The latest message included a photograph of a navy dress hanging in my childhood bedroom and the suggestion that it would be appropriate for the evening.
Ryan noticed my eyes move toward the phone. “Wednesday?”
I nodded.
He set the boxers down instead of pretending he hadn’t caught the change in me. “Still doing it?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in my answer, and I was proud of myself for that much.
Ryan’s gaze remained on mine. “You sure?”
“No.” I smiled weakly. “But I’m still doing it.”
“That’s different.”
“It feels different.”
He crossed the room and stopped beside the bed. “What’re you worried about most?”
“My father.”
“That narrows it down to one entire human being.”
I pulled the blanket tighter around my legs. “I know how my mother will do it. She’ll ask questions that sound concerned. She’ll mention Flint and probably ask what your plans are after hockey. Somehow, she’ll make it sound like you’re running an illegal gambling operation.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’re too controlling to gamble.”
“Fair.”
“My dad is harder.”
Ryan lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress.
“He won’t yell,” I continued. “He barely ever has to. He’ll get quiet and start explaining my life to me like I forgot what it is.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’ll remind me about school, design, internships, money, my apartment, and probably the fact that he still pays my tuition. He’ll tell me he’s worried I’m making an impulsive choice because I’m emotional. Then he’ll remind me that Charles would’ve never been reckless or careless.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
“I know what he’s doing when he does it now,” I added quickly. “Knowing doesn’t stop it from working.”
“I know.”
He didn’t give me another speech about being brave or tell me my father couldn’t control me. He didn’t ask why I cared after everything Lance had done.
Ryan understood.
I reached out and hooked two fingers beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling him closer until his knee bumped mine.
“I’m going to tell them.”
“I believe you.”