Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)(119)

Every sane, happy person is like a reflection of what I could have been, like being met with Christmas Future every day. I don’t want to be haunted by my problems like that.

“What I want you to do,” he says, “is be a f*cking man.”

I glare. “Last time I checked, I was one.”

“Having a dick doesn’t make you a man,” he replies. “You’ve been an irresponsible little boy all your life. I give you things and you shit on them. If you want your trust fund, you have to use the money to make something of yourself. You can’t f*ck it away.”

“I’m not going back to college.”

“Did I say anything about college? You’re not even listening to me.” He throws back the rest of the liquor into his mouth and smacks the glass on the desk.

I flinch.

And he stays silent, not about to divulge the details. Apparently I’m supposed to know what being a man really entails. In my father’s head, that could mean anything.

“Okay,” I accept blindly. He just wants me to meet my potential, not squander away his wealth with apathy. His terms should be in my power. Hopefully.

His brows jump in swift surprise, but it slowly washes away, replaced with a true, genuine smile. I think I just made my father happy.

That happens…well, almost never.

“I’ll call the lawyers. Your inheritance will be back by tomorrow morning,” he says, “and I expect a business proposal by next week.”

“A what?” My stomach tightens.

He rolls his eyes and his mouth downturns. That smile lasted point-two seconds. “For Christ’s sake, Loren. A business proposal. You don’t have to be involved in my company, but you better create your own. I don’t even f*cking care if it succeeds. Just get off your lazy ass.” He stands and hovers over the liquor cart to refill his empty glass. “It’s late. You two should spend the night here.”

I don’t want to step into my old bedroom, a haven for bad memories and shitty mistakes. I shake my head. “We’re staying at Ryke’s tonight.”

He stiffens at the name. “Then get going. I have work to do.” As we walk towards the doors, he says, “And when I find the leak, he’s going to wish he never f*cked with our family. I can promise you that.”





{ 37 }

LILY CALLOWAY



We’re all back at the Princeton house, and I haven’t spoken to Rose in three days. She leaves the house early and returns late. And every time I call, her automated message clicks. Usually Rose answers on the second ring.

H&M and Macy’s dropped Calloway Couture from their stores, citing the “negative attention” as reason to pull the garments from the hangers and shelves. I apologized over text, and I caught her once in person to utter the words, but she patted me on the shoulder and said something about a meeting and hopped into her car.

She texted me this morning. I’m just busy, and I’m sorry I don’t have more time to talk. I don’t blame you. Keep your head up. – Rose

I’m not feeling very sprightly today, but the text helps ease the weight on my chest. My last test is today before finals start next week, and it marks the first time I’ll set foot on campus since the scandal. I shouldn’t go. I didn’t study or memorize the answers from old exams. I just plopped on the couch and watched reruns of Boy Meets World.

My limbs sag heavily, an anchor that tethers me to the bed, to the floor, to the couch. Morning, noon, and night. The urge to disappear, a superpower that I have always wanted, strikes me more often. Dr. Banning would tell me that I’m depressed, maybe even prescribe medication for me. But I haven’t spoken to her since my meeting with the lawyers.

I’m not allowed to see her. I have a new psychiatrist now. Dr. Oliver Evans. I’ll meet him next week.

The shower is my one solitude: a place where self-love exists, where the steam and my prickling nerves combust and ward off anxiety. The guilt accompanies the high. And IknowIknowIknow. I’m technically not allowed, but I’m monitoring how long I spend touching myself. This isn’t the same thing as porn. I can’t masturbate in public. I’ll never overdo it if I just restrict myself to self-love shower time.

And anyway, after last night’s attempt to have sex, Lo will probably steer clear of me for a good thousand years. It started fine. I was ridiculously excited to finally sleep with him after two weeks of abstinence. The hour sped, tricking my mind into believing we only fooled around for five whole minutes, not sixty. I needed more time.

He kept telling me no. And I even tried to spider him and ensnare him in my sex web, which (now that I think about it) couldn’t have been all that sexy. I turned into the compulsive sex-monster that we both feared. Then, something worse happened.

I burst into tears.

So not only did I whine for sex, but I cried when I didn’t get it. I’m ashamed to the point of reclusiveness. I never want to show my face, to anyone. I don’t blame Lo if he never wants to sleep in the same bed with me ever again.

I glance at the kitchen clock. Lo and Ryke can no longer run at the Penn track or jog down the block without being bombarded by paparazzi or nosy students. So they’ve resorted to sprinting around the land at our house in Princeton. At least it’s gated.

But they shouldn’t come inside for another ten minutes. My damp hair wets my shirt. I think I can squeeze in one more shower before they enter the house. I hop off the bar stool and race to the bathroom. I retrieve a small bag of tampons from a cabinet in the way way back. Stuffed in between all of them is a pouch with my waterproof mini-vibrator. I take it out and shove the bag back.