Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)(108)

Whether we allow ourselves to open up to our own feelings—well that’s something we’re both working on.

My silence lingers in the air as I try to focus on a suitable answer.

Ryke grows restless by the quiet. “I’ve read that eighty percent of sex addicts are abused as a child. Did Lily—”

“No,” I cut him off, my tone defensive and edged. My eyes bear the same heat, and I wonder if this is why Ryke has never asked me that question before.

“I’m not the only one who will f*cking ask that,” he snaps. “You’re going to have to start being less sensitive.”

I glower at that word…sensitive. It makes me sound weak and fragile. It’s one of those words in my father’s arsenal. I wasn’t living up to my potential when I failed a sixth grade math test, when I had to do a group project alone after no one picked me, when I lost a Little League game. He told me I was worthless, and as a kid I didn’t know how to stop those tears. Don’t be so sensitive, Loren. You’re being too sensitive, Loren. Why are you so goddamn sensitive, Loren? So I stopped crying. Now I just get mad.

My eyes are on Ryke and my mouth moves before I can stop it. “I’m not sensitive,” I deadpan. “You’re the one who flinched every time I called your mother a cunt.” Granted, that was before I knew Sara Hale was his mom. I just thought she was mine, the one who abandoned me.

On cue, Ryke cringes at literally the only cuss word he can’t stand.

I watch the way his face flips through emotions, and in a quick second he settles on one: Guilt.

I expected rage, a battle of words, something to perpetuate the turmoil spinning in my stomach. Not his eyes to cloud with remorse, as if he was the one who spitefully slandered his mother.

He knows me. He knows what I was thinking, why I say the things I do. Between the aggressive attitude and foul language, I often forget Ryke has a brain, probably one that works better than mine.

“Not sensitive,” he says softly, almost hesitant. “I think guarded and defensive are better words.”

His eyes fill with apologies, not wanting to hurt me like my father does. Ryke doesn’t have the same fear as me, the one where I turn into Jonathan Hale. But for a moment, Ryke must have tasted what it was like to be him. I personally know it isn’t pleasant.

After a deep breath, I say, “I can’t help it. I’m always going to be defensive when it comes to Lily.”

“We’re her sisters,” Rose pipes in. “Everyone in this room loves Lily and you. We are the last people you should be guarded around.”

Something burns inside of me, words that ache to be released. I’ve never talked to any of Lily’s sisters about their childhood. I only know what I’ve seen and what Lily has told me. If anyone can fill in the blanks and help me answer Daisy’s question, it’s Rose.

“Why was Lily allowed to spend nights at my house?” I ask.

“You were her friend.”

“Rose. What friends at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old spend the majority of nights at someone else’s house?”

She narrows her eyes. “It was usually on the weekend.”

Holy shit. Someone has taken a sledgehammer to my stomach.

By the look on her face, she has no idea how many nights Lily slept at my house when we were children. But how many activities did Rose’s mother bombard her with? Ballet, horseback riding, piano, French.

Off my shock, Rose starts shaking her head fiercely. “I would have known. I would have seen her walk through the front door in the mornings…” Her face falls, and Connor reaches for her hand while she stares off dazedly.

“You never saw her in the mornings,” I say what Rose is thinking. “My father’s driver always took us to school from my house.”

“I had club meetings in the morning. I left early all the time, so I just thought she was asleep.” It wasn’t Rose’s duty to take care of Lily. She’s only two years older. “How many nights did Lily sleep at your house?”

“In middle school, about four days a week, and then she just kept coming over more and more until high school…” I shake my head and cringe. It’s my fault. A huge part of what happened, I know, I caused. “…in high school, she slept over almost every night.”

“I didn’t know that either,” Daisy admits. I’m not surprised. Daisy is a lot younger, and when she turned about eleven, her mother started pursuing acting and modeling agencies for her. And for the majority of Daisy’s tweens, I remember how she always looked exhausted, eyes heavy-lidded and yawning more than talking.

“Our parents couldn’t have known about your sleepovers,” Rose says. “They would have never allowed it.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

This is where my chest constricts, where vile resentment starts to pound in my head. I didn’t have these feelings towards Samantha and Greg Calloway until I went to rehab. Before that, I thought they were the coolest parents for letting their daughter, my best friend, spend an exorbitant amount of time with me. Sitting in therapy for three months and becoming sober has cleared the dust.

I’m beginning to understand what happened.

Connor’s mouth slowly parts in realization, letting me know he’s put the pieces together. Why Lily is the way she is.