Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(23)

Rose shoots me a cold glare. “Who do you think she’s been texting all day?”

She’s been texting? “Dad?” I try.

Rose rolls her eyes dramatically.

Maria throws her ballet flat at me. Jesus!

“Maria!” Poppy exclaims.

Rose laughs loudly. I think this is the first time a child has made her smile. And it was by abusing me with a shoe!

“They’re stupid!”

I gape. Did she call me stupid? Is everyone really that mad at me? Even a child?

“Don’t use that word,” Poppy scolds. “Tell Lily you’re sorry.”

“I hate shoes!” Okay, good. At least someone still hasn’t fallen out of love with me. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“What about these.” I point to a box of glittery silver flats with pink clips. Maria’s eyes widen and calms. I smile. “Are you sure she’s not Rose’s kid? Toss her some Prada and she shuts up.”

Rose’s laughter dies down. “Funny.”

Poppy says, “I’m going to take Maria to the bathroom.” She’s going to spank her. My mother used to threaten with a wooden spoon. Those hurt, you know. They’re pretty damn scary, and I learned to quiet in public places, fearing the wrath of my mother and the swat of a utensil. “Can you watch my dressing room, Lil? My purse is in there.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Once she disappears from sight, Rose moves a few bags and finds a seat next to me. “Is it Loren?”

I frown. “What?”

Her yellow-green eyes meet mine. “Is he keeping you from us?”

My stomach churns with acid. Lo keeping me from them? I want to laugh or cry or scream, anything—maybe, just maybe, even shout the truth. I can’t fit you into my schedule, not when it’s booked with sex, not when you wouldn’t understand.

“It’s not Lo. I’m just busy, sometimes even too busy for him.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”

I look at my hands, a small tell, but I doubt she’ll pick up on it. I shake my head. “No.”

After lingering silence, she says, “I told Mom that Penn would be too hard for you. Of course she didn’t listen. You weren’t the model student at Dalton.”

I laugh, that’s an understatement. “My grades sucked.” Dalton Academy rode me hard, in many ways. Without my family’s achievements, I wouldn’t have been accepted to an Ivy League, that much is clear.

“I remember filling out your applications,” Rose says with pursed lips, but there’s a shimmer in her eyes, as though the moment is a fond one for her. I barely remember it. I must have been surfing the internet, looking at porn. Thinking about sex.

“You did a good job,” I say. “I got in.”

“What did it matter? You chose Penn, not Princeton.” She stands and pretends to admire herself in the mirror, but I can tell she’s trying to hide her real feelings. We fought a lot when I made the decision to go to college with Lo and not her. She never talked about being roommates with me, but Poppy later told me that Rose had already begun picking out dishware and furniture for an apartment off campus that she hoped we would share.

At the time, I blamed my choice on Lo, telling everyone that he hadn’t been accepted to Princeton. Of course, he was, but how could I enjoy my freedom and live in close proximity to Rose? I couldn’t. She would find out about all the boys. She’d be repulsed by me and cut me from her life for good. I can’t take that rejection or criticism. Not from her. Not from someone I truly adore.

Very softly, I say, “I’m sorry.” I feel like all I do is apologize.

Rose looks blank. Completely shut off. “It’s fine. I’m going to try on that black dress.” She slips into her curtained room, leaving me alone. Well not totally alone.

I glance back at the other Victorian chaise.

My heart sinks. Empty. He’s gone. Great, now I don’t even have someone to ogle.

My phone vibrates in my jeans. I pluck it out and frown at the unknown number. Hmm. I open the text.

Want to hang out? – 215-555-0177

Must be a guy I drunkenly gave my number to after we hooked up. I usually keep personal information to myself, considering it provokes attachment and stalking.

My lips grow into a smile, wondering who could be on the other line. The excitement actually takes me by surprise. If I was drunk when we met, I probably won’t remember him. Anonymous. Technically, it’ll be like a first encounter.

I make my choice.

Where do you want to meet?





*


The next morning, I wake to a splitting headache and the spins. Turns out, I vaguely remembered the guy from my text, not enough to warrant a good mental picture. He likes booze and peer pressured me into doing tequila shots. But I still remember the thrum in my chest, the beat pulsing as I reached his door, as I knocked and waited for him to answer, to let me in and do it as many ways as his body would allow. Anonymous sex—not knowing what the guy will look like on the other side—hooked me so, so very much.

As I lie still, coming down from a serious high and left with a hellish hangover, I wonder about Lo. I haven’t seen him since my porn blared across the lecture hall. I spent my lunch break cramming for a quiz and couldn’t meet him on campus, and Saturday was filled with dresses, shoes and sisters. I don’t even know what he did or where he was, not uncommon. We’re not together all the time, anyway. We do separate on occasion. I think.