Chapter 2: Packing, Punching, and a Ring in the Grass
The truck's engine idled rough and low beneath them, a steady growl that filled the cab as Damien pulled out of the apartment complex and onto the main road. Roxy sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, feet bare on the seat, her black flats dangling from two fingers out the open window. The morning sun was still low, hazy behind a bank of clouds, and the air coming through the window smelled like rain.
Neither of them had spoken since they'd left his place. Not when he'd handed her a clean T-shirt to wear, not when she'd pulled on her shorts from the night before, not when he'd poured the rest of the coffee into a travel mug and handed it to her without a word.
She appreciated that. The silence. The way he didn't feel the need to fill every gap with noise.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't look at it. She already knew who it was.
The drive to Derek's apartment took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of pine trees and strip malls and the kind of gray morning that made everything look hungover. When Damien finally pulled into the parking lot of the shabby complex on the east side of town, Roxy's stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot.
She hadn't been back here since last night. Since before the bonfire. Since before everything.
"You ready?" Damien asked.
"No." She opened the door and stepped out onto the cracked asphalt. "Let's go."
The apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs that smelled like stale beer and someone's attempt at home cooking. Roxy fitted her key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.
The place looked exactly the same as it had when she'd left. Which somehow made it worse.
Half-unpacked boxes were stacked against the wall by the door, the way they'd been since they moved in eight months ago. Derek had promised he'd get to them eventually. He never did. Now they sat there like monuments to his laziness, cardboard headstones marking the grave of a relationship that had been dead longer than she'd realized.
Clothes were scattered across the threadbare carpet. Dishes piled in the sink. The single window, draped in those faded curtains she'd always hated, let in a weak wash of morning light that made the dust on every surface visible.
"Nice place," Damien said from behind her.
"It's a shithole." She walked into the bedroom and yanked open the closet door. "I was just too blind to see it."
She grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen and started pulling clothes off hangers. Her tank tops. Her jeans. The little black dress she'd worn to Derek's cousin's wedding last spring. She didn't fold anything. Just shoved it all in, hanger and all, until the bag was bulging.
Damien appeared in the doorway. "Where are your boxes?"
"Don't have any. I'm using trash bags."
He nodded once, then disappeared. A minute later, she heard him in the kitchen, opening cabinets. When she came out with the first full bag, he was standing by the door with a stack of cardboard boxes flattened under his arm.
"Found these in the hall closet," he said. "Figured they'd work better than bags."
She stared at him for a second. Then she took the boxes without a word and started filling them.
They worked in silence. Damien carried load after load down to his truck—her clothes, her books, the small box of keepsakes she'd kept on the nightstand. Her grandmother's necklace. A pressed flower from a hike she'd taken years ago. A photo of her and Bree from high school, arms around each other, smiling like they'd never betray each other in a million years.
She stared at that photo for a long time. Then she dropped it in the trash.
The apartment was bare within an hour. It was amazing, really, how little space she'd taken up. How little of herself she'd left behind. Like she'd been a guest in her own life.
She was emptying the last drawer in the bathroom when she heard it.
Keys in the lock. The front door swinging open. Footsteps in the living room.
"Roxy?"
Derek's voice. Casual. Like he hadn't just spent the night balls-deep in her best friend.
She walked out of the bathroom and into the living room. Damien was standing by the door, arms crossed, jaw tight. Derek was in the middle of the room, still wearing the same shirt from last night, hair disheveled, eyes bleary. He looked like a man who'd just rolled out of bed after a long night. Which, she supposed, he had.
Except it wasn't his bed he'd rolled out of.
"Where the hell have you been?" Derek asked. "I've been calling you all night."
Roxy crossed her arms. "I know."
"Why didn't you answer?"
"Because I didn't want to."
Derek's eyes flicked to Damien. Then to the empty boxes stacked by the door. Then back to Roxy. Something like confusion crossed his face, but it was fake. She could see the truth underneath it. The guilt. The fear.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Roxy laughed. It came out sharp, hollow, nothing like her real laugh. "What's going on? Really? That's the question you're going with?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't." She stepped toward him, and her bare feet slapped against the carpet. "You never know what I'm talking about. You never listen. You never pay attention. You just take what you want and assume I'll be there when you get back."
Derek's jaw tightened. "Roxy—"
"Shut up." The words came out low and hard. "Just shut up and listen for once in your pathetic life."
He shut up.
She walked toward him, slowly, until she was close enough to see the sweat on his forehead, the faint smell of Bree's perfume still clinging to his collar. It made her want to vomit. Instead, she smiled.
"I know about you and Bree," she said. "I've known since last night. I have every text, every message, every disgusting little detail of what you've been doing behind my back for the last six months."
