Page 2 of Ruin My Life

My devilish little sister already spoiled everything from the menu to the movie night plans. She’s practically orchestrated my entire first week home.

“Even if she hadn’t, I know Mom,” I say. “She always makes my favourites when I come back.”

Dad sighs, scrunching his nose. “Still, try to look surprised, yeah?”

When we stop at a red light, I press a hand to my chest and drop my jaw, practicing my bestwow, I had no ideaact.

“Perfect,” he chuckles, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and kissing my temple. “God, I’ve missed you, Brie. Home’s just not the same without you.”

My heart squeezes tight.

“I missed you guys too. All the time.”

I was accepted into MIT right after high school, and for the last two years, I’ve mostly lived on campus, only coming home for winter and summer breaks. Part of me dreads going back in September—being away from my family is always the hardest part—but MIT has the best computer science program in the entire country.

In Amie’s words, I’d becuckoo bananasnot to go—a phrase she coined after years of binge-watchingDegrassi: The Next Generationwith our mom.

As we pass through Kings on the Belt Parkway, Dad pulls into a small gas station. He’s always been the kind of guy who preaches about supporting local businesses, so he’ll go out of his way to avoid the big-name chains.

This time, it’s a place calledMick’s Convenience—tiny, worn, with only four pumps and a hand-painted sign that’s seen better decades. The only other customers are two tall men lingering by the entrance, both in thick black hoodies in spite of the heat. One is lean and pale, the other broader with tanned hands and a wider stance.

They stand out to me—though I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe it’s because I’m sweating bullets in a thin MIT sweatshirt and shorts, yet they both look like they’re prepared for a cold autumn night

Their backs are to the street, but when Dad opens his door and climbs out, both men turn slightly, glancing over their shoulders at us.

A coil of unease tightens around my chest.

The roof’s up and the windows are closed, but none of it makes me feel safer. I shift in my seat, watching as the two men flick away their cigarettes and head inside—right after Dad.

I keep my eyes fixed on the door, but my view is patchy—half-obscured by old lotto signs and sun-faded posters taped across the glass.

Dad’s at the counter now, handing over some cash, while the two guys hover behind him like shadows. I can’t see their faces—just the way they hold themselves.

Too confident. Too close.

I focus on Dad’s expression instead, searching for any shift in his posture, any trace of discomfort. But he just gives them a passing smile and a shake of his head before slipping past and heading for the exit.

Each step he takes toward the car lets me breathe a little easier.

Maybe I’m overreacting.

People back in Cambridge just don’t move like that. Everyone there’s too sleep-deprived to seem threatening, too burdened with deadlines to loiter.

These guys just...loomed.

Dad finishes filling up the tank and slides back into the driver’s seat, brushing his hands on his shorts as the engine hums to life.

I glance over at him. “What did those guys want?”

He smiles, still relaxed as ever. “They asked if I’d consider selling my car.”

“What’d they offer?”

“I didn’t ask,” he replies with a shrug. “Any number they threw out wouldn’t have been enough—she’s priceless.”

Of course.