Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(135)

Mine resides somewhere else.

“Congratulations,” I say dryly. “You’re a better liar than me.”

He raises his glass like he’s toasting to my words.

“Stop,” I tell him before he presses it to his lips, panic shooting into me. “Just stop, Dad. You can always try again. It’s not over.”

He shakes his head like I’m wrong. I’ve always been wrong. “It’s over for me, son. I’m not going to pretend anymore.” And then he finishes off his glass.

Ryke squats, breathing heavily, and then he kneels. He can’t look at our dad. He knew—early on, I guess—that if our dad relapsed he couldn’t be convinced to try again.

It’s harder the second time around. I know it. I’ve been there. “Please,” I beg. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you can do this.” I sound pathetic, the worst part of me believes. I refuse to give into that part. This is right. What I’m saying is right.

“You don’t understand,” my dad tells me in a controlled voice. “I don’t want to try again. So stop pleading like a little—”

“Okay,” I cut him off, not waiting for the insult that I don’t f*cking deserve. I can’t give up on him. Ryke wouldn’t give up on me. But I’m not prepared to be a sober coach.

My dad sets down his empty drink, and he finds a new target across the room. His probing gaze lands on Connor. “Does Loren know what you’ve done in your past?” he asks him. “Or better yet…who you’ve done.” His brow tics, and his features darken in distaste.

“This isn’t about me, Jonathan,” Connor replies with ease. “Deflecting the issue here won’t help you.”

He lets out a weak, manic laugh. “Nothing will help me.” He buttons his suit jacket with a shaking hand, one that almost matches mine. “In less than a year, I’ll be gone.” He turns to Ryke, broken picture frames lie by his knees.

My brother must feel the heat of our father’s gaze because he raises his head.

“You can stop assaulting my things and celebrate,” our dad says. “Your dear old pathetic father will be dead. Hooray.”

My lips part in confusion. “What are you talking about?” He’s not making sense.

“That.” He points to the glass on the desk. “Has killed me. Or will kill me.” He flashes me a dark, agitated smile. “I received the news a couple weeks before the yacht trip. Liver disease. Cirrhosis. Non-reversible.”

Before my legs buckle beneath me, I dazedly find the couch and sink onto the leather cushion. The weight of his words silences the room. I rub my lips as I process his declaration.

He’s dying.

I choke on a pained laugh. He’s really dying.

The only parent who has ever loved me. The one person who gave me a chance at life. He’s going to be gone? Just like that.

I hear his voice. “Stop crying, Loren. Don’t be a baby.”

I go to wipe my eyes, my stomach roiling at his words.

“Fuck you,” Ryke sneers. He rises to his feet. “You tell him you’re dying and then the next minute you say shit like that? Who the f*ck are you?” Connor reaches Ryke’s side and places a hand on his shoulder, partly, I think, to restrain him.

My dad scowls at the liquid dripping down the wall, I’m sure wishing it was all in his glass instead.

I clench my hand that trembles brutally. I can practically feel the alcohol sliding down my parched throat. The bitterness and power. All in one.

I breathe out. “If you have liver disease, you shouldn’t be drinking.” Hasn’t he thought of this? My doctor educated me on the topic, even sat me down with a dietician to create a post-recovery health plan. But it doesn’t take that formality to see the obvious.

“I’m dying anyway,” he says with edge. “Might as well revel in life’s few luxuries. Whisky and women.”

Women. The word stands out to me. “Is that why you’ve been bringing dates to functions?” I ask. Why he’s been choosing women half his age. Why he hasn’t even attempted to hide this part of his life from me.

“I’m enjoying the company while I can,” he admits.

I shake my head, heavy and weighted but it’s starting to clear. “There has to be other options.”

“There’s not.” He shuts it down immediately.

“What about a liver transplant?” I ask, knowing this road exists.

He laughs. “I’m so far down the donor list you can barely see my name. There are some things money doesn’t buy.”

He’s forgetting something. “I have your blood type. We’d be a match—”

“No.”

That’s all he says.

I grimace. “What do you mean, no?” I shoot to my feet, my veins pumping. “This could save your life and you’re just going to say no?”

He stares at me, square in the eye, no retreating. “You’re not doing that for me.” So this is pride? Compassion? I don’t understand.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I snap. “If I want to be a donor, I’m being your donor.”

“You want to try, have at it then,” my dad combats. “Your liver is in tiptop shape, I’m sure.”