Thrive (Addicted, #4)(59)

I shake my head at him and then descend the staircase. Only after I enter the kitchen and start the coffee pot do I finally hear the pipes groan through the walls, the shower starting.

“What are you doing up?”

I jump at Rose’s cold voice, the blue coffee mug almost tumbling out of my hands. I take a deep breath. “Jesus Christ, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I whisper, leaning my back against the counters.

“Please, if I announced my entrance in the room, you’d call me the Queen Bitch. If anything, I’m doing you a favor. You need new material.”

She retrieves a red mug out of the cabinet beside my head, already showered and wearing a black dress with a gold necklace.

“Great,” I say, too early to have a verbal battle with her.

She waits impatiently for the coffee to brew, her high-heeled foot tapping the floorboards. “He’s not perfect, you know,” she says.

My jaw hurts from clenching, I realize. Now I really want this stupid machine to hurry up. “You don’t say,” I mutter, both our gazes glued to the coffee that drips too slowly.

“Connor feels horribly,” she adds.

My stomach tightens. “Wow, Connor Cobalt can feel?” I quip.

“I thought his insides were all IP addresses and router cables.” I cringe; the insult stings me worse than I thought it would.

For some reason, Rose doesn’t feed into my dry sarcasm today. “You’re his best friend,” she emphasizes, now staring at me while I avoid her piercing eyes.

“I thought his best friend is his therapist.”

“He was,” Rose says, “before he met you. And what Connor sees in you, I have no idea. Hanging out with you for more than five minutes is like lying on a bed of nails.”

“Likewise,” I tell her. I finally rotate, actually seeing the way her face has softened, not as severe, defensive or on guard. She’s trying to be real with me. “Did Connor ask you to come patch things up for him? He got you to do his dirty work?”

She glares. “I’m not Connor’s bitch,” she snaps. “I do what I want to do. You want to know the truth? He told me to stay out of his relationship with you because he’s afraid I’ll do more harm than good. He’s so scared to lose you, and you can’t see it because Connor won’t let you.”

I process everything she says. “Why is that?”

“He enjoys acting like he’s invincible. It’s infuriating, but we all have our faults, even him.”

I put him on a pedestal above everyone, above my own brother. I thought there was no fucking way Connor Cobalt would hurt me. He was designed to be there for all of us. He made me feel worthy of love even if he never truly loved me.

“Our whole friendship feels like a lie,” I tell her.

“It’s not,” she says. “I’ve known him since I was fourteen, Loren. I’ve seen his superficial friendships and the ones he creates to further himself in life. You’re not one of those. He’s more himself with you than he usually is. You have to believe that.”

“Why are you sticking up for him?” I ask. “He doesn’t even love you, Rose.” This time, I think she’ll have a different reaction to the words, no longer drunk off champagne.

But her expression remains exactly the same. “He’s incredibly intelligent,” she says, “but that comes with a few quirks. This is one of those that I’m okay with. I don’t need him to love me because it’s not as though he’ll ever love another woman. Not if he doesn’t believe in it.”

My headache pounds. “Sometimes I’m glad I’m not as smart as you two.” I open a nearby drawer and pull out a bottle of Advil and swallow a couple pills without water. They lodge in my throat before sliding down.

“Loren,” she says, her voice still icy, “just give me a sign that you understand anything I’m saying.” She really wants me to make up with Connor. This is coming from a girl who dislikes me the most out of everyone in our group of six.

Everything Rose said makes more and more sense to me. Connor won’t apologize or say he’s wrong, not if he believes he’s right. But the fact that I frazzled him in some way—that means he cares about something other than just himself.

It has to mean that our friendship is real.

I give her a weak thumbs-up, practically sideways, like a half-assed affirmative answer.

“Always juvenile.” She gives me a look like I’ll take it and approaches the quarter-filled coffee pot, too impatient to wait any longer.

I set my mug on the counter and open the pantry door.

Footsteps sound on the floorboards. “Rose, have you…” Connor trails off only when he sees me. I don’t pay him that much attention. He swallows and then regains his focus. “…my passport, have you seen it? I thought I left it in our drawer.”

“I organized it with our itinerary.”

I grab a bag of bagels and set them on the island. Connor’s eyes flicker to me again, tension mounting in the air. He’s already dressed in a white button-down and black slacks.

I put a bagel in my mouth, take out an extra, and twirl the bag closed.

Connor speaks to Rose in French, and she snaps back in the same language.

I’m too used to the French to be bothered by it. I just fill my coffee and slip the extra bagel in the toaster.