Page 20 of Wicked Brutal

I stare at her. She doesn’t seem to realize what that sentence does to me — or maybe she does. Mrs. Whitmore is one of those teachers who notices more than she admits. “Have you thought about studying it?” she asks.

“Writing?”

“English. Creative writing. Journalism. Publishing. There are a hundred ways in.”

“I haven’t really thought about college like that.” Which is technically true — I’ve thought about college as escape, as distance, as housing and money, as what happens to Tobias if I go. I’ve never once thought about it as somewhere I get to choose a thing because I love it.

“You should,” she says.

I fold the essay carefully. “Maybe.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No.”

“Good.” She smiles again and turns back to her computer, letting me go without making the moment bigger than I can carry. I slide the essay into the safest section of my bag. Then I go upstairs.

The third floor of the arts building smells like dust and old wood and the specific stale warmth of rooms nobody bothers renovating because nobody important ever sees them. The music room at the end of the hall has been abandoned for years — not officially, technically students can still use it, they just don’t. The piano’s out of tune, three keys don’t work, and one wall has a water stain shaped like Italy. It is my favorite room in the entire school.

I knock twice. Pause. Once. The lock clicks. Ryan opens the door.

And there he is. Not Harrington. Ryan. The difference is so immediate it almost hurts. His blazer’s off and thrown over the back of a chair, his tie’s loose, his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and there’s a paper cup in one hand — and the second he sees me, his whole face changes. Not dramatically; he’d never survive our arrangement if he couldn’t control himself. But his shoulders drop. His eyes warm. Mine.

“Hey.”

One word, and I’m almost crying. Ridiculous. I step inside, and he locks the door behind me. “What happened?”

Of course. I haven’t even said anything. “Nothing.”

“Your eyes are red.”

“Pregnancy.”

“That’s not an explanation,” he says. “That’s a hostage situation.”

I laugh. He takes my bag off my shoulder before I can stop him, sets it on the piano bench, and hands me the cup. Ginger tea. Honey. Exactly enough lemon that I can taste it but not enough to make my stomach revolt. I take a sip. Perfect temperature. “How long has this been here?”

“Seven minutes.”

“You timed it?”

“No.”

Ryan watches me for a moment, and then his mouth tightens. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Ryan.”

He reaches out and brushes his thumb beneath my eye. “Did I go too far downstairs?” There it is. I look at him. “You saw Penny,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“And the guy by the science doors.”

“Yeah. Who was he?”

“No idea.”