Page 51 of Wicked Brutal

Cat smiles. Becca bumps her shoe lightly against mine under the table. And the conversation keeps moving. Nobody announces that I’m part of anything. Nobody needs to.

At three twenty-five, I pull into the Harrington driveway. I haven’t even put the car in park before my phone buzzes.

The front door opens. Ryan appears. Tie gone. Sleeves pushed up. I smile. His eyes lift to mine. Even from across the driveway, I see his expression change.

I barely get the car door open before he’s coming down the steps. “Impatient?”

“Very.” I stand. He reaches me, catches my waist, and kisses me. Right there beside my car. No checking who might see. No cold Harrington mask. Just Ryan. His mouth moves against mine, and I laugh when he pulls me closer.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

“Poor thing.”

“Don’t mock my suffering.”

“Your suffering was not kissing me for seven hours.”

“Exactly.”

“Tragic.”

“It was.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “You walked past me like I didn’t exist.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “I know.”

“You were very convincing.”

“Don’t.” The word is quiet. I look at him. “I fucking hate it.”

“I know.” His hand slides up my back. “But it keeps Dad from looking at you.”

He kisses me again. Softer. “I’m still making up for it.”

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.” I smile against his mouth. He takes my bag from the passenger seat and catches my hand. “Come inside.”

Cassandra is in the kitchen when we walk in, Walter beside her gathering papers into his briefcase. They both look up. Cassandra smiles. “Hi, sweetheart. How was school?”

“Good.”

“Good,” she says, and then tips her head, considering me. “And how are you feeling? Not the school answer. The real one.”

“Mom,” Ryan says.

“I’m allowed to ask, Ryan.” She looks back at me and waits, and there’s nothing loaded in it, so I answer.

“Tired,” I admit. “But okay. Mostly tired.”

Cassandra nods like that’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “That part doesn’t get the credit it deserves. Everyone talks about the nausea and forgets to warn you that you’ll want to sleep through an entire season.” Her eyes soften. “Are you eating?”

“The girls have made it their personal mission,” I say. “I’m well supplied in crackers and sour candy.”