Page 73 of The Art of Ruin

“That’s not specific. Shouldn’t you have something stronger?”

“It’s enough,” I say, meeting his gaze again, a little more sharply this time.

For a moment, I think he might push further. Instead, he nods once, like he’s storing the information rather than accepting it. “And this is usual?” he asks.

I exhale slowly, leaning my head back against the couch, the warmth from the heating pad finally starting to seep through again. “No,” I admit.

Another pause. “Then why now?” he asks.

The question lands differently this time.

Not invasive.

Just direct.

I close my eyes briefly, weighing the effort of answering against the alternative of continuing to deflect. “Hormone cycles can affect it and so can stress. I haven’t been sleeping all that well either,” I say finally, keeping it simple and vague. The last thing I want to tell him is that my period probably triggered it. Usually, my Mirena IUD makes it so I don’t get periods, but occasionally it happens.

His silence stretches just long enough that I know he isn’t satisfied with that. But he doesn’t push, and I’m grateful for that.

Instead, he moves past me toward the small kitchen without asking, his attention already shifting to something else, something practical, something he can control.

I watch him go, too tired to question it, too aware of the way the room feels different with him in it to ignore it entirely. He tosses his coat on the tiny kitchen table and pushes back the sleeves on his cashmere sweater, settling into my tiny kitchen as he boils some water.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

And yet—

He’s here.

And for reasons I don’t have the energy to examine right now, that matters more than it should.

11.Adriano

There are veryfew situations I walk into without immediately understanding the shape of them. This is one of them, and I don’t fucking like it. Not because there’s nothing to observe—there’s too much of it, in fact—but because none of it aligns cleanly with the explanation I was given, and I don’t like working without a clear structure. And I really don’t like seeing her in so much pain.

She’s not sick in any way I recognize.

There’s no fever in her complexion, no congestion, no signs of anything contagious that would justify her removing herself from the house entirely. What there is, instead, is something far more controlled and far more deliberate.

I can’t fix this with ice-blocks, dad hugs, and love. This is something bigger than I know how to handle. It leaves me feeling helpless, and I hate feeling that way.

She’s managing it, which means she’s had to deal with this before and I hate that thought too.

The heating pad is already in position when I turn back from the kitchen, plugged in and warm, the cord trailing across the side of the couch in a way that suggests it’s been moved morethan once today. There’s medication on the counter—nothing prescription from what I can see, but enough to tell me this isn’t the first time she’s needed it.

Her tea has gone cold, untouched. Uneaten toast sits on a plate on the coffee table. Which means she made it with intention and then didn’t have the energy to follow through.

I set a fresh glass of water on the table within her reach before she has to ask for it, then glance briefly at the mug, considering it for a second before discarding the idea of reheating it. It isn’t what she needs, so I tip it down the sink and dispose of the toast in the trash.

Water is boiling, for what I don’t know. I just needed to do something with my hands.

“How long does a flare usually last?” I ask, turning back toward her.

She shifts slightly at the sound of my voice, adjusting the blanket without opening her eyes, her hand pressing briefly against the heating pad as though to anchor it in place.

“It depends,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now, thinner around the edges than it had been when she opened the door. “Sometimes a day. Sometimes longer. Don’t worry, I won’t miss work. I can still take care of Letty.”

Irrational anger flares inside me that her brain would go there. “I don’t give a fuck about you looking after anyone but yourself right now. I just don’t like to think of you suffering.” My voice is gruffer than I want, but I’m out of my comfort zone here.