Page 9 of Wicked Brutal

She didn’t know where she wanted to go. I had a list, and she called the entire list boring.

“Georgetown is not boring,” I said.

“It’s aggressively boring.”

“Columbia?”

“Less boring.”

“Poor Ryan,” She smiled, and I looked at her, and she looked back. The lake was almost black behind her. “You’re staring again,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I could’ve lied. I didn’t. “I want to kiss you.”

She went still. Not afraid — just surprised. “You could’ve.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know if you want me to.”

Her expression changed, small enough that I would’ve missed it a month earlier. I didn’t now. “I do,” she said.

I kissed her. Slowly. Her hand came up to my jaw. I pulled back after a second, and she followed me, so I kissed her again, and that one wasn’t slow.

By August we were together. Nobody had declared it. There wasn’t a conversation where I asked her to be my girlfriend — it simply became true. She came over because she wanted to see me. I went to her dock because I wanted to see her. We kissed everywhere we could find privacy: my car, the boat, behind the boathouse, my bedroom when my parents weren’t home, once in her room when Jane had taken Tobias into town and Roman was gone.

And late in August, on my bed, we almost went further.

Ally was underneath me, her shirt somewhere on the floor, my mouth at her neck and her fingers curled into my hair — and then her hand came flat against my chest, and she pressed, gently, and I stopped instantly.

I lifted my head to look at her. She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, and there was something in her face I couldn’t read. “Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “I just — I’m not ready. Not — not for that. Not tonight.”

“Okay.” I said it without a beat of hesitation, and I meant it, and I watched her register that I meant it. I rolled off her and pulled her into my side instead, and she came, tucking her head against my shoulder. “That’s it. That’s the whole conversation. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Ever.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Ally.” I pressed a kiss into her hair. “No. Christ, no. Why would I be mad?”

She didn’t answer that. She lay there against me with her hand over my heart, and for a second I had the strange feeling that she wanted to tell me something and couldn’t — that there was a reason underneath the not ready, some whole shape of a thing sitting just behind her eyes. But she didn’t say it, and I didn’t push. I never pushed with Ally. Whatever she gave me, she’d give me because she chose to, or she wouldn’t give it at all.

So we stayed there, her head on my chest, my fingers moving through her hair, no rush and no deadline. Just us.

I didn’t understand what she’d stopped for until the fall.

School started, and Ally disappeared.

Not literally — that would’ve been easier. She was everywhere. Hallways, classes, the parking lot. She just wasn’t mine anymore. She didn’t answer texts. Didn’t answer calls. Wouldn’t look at me.

The first week, I gave her space. The second, I stopped. By the third, I was fucking furious.

If Ally wanted Harrington instead of Ryan, she got him. I could be cold — better than most. I started small. “Move, O’Toole,” and she’d step aside. “You’re in my seat,” and she’d leave. I made comments when I passed her, nothing that would make anybody wonder why I cared, just enough to make her jaw tighten.