Derek went pale. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Roxy, I can explain—"
"No, you can't." She shook her head. "You can't explain this. There's no explanation that makes this okay. You were fucking my best friend while I was planning our wedding. You were balls deep in her while I was picking out flowers and tasting cakes and telling everyone how lucky I was to have found you."
She laughed again. This time it was bitter. Venomous.
"Lucky. God, I was so fucking stupid."
"Roxy—"
"Six months," she said, cutting him off. "Six months of lies. Six months of late nights at work that were really late nights in her bed. Six months of me wondering why you couldn't look me in the eye anymore, why you stopped touching me, why every time I tried to fuck you, you said you were too tired."
She was on a roll now. The words poured out of her like water from a broken dam, and she couldn't have stopped them even if she'd wanted to.
"You want to know something funny? You want to know the really hilarious part?" She stepped closer, close enough to see the panic in his eyes. "You never made me come. Not once. Not in two years. I faked it every single time because I felt sorry for you."
Derek's face flushed red. "That's not—"
"It's true." She tilted her head, mocking sympathy. "You want to know how I know it's true? Because when I fucked Damien last night—twice—I came harder than I ever have in my entire life. He found my clit on the first try. Didn't even need a map. Didn't need instructions. Just knew what he was doing."
She leaned in close, her lips almost brushing his ear.
"You couldn't find my clit if I gave you a flashlight and air traffic control lights guiding you in. You're pathetic. You're a liar. And you're the worst fuck I've ever had."
She pulled back and looked at him. His face was a mask of rage and humiliation. Good. Let him feel it. Let him feel a fraction of what she'd felt when she'd read those messages.
"Roxy, I swear to God—" he started.
"No." She held up her hand. "You don't get to swear. You don't get to promise. You don't get to say anything that might make you feel better about what you did."
She reached down and pulled off her engagement ring. The silver band glinted in the pale morning light. She'd picked it out herself. He hadn't even asked her what she wanted. Just told her to go choose one and he'd pay for it. That should have been the first sign.
She held the ring up between them, letting him see it. Then she turned, walked to the window, and shoved it open. The faded curtains billowed in the morning breeze. Outside, the grass was wet with dew, and the parking lot stretched empty and gray.
"You want to know what I think of this ring?" she said.
She threw it. It arced through the air, silver flashing, and disappeared into the weeds by the edge of the building. Gone.
"I think it's as worthless as you are."
Derek lunged for her. She didn't know what he was planning to do—grab her, shake her, hit her—but he never got the chance. Damien was there, hand on Derek's chest, shoving him back so hard he stumbled and nearly fell.
"Don't," Damien said. His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath it. "Don't even think about it."
Derek straightened up, face red, fists clenched. But he didn't move.
Roxy turned to face him one last time. Her hand was still tingling from the throw. Her heart was pounding. But she felt lighter than she had in months.
"I'm leaving," she said. "I'm taking my stuff. I'm moving on. And you're going to stay here in this shithole apartment with your half-unpacked boxes and your lies and your sad little life, and you're going to think about what you lost every single day."
She walked toward the door. Then she stopped.
"Oh, and Derek?"
He looked at her, eyes burning with humiliation and rage.
"You should get tested. I hear Bree's been busy."
She turned and walked out.
Damien followed her down the stairs and out to the truck. Her hand was throbbing now, a dull ache spreading through her knuckles. She looked down and saw the skin was split, a thin line of blood welling up where she'd hit something—the wall, the doorframe, she didn't remember. She hadn't even felt it happen.
"You okay?" Damien asked.
She looked at him. At his steady eyes and strong jaw and the way he stood there like nothing could shake him.
"I don't know," she said. "Ask me tomorrow."
He nodded. Then he opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed in.
"Fuck him," she said.
Damien got behind the wheel. Started the engine. Pulled out of the parking lot without looking back.
"Where to?" he asked.
She thought about it. Thought about the trash bags and the cardboard boxes and the life she'd just walked away from. Thought about the apartment she didn't have, the fiancé she'd just dumped, the best friend she'd never speak to again.
"Your place," she said. "If the offer's still good."
He glanced at her. "It's still good."
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. The truck rumbled beneath her, and the morning sun broke through the clouds, spilling gold across the dashboard.
She had no job. No apartment. No plan.
But she had a place to sleep. She had someone who'd stood by her when he didn't have to. And she had the knowledge that Derek was back there in that apartment, humiliated and alone, knowing exactly what he'd thrown away.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
They drove in silence for a while. The morning traffic was light, and the road stretched out ahead of them like a promise. Roxy watched the buildings pass—fast food joints, gas stations, a strip club with a flickering neon sign. The world kept turning. Life kept moving.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
Damien nodded.
"Why'd you come with me? You didn't have to. You could've just gone home and let me deal with Derek on my own."
He considered the question. His hands were steady on the wheel, and his eyes stayed on the road.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm not okay."
"I know." He glanced at her. "But you will be."
