Page 34 of Wicked Brutal

Her eyebrows go up. “There’s a more important part?”

“Yeah.” Ally’s hand starts shaking in mine, and I look at her. “You want me to?” She nods. I turn back to my parents. “Ally’s pregnant.”

Nothing. For one full second the kitchen just stops. Mom stares at me. Dad’s arms come uncrossed. Ally stops breathing entirely beside me. Then Mom whispers, “Oh my God” — not angry, not horrified, just knocked flat — and her eyes fill instantly. Ally sees the tears, and hers do the same.

“Mom,” I start.

“I’m fine.” She stands, looks at Ally, and then visibly stops herself before she can close the distance. “Can I hug you?”

Ally nods so fast her hair moves, and Mom crosses the kitchen, and the second her arms go around her, Ally breaks — not because Mom said something wrong, because Cassandra Harrington wraps her up like the answer was always, obviously, going to be yes. Yes, you’re welcome here. Yes, this baby is welcome here. Yes, you’re still a girl someone gets to hold when she’s scared. Mom’s crying into her hair, Ally’s crying into her shoulder, and Dad looks like somebody hit him in the chest with a truck.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom murmurs. “Oh my God.”

“I’m sorry,” Ally says.

Mom pulls back so fast I almost laugh. “No. No, no, absolutely not. We are not doing that.”

“I just—“

“You do not apologize to me for this baby. Do you hear me?” Ally nods, her face crumpling, and Mom cups her cheeks in both hands. “This baby is not bad news. Are you happy?”

Ally’s hand moves to her stomach. “Yeah.”

Mom smiles through her tears. “Then congratulations, honey.” And that’s it — the word Ally has been terrified to hear from an adult. Not what are you going to do. Not how could this happen. Congratulations. Ally sobs, and Mom hugs her again. “I’m sorry,” Mom says.

Ally laughs into her shoulder. “You just told me not to apologize.”

“Different rules. I’m the grandmother. I get to.”

I close my eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Ally pulls back. “Grandmother?”

Mom looks at her like she’s said something insane. “Obviously.” Then her own words catch up to her, and her whole face changes. “Oh my God. I’m going to be a grandmother.”

“Here we go,” Dad mutters.

Mom turns back to Ally. “When are you due?”

“October, we think.”

“We think?”

“We haven’t been to a doctor yet.”

Mom’s entire posture changes, going from soft to operational in a heartbeat. “Okay. Darla. She’s discreet, she’s family, and Roman will never know her name went anywhere near yours.”

“Already on the list,” I say.

“Good. Vitamins?”

“Yes,” Ally says.

“Nausea?”

“Mom.”

“Fine. Fine.” She takes a breath, and then her eyes light up like a struck match. “Oh my God. A baby shower.”