Page 169 of Wicked Brutal

Something in my chest twists. “Give it back, Ryan.”

His eyes lift. “Did I say you could call me Ryan?”

The words slap harder than they should. Because I call him Ryan when he’s half asleep. When he’s inside me. When he’s lying with his head beside my stomach talking to our baby. When he’s scared. When I love him.

Someone laughs. Ryan looks back at the page. “This is fucking terrible.”

I know it’s fake. I know. It still hurts.

“Give me my notebook.”

Ryan flips another page. “Jesus, it gets worse.”

Danny laughs. Too easily. Too naturally. Because these boys have been doing this shit for years. This is what they’re good at. And suddenly I understand something I never really understood before. Why people at Edgewood move when the five of them walk through a hallway. Why nobody steps in. Why everyone watches. Because when they decide you’re the joke, the safest place to stand is in the audience.

“Put it down,” I say.

Ryan looks at me. Then around the dining hall. “Or what?” More people are listening now. My heart pounds. “You’ll write something mean about me?”

Laughter. Real laughter. My eyes burn. Fuck him. Ryan knows exactly what this notebook means to me. That’s why he picked it. That’s why this works.

He turns another page. “Is this supposed to be romance?”

My stomach drops. “Ryan.” I stare at him. His expression doesn’t move. “Harrington,” I correct through my teeth. “Give it back.”

“Ask nicely.”

The girls go still. I can feel it. Even knowing this is fake, Cat looks like she wants to launch herself across the table.

I hold out my hand. “Please give me my notebook.”

Ryan looks at my hand. Then my face. “No.” A boy behind him laughs.

I want to fucking disappear. Not because I’m embarrassed about writing. Because Ryan is the one doing it. Because there’s a difference between knowing someone has a knife and feeling it go in.

I reach for the notebook. He lifts it over my head. More laughter. “Seriously?”

“What’s wrong, O’Toole?” His voice is almost bored. “You embarrassed?”

I hate him. For exactly three seconds, I fucking hate him.

"You’re being a fucking asshole.” A few people make noises around us.

Ryan smiles. Cold. Mean. Familiar to everyone in this room except me. “Careful.”

“What? Going to make my senior year miserable?”

Then the mask comes back harder. He closes my notebook. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’ve got, what, three weeks left?”

Oh. Everything inside me stops. Switzerland. The people around us don’t know why that hurts. Ryan does. He fucking does. And he said it anyway. My eyes burn instantly. His jaw tightens.

Good. Feel bad. I hope it fucking hurts.

He looks down at the notebook. “Maybe Switzerland will teach you how to write.”

Then he drops it. Not on the table. On the floor. The spine hits first. Loose pages scatter across the dining hall. Someone laughs. My vision blurs.

Ryan steps around them. Around me. “Or at least give you something interesting to write about.”