s bathroom—me, Amie, and Mom wrapped in robes, face masks smeared on our cheeks. Amie’s toes are propped up on a stool while Mom paints them turquoise. I’m sitting behind her, wrapping curlers into my mom’s still-wet hair.

I flip to the last photo, and my chest tightens like a vice.

Me and Amie.

Backseat of the Aston Martin.

Her eyes glassy, her smile wobbly. My own match.

We were both crying without crying, the day I left for college. She took this photo. Said it would be our goodbye picture—but not for long.

It was supposed to besee you soon, notgoodbye forever.

A hand touches my shoulder. I look up.

Damon.

He’s leaning over the back of the couch now, his frame curved around me like a shield. His hand stays there, solid and warm, grounding me.

“This is the last picture I took with Amie,” I say, the words rough in my throat. “It was right before I left for Massachusetts. I didn’t see her again until that summer when they were—”

The word won’t come.

It sticks to the back of my tongue like something sour.

Rebecka reaches for me, rubbing slow circles on my arm.

“It’s okay, sweetie. You don’t have to—”

“She’s fine,Mamá,” Damon says, his voice a quiet rumble as he begins to massage my shoulders gently. “Go ahead, Brie.”

I look down at Amie’s face again.

Damon knows how hard this is for me. He sees the war behind my silence—how much I want to hold onto her, and how much it hurts to say her name aloud.

But he’s right.