Page 82 of Wicked Brutal

I flinch, because that’s exactly the word Victor used — laid down — like a wine, and Ryan sees it land, and his whole face goes to war with itself. He wants to reach for me. He can’t. Not here.

He drags a hand down his mouth instead. “I’m going to be sick. Five years.” He says it to himself. “He’s been waiting five years.”

“He said waiting like it was a gift he was giving me.” I hear how thin my voice has gone and hate it. “Like I should be grateful he didn’t just take me at thirteen.”

“Ally.” He steps closer than he should, closer than is safe in a public aisle, and lowers his voice until it’s only for me. “You listen to me. That arrangement is not a fact about you. It’s a fact about them. You were a kid. You did nothing. You are nothing that either of those men decided you were.” His eyes hold mine. “You hear me?”

My throat aches. “Yeah.”

“Say it back.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Good.” He exhales, slow, forcing his shoulders down. “I hate that you were alone in that room while he said it.”

“I wasn’t completely alone.” I glance at him. “My mom told him I wasn’t difficult. Out loud. To his face, basically.”

Something shifts in Ryan’s expression. “She did?”

“So quietly I don’t think Victor even understood what she’d done. But she did it.”

He nods slowly, filing it, and I watch him make himself set the thirteen thing down — not let go of it, he’ll never let go of it, just set it down long enough to keep working. “Okay,” he says quietly. “And Sunday?”

“Lunch.”

“Alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“No.”

I sigh. “Ryan.”

“No.”

“I can’t exactly tell Dad my secret boyfriend has forbidden it.”

“I know.”

“Then stop looking at me like I’m volunteering.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

“I’m looking at you like I want to kill him.”

“That’s different.”

“Barely.”

I tell him about Mom next. Monday. The dress comment. Her defending me so quietly Victor didn’t even understand what she’d done. The kitchen. Her asking whether Victor made me uncomfortable. Telling me she doesn’t like him touching me. Be good. Not here.

Ryan listens without typing for part of it. When I’m finished, he looks toward the end of the aisle. “Your mom’s scared.”

“Yeah.”

“But she’s doing things anyway.”