Addicted After All(38)
“I’m glad you don’t,” Connor says. I wait for him to add a smartass response, but he holds back this time. Or maybe it’s the literal truth. I’ll never know. With Connor, it’s hard to discern these things unless you’re in his head.
Ryke stays standing with Connor, and my dad addresses the entire room, though his gaze lands on me and Lil the most. He starts pacing in front of the fireplace. His hands now on his hips. Then on the back of his neck. He rubs his fingers together like he’s missing his glass of liquor.
My thoughts scramble. I just don’t see what this could be about—
“You four.” He suddenly stops pacing and motions between Ryke, Daisy, Lily and me, appraising us. Like he’s tallying our worth. When his eyes land on me, they actually redden. “One of you needs to grow the f*ck up. I don’t care which one of you it is, but it has to happen.”
A noise between pain and laughter catches my throat. “What are you even talking about?”
My dad says, “Open your goddamn ears, Loren.”
I grimace. “Right, I don’t understand anything. Because I’m not smart enough or strong enough, because I can’t hit a homerun or make a touchdown, I can’t comprehend sentences and words.” I give him a half-smile that hurts my face.
“Clearly you’re not stupid. You just like being a pain in my ass.” His broad shoulders lock, and he fixes his suit and checks his watch. Like he’s running out of time. He addresses the four of us again. “In the media, you all are represented about equally heinously. Now I think you’re all beautiful little shits, but my opinion really doesn’t matter.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a creased paper with coffee stains.
The only one who doesn’t look confused is my dad—the one with all the answers.
“There are some people whose opinions do matter.” He reads off the paper. “In a group of fourteen—ten men and four women, average age forty-two—every single goddamn female found Ryke Meadows, my eldest son, vulgar, aggressive, threatening, and I quote, ‘a hazard to children everywhere.’”
“What the f*ck are you reading?” Ryke asks.
Our dad flashes the paper at us, and instead of typed sentences, all I see are pen scribbles. “My notes,” he clarifies. “Five men labeled you as a work-in-progress. The other five saw no silver lining with you. And a seventy-five-year-old said, I quote, ‘if he spits in the face of a cameraman, what’s to say he wouldn’t spit in our faces?’ A wise statement.”
My pulse is racing. I keep shaking my head.
No one interrupts him. He focuses now on my brother’s girlfriend, Lily’s little sister, someone who I wish was far away from my dad. “Daisy Calloway, daughter of a respected entrepreneur. Every female said you’re too young, too immature, and too reckless. The men, however, found you to be charming, alluring, and presentable.” My dad looks up from the paper. “I don’t take stock in their opinions since they were swayed by their dicks.”
Daisy’s mouth falls.
Ryke is fuming, steam practically rising off his skin.
I’m too stunned and caught off guard. I scratch the back of my neck that heats.
Before my brother actually charges forward—which is nearing a possibility—our dad raises his hands in defense. “Moving on to Lily Calloway.” Shit. I clasp Lily’s knee beneath the blanket. She’s unmoving.
“You don’t need to read what the public thinks of her,” I snap at him. “She gets it.” We’ve all heard everything before.
He pushes his finger at the paper. “These fourteen people aren’t the entire public. It’s a fraction, and they’re important.” He continues reading from his notes, “Lily Calloway has sexual relations with two of my sons at once—as stated by five of fourteen. The women like that you’re pregnant, but they find you shy, impersonal and awkward on camera. Three men appeared to admire your Princeton undergraduate degree, while the rest thought it was insignificant. One woman said, and I quote, ‘she is the most popular Calloway but also the most unpopular’ which is ridiculous but true.”
Lily has the most negative press, but as a couple, we have the biggest fanbase because of the way Princesses of Philly edited us. So I get that comment. What I don’t understand is the point to this whole charade.
My father suddenly spins to me. I freeze as he says, “Loren Hale, my second-born son…” His shoulders slacken, and when his eyes flicker to mine, I see more admiration in them, more love. “…all fourteen were first scared to criticize you in front of me, but I goaded them into doing it.”