Addicted After All(159)

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LOREN HALE



Heavy rain beats against Connor’s bedroom windows, the glass fogged from an afternoon storm. My shit mood pretty much resembles the weather. My throat lined with sandpaper, my fingers shake the longer I read the printed-out email in my hands.

I rub my mouth with my bicep. “Where’d you get this?” I ask, my voice hollow. I can’t move off the edge of his bed.

Connor leans against the wall, having trouble masking his emotions. Distraught lines cross his forehead. “I have my sources,” he says softly.

Tears sear my eyes, threatening to fall and soak the paper. A part of me wants to scream, to cry, to let it all combust—but it stays tight inside my chest. Eating me from the inside out.

Ryke sits on the wooden surface of Rose’s vanity, his bare feet resting on her velvet-lined stool. Without raising my head, I can feel the heat of my brother’s concern. “Lo…”

I crumple the paper in a fist and shut my eyes.

“Lo,” Ryke repeats, his tone deep. “It doesn’t f*cking bother me. We should just ignore it like we always have.”

My leg bounces. These days are the hardest. The ones that make me forget about all the months I’ve spent sober. The ones that could give a flying f*ck about tomorrow or yesterday—the ones that only think of right now. And right now, I am in so much…pain.

“This isn’t just about you,” I tell him. I ball the news article, a pre-release emailed to Connor. The time stamp is dated for tomorrow morning.

In less than three-hundred words, they discredit a legitimate paternity test. They point out how Maximoff has dark brown hair.

My father’s hair.

Ryke’s hair.

I have lighter brown, a color shared with my birth mom. The article stretches and twists the truth into a disgusting, ugly goddamn lie. Earlier, Connor said, “People believe what they want to believe, and no proof will change stubborn preconceptions.”

His cynical view on humanity may be right, but this isn’t about Ryke’s feelings. It’s not about my feelings. I’ve learned to bear false accusations. I can take this. The ache in my stomach is not for me. Or even for Lily.

All the agony that courses through my body, razor-sharp and unrelenting, belongs to a two-month old in the room next door.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as emotions roil. “I don’t want my son confronting shit like this every damn day…” My voice breaks, and I take a breath. I smooth out the article, my vision too blurry to read the words. But I fold the paper into threes this time. “It’s bad enough that he has to live under a microscope. He shouldn’t have to answer any questions about who his real father is.”

With a rock in my throat, I rise from the bed, my thoughts already set in place. I can’t tell Lily about this. I don’t want to have to. I exhale deeply and face Connor. “I need a favor.” My shoulders tighten. I rarely ask him for favors, and I know that Connor Cobalt attaches a million strings to a single one. He does something for you; you do something for him.

That’s how it works.

“For you, darling, anything,” he smiles genially, but I trace grief in his blue eyes. Or maybe that’s just my own.

Ryke interjects, “You haven’t even heard the f*cking favor yet. Keep it in your pants, Cobalt.”

“Just so you know, your jealousy keeps me warm at night,” Connor says and then winks.

Ryke flips him off.

I can’t even join our usual banter. I’m just trying to climb out of this quicksand. The moment Connor retrains his attention onto me, I prepare for a rejection. But he waits for me to speak at least.

“I need you to make up with my dad,” I say.

Connor doesn’t blink. He doesn’t say much of anything either.

I continue, hoping to convince him without pleading like a little kid to a parent. “He can bury this,” I explain, passing the folded paper to him. “But you have the sources.”

Connor pockets the paper. “I don’t think it will be that easy, Lo.”

“Can you try?” My eyes burn. This is my only option. My best friend and my father. That’s my last card. I have to play it. Even if these are just rumors, even if they’re dismissed in a couple weeks—this is a rumor that I never want Moffy to hear.

Not even once. I want him to grow up without a fragment of a doubt that I’m his father. There is a future for him that’s painted without hardship and without judgment.