Thrive (Addicted, #4)(94)

A pain crashes into my chest. I lick my dry lips. “Yeah,” I say. “I realize that you’re the only one who wanted me. I get it. I’m just a bastard. Thanks.” I wait for him to let me go. I just need to walk away. I need something to drink—Christ.

I rub my lips.

I have to get out of here. He’s not going to tell me anything. He never does. I feel like I smashed my head against a wall.

I breathe heavily. “Lily…” I try to turn, to find her, but my dad grips the back of my head, harder.

I’ve given you everything, Loren.

I forgot what it feels like to stand against him when he’s this wasted and I’m not. It’s easier when I’m numb. It’s easier when we’re sinking in the same fucked up black hole. But he’s dragging me down, and every brutal cut tears into me. The weight of every word pummeling me.

I am sinking beneath it all.

Like quicksand I should’ve seen in front of me.

“Grow up,” he sneers. “You shouldn’t have to call your goddamn girlfriend when you’re feeling weak.” He removes his hand off my head, and taps my cheek, twice with force. My head jerks back on the second contact. And disgust lingers in my dad’s eyes. For not being strong enough to withstand a fucking slap to the face.

“Hey!” Ryke yells at him.

I feel Lily’s hand in mine almost immediately. And I spin around, done with this shit. Just over everything.

“Lo…” she says, hurrying next to me, but I readjust our hands, lacing my fingers with hers.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper. I’m afraid of myself, I realize. I don’t want to drink.

Yes I do.

I do so fucking badly.

“Lo,” Ryke says forcefully, about to take a few steps towards our father. I put my free hand on my brother’s chest.

“Don’t start a fight with him,” I say.

“He fucking hit you!”

The pool is dead quiet.

Our dad retreats inside with a new glass of scotch while Sam lifts Maria in his arms and brings her into the courtyard. The rain has stopped.

“Lo!” He grabs my shoulder, practically pushing me to face him.

“You don’t understand!” I shout back, squeezing Lily’s hand. “You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?” he growls. “How can you put up with that shit and then defend him?”

“Because he’s just like me,” I retort.

“He’s nothing like you.”

“He’s in pain!” I shout. I’ve given you your life, Loren. “And he’s hurting me before I can hurt him.” You can sell me down the river, son. I have no idea what’s wrong with him, what he heard to make him bitter and malicious. Why he thinks I’m going to fuck him over. I hate that he can’t just tell me. I hate that everyone censors parts of my life from me.

“You’re an idiot if you think that.”

“Then I’m a fucking idiot,” I retort, my blood pumping so fast.

His face twists and he rests his hands on his head. “I didn’t fucking mean it like that.”

“I think we should go,” Lily says, wrapping her arm around my waist. I look down and realize her fingers are purpled from my grip. I loosen my hold.

“Do you want to drink?” Ryke asks.

He’s killing me. “Please, stop,” I sneer, my voice scratching my ears. “I just need…air.” I breathe heavily, trying not to imagine what’s going to happen in a few weeks—my father’s fucked up version of a warning.

I go outside with Lily, to the courtyard gazebo, away from Maria and Sam. I stopped taking Antabuse about four months ago. This time I sat everyone down and told them before I did it. I wanted to test myself without the pills. A challenge that I was sure I could defeat. They agreed that I’d been sober long enough to toss the pills. To try.

I have no voice in my head that says: you’ll puke if you take a sip of whiskey. You’ll be sick. It’s not worth it.

This is the hardest day I’ve had in years.

And according to my father, it’s only going to get worse.





{ 44 }

1 year : 07 months

March





LOREN HALE


It’s 2 a.m. and my phone won’t stop ringing.

Lily is hogging our comic book in bed, flipping through it too quickly. “Are you going to answer that?” she asks, licking her finger, about to turn the next page.

“I thought we talked about licking the pages.” She puts fingerprints all over the panels when she does that.

“I’m not licking the pages,” she refutes. “I’m licking my finger. Smart people do it.”

“Like who?”

“Connor Cobalt,” she notes.

“Yeah? Well he’s a weird smart person, so he doesn’t count.”

My phone rings again. I internally groan and shut it off, not recognizing the number.

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“He’ll probably take it as a compliment,” I say, scooting closer to her. And then my phone goes off again.

“Jesus Christ. Who gave my number to a telemarketer?”