Thrive (Addicted, #4)(99)

He laughs into a weak, pained smile, and then he shakes his head, his features just shattering. “I don’t want to be the weak one.”

It’s one of the most human things he’s ever said.

I kiss his forehead, and he kisses my nose just as quickly.

I smile a smile that is filled with tears and hopes and unspoken promises. “You won’t be. Not for long.”





{ 47 }

1 year : 11 months July





LOREN HALE


June 16th passed. I remember Lily picking out the date for our wedding like a dream. I’d think it wasn’t real if Lily hadn’t marked the day on our calendar with stars. Before I drank, we briefly talked about a location, somewhere on the coast, but after I broke my sobriety, we just forgot about it.

Our energy has been focused other places. I wish I could say that I haven’t tasted alcohol after that one night, but it’s so much easier to break my sobriety again now that I’ve done it once.

I haven’t been right for a while, not since March. Some days I can barely stomach the thought of starting a morning without something to get me through it. I can’t force myself to take Antabuse. The only thing keeping me here is Lily. I try to make every day count for something. For her. When I fuck up, she doesn’t act like it’s the end of the world. She tells me that the next day will be better.

But sometimes I think that my dad was right. I was never going to be anything more than a bastard.





{ 48 }

2 years : 01 month

September





LOREN HALE


I run after my brother, down the suburban street in Princeton, New Jersey. He never even tries to slow. Not when my tendons scream to stop. To take a single break. My chest blazes like an animal wants to crawl out of me. And he just glances back, as though to say, move your ass.

I can’t run as fast as him. I can’t keep up, not even when my calves burn. Not even when I force my foot in front of the other, each one heavy like lead.

He reaches the oak tree at the end of the street first—of course. I slow to a halt and rest my hands on my head, my jaw locking as I glare at him, pissed. At me, mostly. For not being able to run right by his side. I want to.

God, I want to.

“You can’t go easy on me just once?” I ask, pushing damp strands of hair off my forehead.

“If I slowed down, we would have been walking,” Ryke retorts, not even winded. He stretches his arm over his shoulder. If I told him to do a hundred push-ups right now, I doubt he’d even break a sweat.

I roll my eyes and scowl. I want to let go of everything, to just move on from the allegations—the stupid shit online, the way people look at me when I walk down a street—but I can’t. I don’t know how to release this tension in my body. It never goes away. Not with anything but alcohol.

I squat to try to breathe right. And then I rub my eyes.

“What do you need?” he asks me.

“A fucking glass of whiskey. One ice cube. Think you can do that for me, big bro?”

He glowers back. “You want a glass of whiskey? Why don’t I just push you in the front of a fucking freight train? It’s about the same.”

I stand up and let out a short laugh. “Do you even know what this feels like?” I extend my arms, my eyes on fire like I’m halfway between crying and rage. “I feel like I’m going out of my goddamn mind, Ryke. Tell me what I should do? Huh? Nothing takes this pain away, not running, not fucking the girl I love, not anything.”

I wish to God that I could find an easy out. An easy fix.

Anything except alcohol. I’d take it in a heartbeat. But there’s nothing that I can do except deal with this shit. Try and move on, to let go. It’s just taking a lot longer than I ever thought it would.

“You relapsed a few times,” he says. “But you can get back to where you were.”

I shake my head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“So what? You’re going to drink a beer? You’re going to chug a bottle of whiskey? Then what?” he continues, eyes flashing hot. “You’ll ruin your relationship with Lily. You’ll feel like shit in the morning. You’ll wish you were fucking dead—”

“What do you think I’m wishing now?!” I scream, pointing a finger at the fucking ground. “I hate myself for breaking my sobriety. I hate that I’m at this place in my life again.” I wish I could take back the day I broke my sobriety a million times over. I wish I never answered that phone call. I wish I walked back upstairs and crawled in bed. I wish I held Lily and just disappeared from the world with her.

I wish.

I wish.

I wish. And nothing ever comes true.

His face falls and he raises his hand like calm down. “You were under a lot of scrutiny.”

“You’re under the same scrutiny,” I retort. The media asks him for a statement about the allegations almost every day. “And I didn’t see you breaking your sobriety.” My brother—unbreakable, unbendable like the rocks he climbs. Nothing can topple him.

The jealousy and resentment tastes horrible.

“It’s different,” Ryke says, his voice less hostile and aggressive. “The media was saying some pretty awful shit, Lo. You coped the first way you knew how. No one blames you. We just want to fucking help you.”