Page 10 of Ruthless Court
“You smell amazing,” he whispers.
I look over his shoulder.
Brooke gives me a tiny wave.
“Thanks,” I say.
Ryan pulls back and kisses my forehead.
People cheer louder.
I keep smiling until the bell rings.
* * *
Three weeks later, my navy prom dress hangs from my closet door.
Fitted through the waist.
Soft around the shoulders.
Mom cried when I tried it on.
Dad said Ryan would forget how to speak.
He has spent the afternoon watching videos about pinning a boutonniere without stabbing anyone.
Downstairs, Mom hums while arranging flowers for pictures.
Ryan is supposed to arrive in forty minutes.
I sit on the edge of my bed wearing sweatpants and an old basketball T-shirt.
My hair is unwashed.
My face is bare.
The dress stays on the hanger.
I have known for three weeks that I won’t wear it.
Still, some stubborn, embarrassing part of me waited for Ryan to tell the truth.
A confession.
An apology.
Anything proving the courtyard had been uglier than he intended.
Instead, he kept pretending.
He held my hand in front of Dad.
Asked questions about college coaches.
Mentioned the Indianapolis showcase twice during dinner.
Yesterday, he texted to confirm Dad would be home for pictures.
