Thrive (Addicted, #4)(46)

“She’s venting,” Rose corrects her. “She just needs to cool off.”

Daisy sets her soda can on the end table and plops down on the other side of me. “What are we watching?”

Connor starts listing off names of movies, and I tune him out. I appreciate that they’re all trying to avoid the Celebrity Crush topic, but it still weighs on me.

The point of having a publicized wedding is to appease my parents. But if I do something small and anger them anyway, how much will the marriage even matter?

My eyes flit to Lo, and I realize that he’s watching me. I want to touch him—not for sex. Just to let him comfort me without needing anything else. How do I know if I’m strong enough for that?

He slowly pulls his gaze away and forces his eyes to the TV screen. My heart tears apart in a million different ways, conflicted beyond terms.

I follow his moves and redirect my attention to the movie. But my head revolves around him, and I find myself trying to watch him through my peripheral vision. Maybe I can catch him looking at me. I notice everything. How rigid he sits. When he squirms or adjusts himself on the chair. How he keeps his hand on his mouth, resting it there and hiding the definition in his jaw. I notice the way he glances at me every few seconds, the same clandestine looks I give him.

And I realize that I won’t ever know if I’m strong enough if I don’t try. The one thought propels me to my feet and cuts the thick, silent tension in one move. Everyone looks to me, but I focus only on Loren Hale.

His chest rises in a strong inhale as I near. Without hesitation, I crawl onto his lap, and his hands instinctively pull me higher and closer, meshing our bodies together. Our limbs entangle until I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.

I release a staggered breath and rest my head on his chest, his heart beating so fast. His fingers tightly intertwine with mine, and the rhythm of his pulse slows when I close my eyes.

Any craving for sex is drowned out by my conscience, not nearly as bad as I thought it’d be.

He kisses me on my head, and I pray for a temperate sleep, tears creasing my eyes whenever I start thinking about what happened.

People make mistakes every day, some small and some big, but I just wonder when I’ll stop making them. Or is this a lifelong thing? Do we all just wander through life, fucking up and trying to put ourselves back together only to continue on again?

Are we the accumulation of our mistakes?

A part of me regrettably thinks so.

My failures have defined me more than my triumphs.

But I don’t want to live in that hopeless reality. Not anymore. I want to be the accumulation of my failures, my successes, of all the people I’ve ever met, of the man I love, and the life I want. I want to be defined by so many factors that it’s too complicated for any mathematician to piece apart.

That would be the perfect life.

Not good or bad.

Just complex.





{ 19 }

0 years : 06 months February





LILY CALLOWAY


The premiere of Princesses of Philly couldn’t just be a quiet event at the townhouse. I counted over ten cameras swarming the ballroom of a five-star hotel. Servers meander with champagne and snacks, adding to the masses of bodies and general hoopla.

My mom is here.

With my dad.

And all of their socialite friends.

In a few minutes, the big screen televisions along the walls will air all of our antics. And we don’t have any idea what will be shown. “So this is live television from here on out?” I ask Lo, his arm around my shoulder.

We stand close to a potted plant, which shields half of our bodies from the narrowed lenses.

“Not exactly,” Lo says. “Connor tried to explain it to me. I think we’re just going to be filmed every day, and they’ll play footage from the previous week.” Oh. There’ll be a small delay then, almost live. Most shows are filmed months in advance, and the shooting wraps before the first episode ever airs.

But we’re still filming while the show plays on television.

I think it’s just going to make everything crazier.

“Hiding out?” Ryke asks, nearing us from the bar with a can of Fizz Life and a plate of Swedish meatballs.

“Maybe,” I say. My stomach grumbles at the sight of the meatballs. I’ve been so nervous all day about the viewing party that I forgot to eat.

“Come to join us?” Lo asks with a half-smile.

“Yeah,” Ryke says, giving Lo the Fizz Life can and then he hands me the meatballs. For me? I smile so much. Before I can thank him, he adds, “If I have to listen to Sam Stokes talk about Fizzle’s product placement for another minute, I’m going to fucking shoot myself.”

Lo’s lips rise, and he laughs. “Maybe you should take notes.”

In the center of the room, Poppy’s husband converses with my dad, a handsome smile on Sam’s face, his hands gesticulating as he speaks. My oldest sister stayed home with Maria, just to shelter her from the cameras.

“What do you mean?” Ryke asks, running a hand through his hair. He wears an expensive suit jacket with a regular shirt underneath like Lo, tailored perfectly for their bodies.

I kind of want to take the shirt off Lo though and slide my hands across his abs. Maybe later, I think as I chew my meatball.