Thrive (Addicted, #4)(96)

“They’ll talk to your teachers from Dalton Academy, maybe some of your professors from Penn before you were expelled. Any friends.”

I bury my face in my hands, a wave thrashing against me. The riptide swallows me whole.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat anything,” he says with a rough voice. “You’re old enough to hear the goddamn truth.” He inhales loudly.

Exhales coarsely. “I’ve already filed a defamation suit, but after what our family has been through…with the reality show.” I hear ice clink against his glass. “We became celebrities with almost no privacy, and to ever win a defamation case, we’re going to have to jump through fifteen-hundred hoops.”

“So what do we do?” I ask, anger rising. “We just wait around? We just hope that these allegations go away? I told the reporter that it never happened, and it’s about me. Case closed.”

“No, son,” he says. “No.”

A scream almost breaches my throat this time. I force it down, the pain swelling my stomach. “Why not?”

“You’re twenty-three. You went to rehab. Your word means nothing to anyone because I could’ve manipulated you.” He pauses, more ice hitting glass. “This surpasses the both of us, Loren. It’s about the people around us, who can vouch for our relationship as father and son.”

It’s over, he’s saying. No one understands us. He’s not the greatest father, but he’s never touched me like that. He’s never abused me—not in that way. And I hate…I fucking hate that this is going to be a part of me, for the rest of my life.

And every day, I’m going to have to repeat the same words over and over: my father did not molest me.

I rub my eyes that sear and water with emotions that I’ve never felt. I wish I was like Ryke. I wish I didn’t give a fuck about how other people see me. How does someone even get that kind of strength?

I grasp at a sliver of hope. “The people close to us will vouch—”

“No,” he snaps, shutting me down. “Stop being delusional.

They’re looking for answers from two people. They matter most. Not you, not me, not Greg Calloway or your girlfriend.”

I swallow hard. “Who then?”

“My bitch of an ex-wife and my other son.”

Sara Hale.

And Ryke Meadows.

They both hate Jonathan. Can’t stand to look at him. Why would they ever testify in favor of him? It’s over. There is nothing we can do but live with this news.

“I get it,” I finally say. I just want to drown. To numb the parts of me that can’t withstand this reality. I just want to go away for good.

Maybe when I wake up my life will be different. Everyone will be happy. There will be no more pain. A scalding tear rolls down my cheek.

My phone slips from my hand, thudding to the floor. I reach into the cupboard behind me and find a bottle of Glenfiddich. Three-fourths full.

I pop off the crystal stopper and put the rim to my lips.

I hesitate for only one second before the sharp liquid slides down my throat.





{ 45 }

1 year : 07 months

March





LILY CALLOWAY


I snoozed with the comic book open on my chest. I startle myself awake, in a half-sleep. “I’m up,” I practically snort the words and blink quickly. Oh shit, what was his page number? Forty-seven? Or forty-nine? Somewhere in the forties, for sure, right?

I flip through the comic hurriedly. “I remembered your page,” I fib. I’ll find it. “I didn’t get that far when you left…” I trail off as I see his side of the bed. Bare.

The comforter rumpled where he had crawled out. I read the clock on the end table.

5 a.m.

Maybe he fell asleep on the couch, I think first. But I can’t recall a time where he’s done that before. My heart skips, and I slip off the bed, in black cotton panties and a white tank top. The probability of running into Connor is about fifty-fifty since he wakes up early for work, but I don’t waste the time hopping into pajama pants.

I just briskly walk out the door, my bare feet padding against the cold floorboards as I descend the stairs. The living room is pitch-black, and I flip on the overhead light. My eyes dart across the furniture, pillows fluffed, no butt indentions.

Okay. I pass through the archway into the kitchen, the microwave light turned on. “Lo?” I whisper, walking further.

And then I freeze, my eyes growing big. “Lo?” His limp hand sticks out from behind the island. I awaken with pure panic, my heart on a freefall. “Lo!” I rush to the space between the sink and the island, and I find Lo half supported by the cupboard, his head drooped to the side, his body slumped.

I drop to my knees and touch his face, his eyes closed like he’s sleeping. I feel his slow pulse, beating sluggishly.

Tears stream down my cheeks. “Lo, Lo…” What’d you do? What’d you do? I spot the whiskey bottle next to him, almost all gone. “LO!” I scream. He’s passed out. But this is different.

He hasn’t had alcohol in so long. “Wake up!” I rattle his shoulders a little.

Hopefully he’ll open his eyes. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. I lift underneath his arms. We’re going to the hospital, Loren Hale. Just you hold on. “You wait for me, okay?” I cry, trying to heave his body with mine.