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Seemed about right.
“I’m sorry you had to grow up with these people. I get how they could mess up someone’s head. There was a lot of gaslighting going on with her toward the server.”
“Denise is good at making people think they are crazy,” I joked. “It probably explains some of my issues.”
“I hate her.”
“Don’t. Besides…she might be your mother.”
“Don’t care. Still hate her.” He glanced around, almost uncertain what to do or say next. He cleared his throat and scratched at his neck. “Are you all right? After your talk last night?”
“No.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
I shook my head. Tears burned at the back of my eyes. “No.”
“Don’t cry.”
“Okay.”
I cried.
He stepped closer. “You’re crying.”
“Sorry.”
“No apologies.”
“Okay.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tissue. “Figured you might cry, so I shoved these into my pocket.”
“Thanks.” I took it and wiped my eyes.
“Do you only have mostly one-word replies today?”
I nodded. “Yes.” Any more words, and I was on the path of falling completely apart. I didn’t want to talk about what happened because it hurt too much. I didn’t want to face the fact that my friend and boyfriend had been sneaking around behind my back for God knows how long. If I spoke the words, I’d shatter.
“I… I mean… They…” The words faltered off. My brain was too exhausted and overwhelmed to even try to form a full sentence.
“Words are overrated,” he said, looking down at the floor. When he looked up, his lips sat in a heavy frown. “It makes me upset, though.”
“What does?”
“When assholes make you cry. So, I made you something.”
I raised a curious eyebrow.
He slid his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. “Whenever I’m enraged or filled to the brim with hurt, I find a rage room. It’s a place you can go and break a bunch of shit to get the energy out of your body. I figured you wouldn’t love that as much as me, so I made you something else.”
“What is it?”
“Follow me.”
I did as he said. He led us outside toward the pool house, and when he opened the doors, I was shocked to see the floor in plastic. All the furniture had been removed, and the walls looked as if they’d been freshly painted canvas white. The kitchen area of the pool house was covered with tapestry, and in the opened space were buckets of paint. Twenty-four buckets, to be exact, with a range of colors. Beside them sat a pair of goggles.
I looked back at Damian. “What is this?”
