Thrive (Addicted, #4)(9)

While he opens a present, his mom collects the tissue paper and folds it neatly.

His dad snaps photos.

I hate everything about that kid. I hate that he’s smiling. I hate that more than one person hugs him. And I hate that I hate him. Why does other people’s happiness have to feel like someone punching me in the gut?

“Lo,” Ryke snaps.

I face my half-brother and Connor. They can barely withstand each other sometimes, so I’m surprised they’ve chosen seats side-by-side. “I’m here, aren’t I?” I say sharply.

I lean back against my wooden chair, trying to loosen my taut muscles. We sit in the back, away from lingering eyes and the glass windows.

No cameras. No paparazzi.

It’s more freeing than I can explain.

“Physically, you’re here,” Connor replies. “But I prefer one-hundred percent attention from people.”

Ryke lets out an unamused laugh. “You never change, do you? Still a narcissist.”

I eat a chip and say, “I was going to call him an attention whore.”

“I’m that too,” Connor agrees with a burgeoning grin. “So I love myself. Not many people can say the same thing—which is a shame.”

I wait for him to look at me.

But he stares off at the salsa bar, sipping his water.

I pop another chip in my mouth and try to relax. I don’t question Connor’s black button-down or his expensive watch or his wavy brown, perfectly styled, hair. The guy is put together, unlike my brother who seems to have rolled out of bed, disheveled dark brown hair, unshaven jaw and a University of Pennsylvania track T-shirt.

I think I fit somewhere in between.

At least I hope so.

“How’s Lily?” Connor asks me.

“How’s Rose?” I deflect and reach for my drink. A water.

“Busy. High-strung. You know she took over the wedding planning from Samantha?”

“Yeah.” I know. “Lily and her mom aren’t on speaking terms yet.” I don’t know if they’ll ever patch things up. It’s so complicated that I’m not sure if opening lines of communication is the right move. Lily was destroyed after her mom told her that she was a disappointment.

Samantha’s whole life is about protecting her family’s reputation, and her own daughter fucked with it.

Lily thinks our marriage will repair the shattered bond that she has with her mom—but I’m not holding my breath. I don’t want to watch Lily’s face crumble when she realizes that her mom still harbors deep-seated resentment.

So I’m counting down to our June wedding with nothing but dread.

Connor opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “Have you removed the wicked witch’s chastity belt yet?” I ask, redirecting the conversation to his relationship. “Or is it still welded together?”

“Rose is still a virgin,” he says like it doesn’t bother him at all. He’s almost been with her for an entire year and they’ve barely done anything, at least from what Lily and Connor have shared with me. Rose—she wouldn’t tell me the barest detail of her relationship, even though she’d like mine advertised. Just to ensure I’m not screwing up her sister’s recovery.

I’m not.

I grab a chip from the basket, waiting for the hot sauce to eat my chicken tacos. “Watch out for her nails. I wouldn’t want her to mess up your pretty face.”

“I’m not afraid of Rose, but thanks for the concern, darling.” He winks.

I touch my heart. “Anytime, love.”

Ryke rolls his eyes and slouches further in his chair, brooding. “How about save it when I’m not around?” he says.

“Homophobic?” I wonder, dunking a chip in salsa. I didn’t really peg my half-brother to be like that.

“No,” Ryke snaps like that’s the furthest from the truth. “Just irritated.”

I think he’s just jealous of the relationship I have with Connor. It’s simple. We’re friends. But with Ryke—it just…it can’t be like that. There’s too much shit between us for it to be anything other than complicated.

Ryke takes out his phone and texts someone before setting his cell on the table near mine. When the waitress returns, we place our orders, and then three girls giggle loudly at the bar. They notice us in the back and smack each other’s arms. I read their lips: that’s them.

All wear themed sorority shirts like Go Greek! and Tri and Beat Us with running shorts. In their twenties—the kind of girls that go to the college I was expelled from.

University of Pennsylvania.

Ryke openly checks the girls out, and they nearly shriek, their eyes bulging.

“You’d think that you just gave them a ride in your Maserati,” I say to my brother.

“I don’t own a Maserati.” It was a figure of speech. He stands up and tosses his napkin on the chair. “Give me five minutes.”

Connor pockets his phone. “That long?”

“Fuck off,” Ryke says easily before leaving to approach the girls.

I think the redhead on the end is going to faint.

They practically bounce on their bar stools, and Ryke slides in, using whatever game he has to pick them up. The short blonde with dark red lipstick speaks to Ryke, but she points right at Connor.