Page 32 of The Unravelings

“I think it’s cute. How mad would Mack be if I put this in the treehouse?” I wiggle my brows playfully, setting it back on the table and moving on without giving JJ a chance to answer. I was joking anyway. Although I did think it was cute—something I would never be allowed to have at home in my prison. Just bare walls and an empty closet. No personality. Maybe that’s why I put it all into the treehouse and force the guys to go along with it.

“Here,” JJ says, handing me a small box as we walk away from the garage sale and down the street toward our homes.

My brows furrow. “Did you buy something there? I saw they had baseball cards.” More for him than me. This is our usual, though. Shopping the garage sales happening around town, looking for small treasures we can barely afford.

JJ stops us, pulling me to the side of the road and grins, uncovering the small figurine wrapped in brown paper. “When you really want something, there’s an undeniable spark in your eye, Spitfire,” he murmurs, twisting the small figurine so I can see all the angles.

“Jasper,” I murmur his first name, biting my lip. “You got it for me?”

He doesn’t answer; he kisses my cheek, lingering for longer than necessary. It makes butterflies swoop in my belly. It’s the first time one of them has ever laid their lips on my cheek.

My old trinkets, filled with terrible memories, lie on the floor. Their jagged, broken pieces scatter everywhere, making it impossible to move without getting cut.

“How fitting,” I murmur, brushing my finger over the broken face of the first trinket I ever fell in love with. “You’re jagged and broken. Me, too.”

This entire place is a time capsule. A piece of us that shouldn’t have survived. None of this should have survived. Fuck. I grunt, grabbing the pink pillows and pulling them apart.

“Fuck this,” I grunt to myself.

The fluff comes out easily. The fabric tears, too. And by the time I’m done, everything I ever loved or owned is in a pile on the ground.

Heavy breaths linger in my lungs. Sweat trickles down my temple, despite the breeze coming through the windows.

I never meant to come back here. I never meant to see the memories in vivid colors. I shake my head, slumping against the wall. More tears pour from my eyes, lining my cheeks and dripping onto the floor as I silently grieve what was.

Them.

This place.

My trinkets and touches.

I suck in a breath. I need out of this space. Out of this fucking treehouse and away from all the ghosts attempting to haunt me and drive me fucking insane. My eyes glide over the mess I made. Everything is strewn over the floor. Do they come up here anymore? Do they delight in my absence while looking at my things and mocking my stupid existence?

Whatever.

Everything inside me numbs. No feelings chase after me when I climb down from the treehouse and make it past the tree line.

“Come on, boy! Keep up!” a breathy voice grunts behind me.

Fuck.

I duck behind a tree, flattening my back a few yards from the treehouse. Peeking around the trunk, I catch a glimpse of Mack with tiny jogging shorts, no shirt, and sweat dripping down his chest. Waffles trots beside him with his tongue lolling out and panting for water.

This is not good. Not fucking good at all.

“Fuck,” Mack grunts, stopping outside the treehouse near the rope ladder, attempting to catch his breath. Red tints his cheeks, and his chest expands and deflates when he puts his hands on his knees. “I think I’m dying,” he dramatically tells the dog through heavy breaths. I swallow hard when his head tilts back, and his hands go behind his head as he stands tall, attempting to pull more oxygen into his lungs. His eyes drift, taking in the sky and then… “What the fuck?” he shouts, dropping his arms to his sides. He stares up at the treehouse with furrowed brows. “Stay here,” he grunts, pointing at the dog.

Like Waffles would try to follow him up? I snark in my head.

My eyes widen when he climbs the ladder. Nope. This is not good. Not fucking good at all. Why is he even going up there and…

“What the fuck!” His angry shouts permeate the air. “What?” Emotions leak into his voice now as he disappears inside the treehouse. And then a loud single roar rattles my chest and makes Waffles back up a step.

Before I can even make a move to escape the fury wafting off Mack, he’s down the ladder with a twisted expression, putting his phone to his ear.

“We have a fucking problem,” he growls into the phone. “Someone wrecked the fucking treehouse. First, the grave? Now this!” he shouts, taking a few steps in my direction. “Someone is after us.”

Fuck.