Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(136)

“It’s better,” I argue. Like most alcoholics, I used to have fatty liver disease. But it goes away with the right diet and sobriety. I’ve been healthy for almost a year now. “They only need to remove a portion of it, right?” I turn to Connor for confirmation.

He nods once. “It’s not an easy recovery, Lo. This is a major surgery.”

I don’t care. It’s life and death, and I’m not going to stand by and watch my dad die. I can’t do that, no matter how terrible he can be. He deserves a second chance. Everyone deserves another f*cking chance. I’m going to give him one.

My dad opens his mouth to protest again, to tell me no. I’m sick of that word.

“I’m doing this,” I say first. “You’re always telling me how you saved my life.” He wanted me when my own mom didn’t. “I want to save yours.”

He blinks a few times. It’s not like he decides all of a sudden. He stands there and stares at me, like it’s a contest to see which one of us backs away first.

I don’t move. I might have a year or two ago. Maybe even five months. Ryke would’ve been the one to rival Jonathan Hale. To stand up to him. To shut him down.

Now it’s my turn.

I never flinch or give him the easy road because I love him. I love him, so I’m going to give him the hard road, the better one. Like Ryke always did with me.

“You look different,” my dad says. Fear flashes in his eyes…the most human thing I’ve ever witnessed from him.

“I’m older,” I remind him.

He shakes his head, just as Lily had done before. “It’s not that, son,” he says in a whisper.

I know. I feel different.

He sniffs loudly, controlling his emotions. Then a minute or two later, my dad finally shuffles to his desk. He crouches behind a drawer, and I hear bottles clink together. He emerges with four handles of whiskey. My alcoholic father, who has spent more days with liquor than without, tosses his whiskey in a nearby trash bin.

And he walks away from them. Heading towards me.

I let out a long breath. When I turn to look for Ryke, I think he’ll be happy about our dad’s choice. But he’s not here. I spin around, casing the area. He’s probably outside. Where he can breathe.

“I’ll talk to Jonathan about our situation,” Connor says, reminding me about why we first showed up. “You should go find him.” Ryke, he means.

I hesitate to leave Connor alone with my father, who already seems aggravated at the idea of conversing with him. I’d rather not push my dad towards the four bottles of booze he just rejected.

But I’m too concerned about Ryke to stay.

My decision is an easy one.





{ 55 }

LOREN HALE



I find Ryke in the driveway. The rain has stopped. Without Connor’s car keys, he’s left waiting by the Escalade. He sits on the edge of the pavement—where the cement meets the grass. His knees are tucked to his chest, his face buried in his hands.

My pulse quickens. “Hey,” I say softly, approaching my older brother.

He runs his fingers through his hair, but he never looks up. His gaze transfixes on the ground.

“It’s all worked out,” I tell him.

He shakes his head a single time, and his fingers clench his thick brown hair.

I rub the back of my neck. “I know you don’t like him…and you probably don’t want me to be the donor. But I can’t just let him die.”

His eyes redden, and his jaw hardens. I’m saying the wrong things. Christ. What do I say? Ryke’s not me. He doesn’t think like me. He never has. It’s why we’ve had too many fights. Why it took years to build our relationship. We’re always on separate pages. Different chapters of the same story.

I waver uneasily, wondering if I should bend down to comfort him. Or stay upright, towering above his frame. I end up frozen in place. “Ryke…” I choke out his name.

His nose flares, and he lets out a heavy breath. His hands fall to his sides, and he finally raises his head. Tears surface that he couldn’t bury. “He told us that he was dying,” he says, his voice trembling, “and the first thing I felt was relief.”

I watch water roll down his cheeks.

“That’s sick,” he breathes. “Really f*cking sick.” He gestures to me. “You’re the one who should be relieved. You’re the one he’s abused. You’re the one who had to live with him.” His throat bobs. “But you didn’t even hesitate to help him, even when he didn’t ask for it.” More than vulnerable, Ryke stares right at me, his chin quaking and his features torn up.

I’ve personally seen him like this maybe twice before. When he learned his mom betrayed him, outing Lily’s sex addiction to the public. And then in Utah. When we fought each other with our fists. Almost a whole year ago.

And then he says, “You always think you’re the bad guy, Lo. But you’re not.” His head hangs. “You’re f*cking not.” He buries his face in his bent knees again.

This time, my joints work, and I sit beside my brother. I wrap my arm around his tense shoulder that shudders with his body.

“I know him better than you,” I defend. “That’s why I want to help him.”