Addicted After All(181)

Dirty habit.

“I’ll be right back.” And then he opens the door and disappears.

I wear one of Lo’s baggy black shirts. I catch myself biting my nails that sting. The moment I drop my hand, Lo returns, and I perk up as I see who he’s brought with him.

Maximoff Hale. Our baby, dressed in a red onesie that says: Avenger in Training. His little tufts of dark brown hair are smoothed down, and he sleeps in Lo’s arms with his mouth open. We no longer poke at him to ensure that he’s alive.

Lo is holding our son. The baby that we created together. Half of him and half of me.

It’s the most beautiful image my brain has ever received. And I’m afraid of turning it into something dirtier. So I swiftly roll onto my stomach and hide beneath the comforter.

“Lily,” Lo chides. The bed undulates beneath his weight, and he rests beside me. “Come out, love.”

“I’m not coming anywhere,” I say immediately, the red-rash of embarrassment hot and cruel.

Lo yanks off the comforter. “You’re not hiding in the bathroom or beneath the covers. You’re scared that Moffy isn’t safe in the nursery tonight. So he’s sleeping between us.”

I gape and turn on my side, meeting his narrowed amber eyes. “Lo, I…” I’m afraid. Of myself.

“You’ll be fine, love.” He gently rests Moffy on the mattress between our bodies. And tears prick my eyes. He’s content, happy and quiet. As all babies should be.

I relax and touch his little hand, his fingers clasping around my pinky in his sleep. Maybe I can do this. I exhale and look up at Lo. He’s studying me, charting mental notes of all my urges. I shift a little and cross my ankles. But they’re starting to subdue with my anxiety.

The distraction is nice.

I watch Moffy sleep, and Lo eases back onto his pillow. He’s going to have Lo’s cheekbones. I can tell. Besides the dark hair, he looks a lot how Lo did in his baby pictures.

“What if I squash him?” I ask Lo.

“I’m going to put him in his crib when you fall asleep,” he says.

I nod at this plan.

“Shut your eyes, love.”

With only a smidgen of reluctance, I close my eyes. My mind rolls onward as I think one thing: I will always have bad days. It’s a fact that I’ve come to terms with. “Lo,” I say softly.

“Yeah?”

“An addict will always be an addict?” There is no changing that, I think. He’s so quiet that I end up peeking at him with one eye.

He stares at me with such intensity, stealing my breath. “Did you ever dream that we’d be cured or something?” he asks.

My other eye opens. “No,” I whisper. “Did you?”

He shakes his head. “I knew from the beginning that we’d be addicted after all.” His amber eyes bore straight through me. “I just didn’t know whether we’d be at a better place than we were before.”

We are. I don’t even have to say the words. He knows the answer too. We’re at the best place we’ve ever been, reaching a stasis together. It’s beautiful up here, and even if I fear falling, it’s nice to know I’ve been down that road before. And I can always walk to the top again.

Lo leans over our son to kiss me tenderly on the lips, a chaste kiss, but one full of lifelong promise. I let it guide me to sleep.





{ 65 }

LILY CALLOWAY



Rose passes me and Daisy hot chocolate mugs before she settles on the brand new tufted love seat beside Connor, Jane on his lap. Ryke and Daisy have claimed the tufted beige couch next to them. My sisters and I are all bundled in blankets, a cold front swept in this morning.

I cup my mug with one hand, a fuzzy purple throw around my shoulders. I sit between Lo’s legs while he rests his back on the white stone fireplace, one hand on Moffy’s bouncer. None of us slept all that well, but we’re less focused on our babies and more focused on my little sister.

“What happened to the couch?” Daisy finally asks as she crosses her legs. Ryke has an arm wrapped around her waist, dark circles beneath his eyes. He has to take Daisy’s mug before she spills the hot chocolate on her lap.

Rose wavers, a bad liar. “It’s not important.”

Daisy twists a strand of her brown hair around her finger. She looks younger with her natural color, I realize. She looks more her age, more innocent. “I know you all are waiting for me to make a big speech…” She twiddles her fingers, and my stomach hurts watching her restless quirks. I’m not so sure they’re healthy parts of her anymore. I’m not sure they ever were. “But I don’t have one that really describes what I felt last night.”