Page 6 of Ruthless Edge

Rory closes her eyes for a second too long before opening them again. "Of course my brother would volunteer," she says, mostly to herself. It doesn't sound like a compliment.

And that's all it takes. Three years of being fine, of having it handled, of being the person who'd processed everything and moved on and come out the other side, and it just goes. My eyes fill up and I blink hard as I look at the street because I refuse to cry at a brunch table in public, I absolutely refuse, but my throat has gone tight, my face isn't cooperating, and I hear Paige make a soft sound beside me.

"Hey." Her hand finds my arm. "Hey, it's okay. We've got you."

"I'm fine," I say, which is technically true in that I am upright and functional. "I just." I press the back of my hand to my eyes. Get it together. "I wasn't expecting it."

"Of course you weren't," Paige says. "That's completely reasonable. That's a completely reasonable reaction."

"You don't have to talk me through it like I’m one of your fragile subjects," I tell her, which comes out nicely despite everything.

Paige’s major is photography, and it’s taught her a lot about handling people. Or maybe she already knew everything about it long before college, I have no idea which.

"I'm going to anyway," she says cheerfully. "That's what I'm here for."

I take a breath. Then another. The tightness in my throat loosens enough for me to keep going.

"He was just sitting there," I say. "Like it was nothing. Like I was going to walk in and be happy about it. And Laura was right next to him, same as always, and I walked in looking like—" I gesture vaguely at myself. "A blouse soaked in coffee, my hair a mess. And the two of them looked so comfortable together and I just." I stop. "It brought everything back. I didn't expect it to hit like that after so long."

Nobody tries to tell me I shouldn't feel what I'm feeling. That's one of the things I love about these three.

Rory's jaw is set in a way I recognize. "Emma. I'm sorry. I still don't fully understand how that night happened that way, because I’ve never seen that side of Knox, but I know it was bad and I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

"He's still my brother."

"I know." I look at her. "I know he is. I don't blame you."

Sienna speaks then, quiet and precise. "You've spent three years building something good. A terrible meeting and a coffee stain don't erase that."

"The short skirt I finally wore didn't help either," I say.

"The skirt is fine," Paige says firmly. "I've told you repeatedly that your legs are incredible and I'll keep saying it until you believe me."

"My legs are⁠—"

"Incredible," she repeats, with the absolute conviction of someone who has never once doubted anything she's decided is true.

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth moves. Just barely. "You're relentless."

"Thank you." She squeezes my arm. "Tell us everything. Start from the beginning."

So I do.

I tell them about Dr. Neely's announcement and the way I stopped moving in the middle of the conference room like a complete idiot. I tell them about turning and seeing Knox already there, already comfortable, already grinning. I tell them about trying to suggest alternatives and Knox's expression when I did, that dimmed smile, the confused-disappointed look of a man who expected a different reaction, and how much it irritated me that I noticed his expression at all.

The more I talk, the less control I have over any of it. My voice cracks on the part about not being able to do this, and I hate that, I hate the crack in my voice more than almost anything, but I can't stop it.

"Being around him makes me feel like I'm nineteen years old again," I say. "Like I'm sitting at that table waiting for someone who's never going to show up. Like I look exactly the way I looked then. I know that's not rational. I know I'm not the same person. But knowing it doesn't make the feeling go away."

"You don't have to justify feeling it," Sienna says.

"The logical part of my brain knows that. The rest of my brain is apparently still at that gala."

"Your heart is allowed to take longer than your brain to process things," Paige says. "That's literally just how trauma works."

"It's not trauma," I say reflexively, although I don’t need to be a psychology major to recognize it does sound a little like trauma.