She didn't know why that made her eyes sting. Maybe because it was the first time anyone had said anything reassuring to her in months. Maybe because she believed him.
They pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex, and he killed the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Roxy reached over and put her hand on his arm.
"Thank you," she said.
He looked at her. "For what?"
"For being there. For not making me feel like I'm crazy. For—" She gestured vaguely. "Everything."
Damien covered her hand with his. His palm was warm and rough.
"You don't have to thank me," he said. "I'm just doing what's right."
She leaned over and kissed him. It wasn't like the kisses from the night before—hungry and desperate and wild. This one was soft. Gentle. A question and an answer all at once.
When she pulled back, his eyes were still closed.
"We should get your stuff inside," he said.
"Yeah."
They got out of the truck and started unloading the boxes. The sun was higher now, and the clouds had cleared, leaving behind a sky that was impossibly blue.
Roxy carried a box up the stairs and set it down in the living room. Then another. Then another. By the time they'd brought everything in, her arms were aching and her hand was still throbbing, but she felt lighter than she had in months.
She stood in the middle of Damien's living room, surrounded by boxes, and looked around. It was a small apartment—two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen that opened onto the living room. The furniture was simple. The walls were bare. But it smelled like him, and it felt safe.
"You want the couch or the bed?" Damien asked.
She turned to look at him. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with those steady eyes.
"The bed," she said. "If you're in it."
Something flickered across his face. Heat. Want. Something deeper.
"I'm in it," he said.
"Good."
She walked toward him, and he met her halfway. His hands found her waist, and she pressed up against him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers.
"I'm not going to be your rebound," he said. His voice was low. Serious.
"You're not." She reached up and touched his jaw, trailing her fingers through the stubble. "You're something else."
"What?"
"I don't know yet." She smiled. "But I want to find out."
He kissed her then. Really kissed her. Not soft this time—deep and demanding and hungry, like he'd been holding back and couldn't anymore. She moaned against his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
He picked her up, and her legs went around his waist. He carried her through the apartment to his bedroom, the same room from last night, and set her down on the bed.
The sheets were rumpled from where they'd slept. The pillow still smelled like her shampoo.
"You sure?" he asked.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
She pulled off her shirt, then her shorts. He watched her, eyes dark, and she felt the heat of his gaze on every inch of her skin.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
"Show me."
He stripped off his clothes and came to her. His mouth found hers, then moved lower, lips trailing down her neck to her collarbone, then lower still. He took one nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, and she arched off the mattress, a gasp tearing from her throat.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, and she tangled her fingers in his hair and held on. Her cunt was already wet, already aching, and he hadn't even touched her yet.
"Please," she said. "I need you."
He looked up at her. "Beg."
The word sent a shock of heat through her. She bit her lip and met his eyes.
"Please," she said again. "Please fuck me. Please put your cock inside me. Please make me come."
He groaned and moved up her body, kissing her hard. His cock pressed against her thigh, thick and hot, and she reached down and wrapped her fingers around it, stroking slowly.
"Fuck," he grunted. "That's it."
She guided him to her entrance, and he sank into her with one slow, steady thrust. She cried out, back arching, and he caught her mouth with his and swallowed the sound.
He fucked her slowly at first, drawing out every stroke, making her feel every inch of him. Then faster. Harder. His hips slammed into hers, and the bed creaked beneath them.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, just like that."
He reached down and found her clit with his thumb, circling it in time with his thrusts. She clenched around him, and he groaned.
"You're so tight," he said. "So fucking good."
She came with a scream, her body convulsing around him. He didn't stop—just kept fucking her through it, drawing out the pleasure until she was trembling and breathless.
Then he flipped her over and pulled her up onto her knees. She braced herself on the headboard, and he slid into her from behind, deeper than before.
"Oh god," she moaned.
He fucked her harder, one hand gripping her hip, the other reaching around to play with her clit again. She was already sensitive, already on the edge, and it didn't take long.
"Come for me again," he growled in her ear. "I want to feel it."
She did. Her second orgasm hit harder than the first, and she screamed his name as she clenched around him.
He came right after, hips stuttering, groaning her name. She felt every pulse of his release inside her, and it sent another wave of pleasure through her body.
They collapsed onto the bed together, breathing hard, slick with sweat. He pulled her close, and she rested her head on his chest.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The apartment was quiet. The world outside went on without them.
"How's your hand?" Damien asked.
She looked down. The cut on her knuckle had stopped bleeding, but it was still raw and red.
"It hurts," she said.
"I'll get you some ice."
He started to get up, but she put her hand on his chest and pushed him back down.
"Later," she said. "Right now, I just want to stay here."
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
"Okay," he said. "We can stay here."
She closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn't know where she'd live, or what she'd do for work, or whether she'd ever speak to Bree again.
But right now, in this moment, she was exactly where she needed to be.
And that was enough.