Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(52)

He barely acknowledges me. Maybe he thinks I cheated on him. I don’t even know how much he trusts me around other guys. We rarely leave the apartment to test those boundaries.

Or maybe it’s just guilt—at not being coherent to answer my phone calls. I suppose that makes more sense.

After Lo concocts his hangover cure, he disappears back into his bedroom. I try to concentrate on studying, and then the Chinese arrives. I sigh at the sound of a food break.

“How long have you been dating him?” Connor asks, using his chopsticks to grab a noodle from the container. He has perfect chopstick-form. I wouldn’t be surprised if he spoke seven different languages too.

I stab my orange chicken with a fork, stalling as I decide which answer to give him. The fake one: Three years. The real one: Three weeks.

I have yet to lie to Connor, and I’d rather not start. “We’ve been friends since we were kids, and we moved in together when we started college. But we just started dating a few weeks ago.”

“Wow, your parents must be pretty cool to let you live with a guy friend. Mine have strict serious-relationship-only requirements. Like marriage serious. They don’t want any girl mooching off of me until I put a ring on it. So Sadie’s my only female companion.”

“You’re single then?” I sip a Diet Fizz.

“Happily,” he says with a nod. I try to imagine what type of girl Connor would seek, but she seems unfathomable—like a hazy picture with only her brain showing. Regardless, he has plenty of options. Very attractive, extroverted girls fondled him at the highlighter party. I guess being good looking, approachable, well-dressed and friendly goes a long way. Even so, he recognized their flirtations but never participated in them.

“Are you gay?” I blurt without thinking. What’s wrong with me? I busy myself with a big bite of orange chicken, stuffing my mouth to fill the awkwardness.

He shakes his head, not insulted. Nothing ruffles him. “Girls. Definitely girls. But you’re not my type. I like someone who can intellectually spar with me.”

I need to start a drinking game. I’ll take a shot every time Connor finds another creative way to call me dumb. On second thought, I’d probably die from alcohol poisoning.

After we finish our Chinese, I clean up and Connor instructs me to type and retype my notes until it sinks in. Being on the computer is dangerous. While the silent minutes tick by, I sometimes forget Connor hovers beside me. The subconscious urge to log onto porn sites creeps into my fingers.

When I was much younger, my downward spiral began with small compulsions, like mustering the nerve to click into an X-rated site. Gradually, I started moving forward. Porn sites became dirty chat pages, five minutes became an hour, and I obsessed about my next opportunity to surf the internet—like a young boy’s fixation with Halo and Call of Duty. Porn is my time bandit, stealing days from me, causing me to be late to family functions and class. Even though I feared my sisters finding out—or god forbid, my mother—I returned without pause.

I lose sleep to my behavior, and still, I can’t stop.

“I don’t hear typing,” Connor scolds in a light tone.

I pound the keys loudly, hoping it’ll incite him. He blithely resumes “grading” my problem sets, which just means he’s scribbling a bunch of red marks all over the paper.

The last video I watched involved my favorite couple: Evan Evernight and Lana Love. They role played—Evan as the cop, Lana as the speeder. He climbed out of his car in his full, blue police uniform, fingers hooked on his belt. And then he set a meaty hand on her silver Lexus, bending down into her space, her window lowering.

“Lily,” Connor calls.

I jump. “Yeah?” I squeak, not making eye contact. He can’t read my mind. He can’t see where I’ve just been. I sink into the bar stool.

“You stopped typing again, and you were breathing all weird. Everything okay?”

No. Sex literally invades my brain like enemy troops. I spring to my feet. “I-I have to talk to Lo. Can you give me ten minutes?”

I expect anger, but he nods casually. “Take your time. You’re useless until you can focus.”

My brain barely processes the insult as I beeline for Lo’s bedroom. Forget knocking. I storm through and shut the door behind me. I keep my hand on the brass knob, half of me still undecided about being here. My cowardly side says to go back to the kitchen and wait for Lo to talk, to apologize, to do something before I confront him with simmering heat in my pupils.

But here I am. Not able to move forward. Not able to flee. Lo meets my gaze, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He looks like a member of the living again, dressed in clean jeans, a black crew neck tee, color returning to his cheeks, and his eyes not so glazed.

His amber irises hold me in a trap, and I forget why I bombarded through in the first place. Was it for sex? No, not when we haven’t discussed his disappearing act last night.

“Done studying?” he asks and tosses the towel on his leather desk chair. His muscles stay taught.

“No. I’m taking a break.” I can’t separate from his gaze and leave. Nor can I ask the festering question.

Lo just stares at me. He grits his teeth and veins pop from his neck, not out of anger. I see his restraint, trying not to burst out in a series of unfiltered words. He swallows and glances towards the wall of cabinets where his crutch hides. I can almost see him counting in his head before he turns his attention back on me.