Faking With You

38. I'm not fit for this world of feelings.

Rylie

I HAVE THE REMOTE IN MY HAND, finger hovering over the play button, Love Island cued up and ready to go, but I hesitate. It's Sunday, our usual day to binge the terrible reality dating show, but it doesn't feel right to watch it without Finn. We left off on a good spot, too, and I'm dying to know what happens.

With a sigh, I launch myself off the couch and shuffle my pink slippers across the floor as I trudge to the kitchen, pulling out a wine glass and filling it halfway. With another generous splash into the glass, I carry it down the hall—taking great care to avoid the spot on the wall that brings far too many memories to the surface that need to stay buried—and flip on the switch in my bathroom, bringing the pink room to life.

After taking a drink of wine, I deposit the glass on the counter and dig out a face mask, applying the cool sheet that promises to purify my pores and to brighten and hydrate my skin. I wonder if there's a face mask equivalent for my personal life. It would be nice to have an easy fix for the mess I've created.

I carefully take a drink of wine through the mouth slit, some of the purplish-red liquid dribbling out of my mouth and staining the mask. I laugh at my reflection when I realize it looks like blood leaking out of my mouth. I extract my phone out of the small pocket in my leggings and hold it up to the mirror to take a selfie before I realize the intended recipient isn't someone I'm actively texting at the moment.

I sigh, taking the selfie anyway—albeit with less enthusiasm—and send it to Teddy instead. She responds immediately with a few vampire emojis. The extent to our conversation. I sigh again.

My apartment feels like a freaking graveyard these days. So quiet. And lonely. And so utterly boring. The weekends drag on and on. How sad that I look forward to Monday just for something to do that doesn't involve sitting in the crime scene of my own making.

I attempt drinking more wine as I retrace my steps back to the kitchen, more of the liquid oozing out and undoubtedly staining the mask. Apparently, this is where I'm at these days: ambivalent to wine spittle. I refill the glass, taking a large gulp before retreating to the bathroom, the light spilling out into the hall. I squeeze my eyes shut as I walk past The Spot as I'm now mentally referring to it and quicken my steps until I'm safely tucked into the bathroom.

Not that the bathroom is any safer for my emotional wellbeing. It is filled to the brim with memories of the man I can't rid from my thoughts. Slathering moisturizer on that ridiculous mustache. Chewing him out for sneaking in to pee while I shower. The times he actually slipped into the shower with me. I'll never be able to view the pink loofah the same ever again. The stupid "special bathroom bag" that no longer sits on the counter, the hole a huge crater my eyes never fail to notice. The counter he bent me over. The mirror he held me up to and made me watch as he took me from behind.

How is it that the bathroom, of all the fucking places, holds so many memories of my time with him?

I take another large gulp of wine to wash down the bitter taste in my mouth, setting the glass aside to peel off the mask. My freckles dot my face, and I run my fingers over them, studying them in a way I never have before. Before Finn, I always hated them. But now...I think I might kind of like them. He had such a weird obsession with them, somehow making me see them through his eyes and appreciating their beauty.

Shit, now even my freckles remind me of him?

Grabbing my wine, I exit the bathroom and duck into my bedroom, going straight for the small bin in the corner where I stuffed it nearly two weeks ago. I rummage through the piles of Finn's clothes until I find my favorite shirt, holding it up so I come face to face with Sasquatch.