Page 325 of Wild Card 13

“I thought it would be. I thought being watched would make it feel cheap, maybe. Like everybody got to have a piece of something before I understood what it was.”

Arlo looked out through the trees toward the lake. “And?”

“It felt good,” I admitted, and the confession was so quiet I almost did not hear it myself. I exhaled. “I’m scared it will hurt worse because it’s real now.”

He looked down at Dottie first, then back at me. “Yeah.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“I’m deciding whether you want comfort or honesty.”

“Both. Obviously.”

His smile faded, but his voice stayed gentle. “Ty isn’t like Mom, Lucy. He’s proven that much.”

I looked away. At the lake. At the lodge. At the smear ofsunlight on the water. At anything except my brother, who had just put his hand directly over a bruise and pressed.

“I loved him so much I thought I had invented a new organ just to have somewhere to put it.” I laughed once, but it did not sound like humor. “That was horrible. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he said. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You loved him like that, and you survived what happened. Now you love him as the person you are, not the girl you were.”

My hand tightened around Dottie’s leash.

“She looks happier too,” he added.

I followed his gaze down. Dottie had rolled onto her back in a patch of sun, muddy paws in the air, tongue lolling out, completely untroubled by permanence, abandonment, or the social implications of becoming a shared dog.

“She looks ridiculous.”

He shrugged. “Dogs know things.”

“She ate a napkin last week.” Despite myself, I smiled.

Dottie flopped upright suddenly, shook dirt from her fur, and took off toward the lodge with enough determination to nearly dislocate my shoulder.

“Apparently we’re done processing,” Arlo said.

“Dottie has released us from therapy.”

“Generous of her.”

By the time we got back to the lawn, the light had shifted. The sun sat lower, warmer, turning the lake gold at the edges. The whole property smelled like sunscreen, cut grass, charcoal, and North Line fries.

Ty’s eyes found me immediately.

He was standing near the food tables now, talking with Ezra and Lo. When I approached, he did not ask if I was okay in front of everyone. He simply took Dottie’s leash from me, brushed his fingers over mine, and handed me a plate Arlo must have made.

No onions. Extra pickles. A ridiculous amount of fries.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I looked at the plate. “You are smug about knowing my order.”

“I am quietly accomplished.”

I took a fry and ate it. “Thank you.”

His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist.