Love you, Rose
Our relationship hasn’t mended enough for her to hand me the key in person or for her to say those words to my face. Today is the day that everything changes. It has to.
The brick store has newly-painted letters up above: Calloway Couture. After the sex tapes, as in plural (the online porn site has already released two), Rose gave up her dream of having a fashion line in thousands of department stores. She settled for a boutique in Philly.
The coming soon sign hangs across the front window, and my hands sweat as I struggle to open the door.
“Lily! Where’s Lo?!” a camera guy shouts behind me.
“Lily! Have you watched Rose’s sex tapes?”
No. Never. Everyone has this stupid theory that I’ve seen them, that I’m so addicted to porn, I’d watch my own sister banging her husband. Even if I was in a very bad place, I’d never want to watch that. We’re related.
“Do you need help?” Garth asks.
The lock clicks. “Ah-ha!” I smile. “Got it.” The success almost distracts me from my current mission, a bundle of anxiety attached. With one deep inhale, I enter the store.
I expect to see workers bustling around, hanging clothes and fixing up mannequins, but the white marble floors are nearly bare, no pitter-patter of hurried feet. I wonder if she just wants a quiet, less hectic job than the one she had.
The empty store is only brightened by the chandelier lamps hanging from the ceiling.
The bells on the door clink together as Garth shuts it.
“Poppy, if that’s you, I need your opinion on the mannequins.” Rose’s voice sounds further back in the store, and I hear paper crinkling and the clap of her heels. “Do you like the headless, faceless or realistic ones?”
My stomach flips a little, and I notice the three mannequins she’s talking about. The middle one has a smooth head. “The faceless one is really freaky,” I say, my voice squeaking out.
Dead silence fills the room. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Before I can make a decision, Rose walks into view, carrying a half-opened package with tissue paper and plastic falling over the sides. The tension stretches and is only broken by Garth, who clears his throat and says, “I’m going to go sit down.”
He motions to the champagne-colored couches beside the row of dressing rooms.
When he disappears, I try really hard to keep my focus on Rose, even if my heart wants to jettison out of my body. “So, I came here to apologize, and I had this whole speech planned, but now that I’m here, I’ve kind of forgotten it. It’s like that time I played a teapot in an Alice in Wonderland play in the fifth grade. I only had two lines but still managed to forget them. You remember that? I think school plays are designed to embarrass little kids.” I cringe and shake my head. “I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”
“Just take a breath and slow down,” she coaches in her icy voice, but her softened face says differently.
Right. I regroup and meet her yellow-green eyes once more, the deadly poisonous ones I’ve avoided for many weeks. A wave of emotion floods me all at once. “I miss you,” I blurt out, tears welling. “I know you may never forgive me. I was cold and—”
“You should be cold,” she snaps, taking a few steps forward. She tentatively stops, still ten feet separating us. “What happened was fucked up.”
I shake my head. “I should be happy that people admire you,” I choke on the words. “You’re my sister, and I love you.” Tears slide down my cheeks. “And I should be so, so happy that you didn’t have to experience what I did.” But deep down, I’ve been wishing for a different outcome. That desire to place pain within my sister has festered guilt too vast to handle. It eats at me every day, tearing at all the good parts.
I haven’t been able to talk to Rose. She’ll justify my feelings, telling me that it’s okay. I don’t want it to be okay.
“Lily,” she says forcefully. “The media shouldn’t have shamed you to begin with. And since they did, they shouldn’t have treated me any differently. If our roles were reversed, I’d be so fucking furious that I’d have stormed twenty news outlets by now and wrung their necks.” She flips her hair off her shoulder. “I’m not going to lie to you, I called seven of them to bitch, and the only reason I stopped was because Connor told me that I was making the headlines worse.” She takes a strained breath. “It’s not right, and you know…I wish, more than anything, that you were treated like me and I was treated like you.”
My chin quivers, and she looks away from me so she doesn’t start crying too. I sniff loudly, trying to halt the waterworks.
“Stop,” she snaps, wiping underneath her eyes. “I’m not wearing waterproof mascara.”
I smile weakly and step closer to her so we’re only a few feet away. “I’m sorry…” My face breaks even more. “I don’t want this to tear us apart. I can’t lose you. So I’m really, really sorry for being so…”
“Human,” she tells me, tilting her head as she looks at me again. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished ill for other people. It’s completely normal, Lily.”
“But you’re my sister—”
“So? I’m certain I wished Connor would fall on his face when I was fifteen, break his nose and lose at Model UN. Envy, jealousy—I know them probably better than you do.” One step closer. We’re in hugging distance. “And guess what, little sister, you are better than me. I rarely feel guilty by those emotions, but you beat yourself up about it. So tell me, which one of us is the real cruel bitch here?”
I would never trade Rose for another sister. Not for anything. I wipe my nose with my arm. “Can I hug you?” I ask.
She scrunches her nose. “Is that what happens now?”
“Yes,” I nod.
She sighs and then places the box on the floor. “Don’t make it last too long.”
I smile and wrap my arms around my stiff, rigid sister. She pats my back like she’s giving it a golf clap.
When we part, she points to the three mannequins. “Do you think the faceless one will scare off kids?” Her eyes twinkle at the thought.
“Or just make them cry in your store.”
She grimaces now. “I wish I could have a sign outside that says: No strollers. No babies. No dogs over five pounds.”
“What about cats?”
“If you’ve taken your cat shopping, you have a serious problem,” she says and then appraises the mannequins once more. “You’re right though. The faceless one is creepy.”
I rub my tear-streaked cheeks. “You really thought I was Poppy?” I ask. Rose is my main line of communication where family matters are concerned. Our silence has pushed me out of the loop and into a dark black hole, and I’m worried now that I’m crawling out, things will be changed.
“She stops by sometimes.” Rose picks up her box and sets it on the checkout counter. “Mother does too, but I think she just likes the attention from paparazzi.”
I frown. “She does?” I haven’t noticed all that much. But maybe that’s because I purposefully don’t make eye contact with our mom.
“She doesn’t want it to go away,” Rose says. “She’s even been feeding stories to the media so we’ll stay relevant.”
My lips part. “What?”
Rose sighs. “I’m not sure what she tells them. She definitely leaks where she’s eating lunch during the day so they can take photos. She says the attention is good for Fizzle, but really she likes the status. She has way too many fake friends fawning over her now.”
I realize that we may never distance ourselves from the spotlight, not if our mom purposefully brings us back in. All for the “good” of the family. The weight sinks low and I let it settle there.
“I missed a lot then,” I say softly.
She gives me a sharp look like don’t think about it too much. And to distract me further, she says, “Maria is in the Nutcracker this December. The entire family is going in support.”
“I’ll be there.” I pick up the hint. “U
mm…” I scan the half-decorated store. “Do you need any help here?”
“I have it under control,” she says quickly, almost like a reflex. She spins back on her heels, and as I turn to leave, she pauses. “Wait.”
I glance back.
“I’m starving.” She grabs her keys off the counter and her clutch. “Let’s go eat lunch.”
I smile softly, kind of loving that it wasn’t a question. It’s more like Rose to demand your company than to ask for it. “Okay.”
The knots in my stomach slowly begin to untangle.
{ 40 }
1 year : 04 months
December
LILY CALLOWAY
Our limo driver slams on the brake for the third time, and I fall backwards on the leather seat, laughing so much that my chest hurts. Lo breathes heavily, his hand gripping the seat above me, and as he stares down, he shakes his head. But his own smile envelops his face and dimples his cheeks.
“You think he’s doing it on purpose?” he asks, his amber eyes flitting down my body, creating hot trails.
“He’d be a grade-A cock-blocker,” I say.
“Well, I refuse to be cock-blocked tonight.” The headiness, the desire in his gaze sweeps me into a bigger, better ride than the swerving limo ever could. “You ready?”
As he says the words, the car careens forward once more, and he nearly slides off the back seat. He grips my shoulder, his body pressed against mine, and fixes a sturdy hand to the door above my head.
I laugh more, especially as he nuzzles his forehead in the crook of my neck and lets out a long, agonizing groan.
I love that he’s hornier than me.
I love that I can laugh during sex.
But mostly, I love that being tangled together in the backseat of a car is no longer wrong. It won’t turn me into a compulsive monster anymore. It’s a level of control that I never thought I’d reach.
Yet, here it is.
I’m starting to feel normal. Or at least, our kind of normal.
Lo’s groans turn into kisses on my neck, ones that soak my underwear and rouse so many sensitive places. My laughter burns out, replaced by deep breaths.
He rolls my velvet black dress up to my belly and hooks his finger in my panties, pulling them aside. When his lips reach mine, he fills me, his hardness slowly lighting up every single nerve. My chin rises with a silent gasp.
And then he kisses me deeply, in immeasurable increments that weld our bodies together. Like they were made to never break apart.
The car whips left like the driver missed the turn, but Lo has braced himself to me. And he uses the momentum to drive deeper between my thighs, my body electrifying. I let out a ragged moan. Everything clenches, my legs tremble, and he just holds me tightly, creating a fullness inside me that didn’t exist before.
I can feel Lo’s smile on my lips. I return the kiss, trying to wipe away his grin, making it a goal. He cups the back of my head, and the more aggressive I become and swell his lips, the harder his cock pounds into me.
When I come for the second time, it’s short, sporadic, and leaves me utterly breathless.
Lo laughs between his heavy groans, still rocking against me, building his own climax and rousing a new one for me. “You would be an awful lay if you were a guy,” he explains the source of his humor.
“Huh.”
He kisses me and clarifies, “You wouldn’t be able to last that long.”
True. “How am I as a girl…?” I grip his biceps, distracted as his thrusts turn slow and deep. Oh God. My back arches, and my lips part in need.
His amber eyes graze me as though I’m the most beautiful broken thing he’s ever been a part of. “You’re perfect.”
It’s a lie, but he makes it sound so true. I cry as he hits another sensitive place. My hand drifts to his ass that tightens with each push into me.
He snatches my wrist and reads my watch. “Dammit.”
“Are we late?” I ask, shutting my eyes and gliding into another world. “I don’t mind…so much…” Oh God. My toes curl.
“Not yet,” he tells me, and I take it that he’s talking about the time. Not my climax, because I can’t restrain it like he can withhold his.
There is no warning before he quickens his pace, slaying every nerve and seizing my breath. I’m his for the taking.
My eyes stay closed, focusing on his husky grunts that are primal and needy. My core thrums with deep-seated attraction. Physically, mentally, emotionally—Loren Hale has all of me.
“Open,” he whispers in a coarse voice.
Oh. I open my eyes.
And drown beneath his amber ones.
* * *
When we exit the limo, the wind whips my shoulder-length hair, snowflakes settling on my black pea coat. Fifteen minutes early to Maria’s ballet. Must be a record.
Lo’s breath smokes as he shuts the door and nears me on the sidewalk. No cameras around. It’s one of those rare nights where no one paid attention to what the Calloways were up to. Other families excitedly head into the theatre, and I’m about to follow when Lo grabs my arm.
“Wait,” he says.
I spin back around. Wreaths hang on lampposts, dim light casting halos on the street. I have a sudden flashback, remembering the snow, the wreaths. Lo was twenty-one when he went to rehab, on Christmas Eve. And now he’s twenty-three.
He must read my faraway expression because he says, “Can you believe I’ve been sober for this long?”
“Yes,” I say definitively. His light brown hair is dusted with snowflakes, some flutter and land on his eyelashes. His face is flushed more from earlier than the cold. He’s beautiful, seductive even. I could kiss him again.
“We’re doing well, aren’t we?” he asks. “This…” He motions between the two of us. “It’s working.” He’s been so confident about our new routine—sex almost three times a day and wherever we like—that it’s a surprise hearing him question it now.
“I think so,” I say. “It feels right.” Not every time is easy. Sometimes I’m a little compulsive and grabby, but I don’t think either of us expects it to be good twenty-four-seven for the rest of our lives.
There will always be bad days, but it’s how we live those bad days that counts.
He says, “Can you believe you’ve learned how to control most of your compulsions?” He rests his arms on my shoulders, like we’re about to dance.
“It still feels like a dream,” I whisper.
“It’s real to me,” he says. “It took you years. It wasn’t an overnight thing, Lil.” His gaze falls to my lips. And after a long moment, he breaks the quiet. “I want to marry you.”
The words rock me back a little. He holds tighter.
“Soon,” he continues on. “In the next year maybe?” His eyes rush mine, searching for confirmation, to ensure we’re on the same page.
“Next year,” I smile and slap his arm in excitement. “What if we get married on 6-16?”
He’s grinning. His sharp jawline and cheekbones just plain gorgeous. “Whatever you want.”
He leans down, kissing me with the Christmas lights shimmering overhead. With the snow falling, it’s a picture perfect moment.
I wish I could snap-shot it and save it for later. Maybe because I have a feeling. One that hits me as he hugs me to his chest. We’ve never let ourselves be excited about something further down the road. Two addicts constructing a future together: when I think of it like that, it all begins to sound like make-believe.
Too rooted in fantasy to ever come true.
PART THREE
“Love is for souls, not bodies.”
– Scarlet Witch, Giant-Size Avengers Vol 1 #4
{ 41 }
1 year : 06 months
February
LOREN HALE
Daisy bounces on the diving board with a devious smile, staring right at my brother. He sits with me at a black iron patio table with plates of burgers and fries.
“Just because she�
�s eighteen—” I can’t even get the words out.
“I fucking know,” he says.
She does a cannonball close to the wall’s edge, splashing our feet. My father’s indoor pool is decorated with yellow streamers to celebrate her eighteenth birthday.
According to Lily, Daisy’s initial plans had been to tube down the Delaware River, but it’s too cold for that, so my father offered his estate instead. It took Rose seven days to convince their mom to let Daisy have a small party with just family and close friends.
“I’m only looking out for her,” I say with edge. Daisy doesn’t know my brother like that. She can’t possibly see how many girls he screws. I don’t think “long-term relationship” is even a word in his vocabulary.
He quickly changes the topic. “You never mentioned that Dad has an indoor pool.” He dunks a fry in barbecue sauce. Ryke usually stays a hundred feet away from this house at all times, hating our dad that much. Even though Ryke is physically here, he won’t make eye contact with Jonathan Hale, who stands by the bar with Greg Calloway.
“He also has a putting green outside, a home theatre, and a spa.” I flash a half-smile.
My biting tone just rolls off his back by now. “Did you swim here a lot?” he asks, prying. Like he wants to make up for lost time.
“When I was a little kid, Lily and I used to sneak down here a bunch of nights,” I say, offering him something.
His hard features darken. “If you say to have sex—”
“We were like…seven.” I scowl. “It was innocent.” We’d dare each other to jump in, all the lights off, the bottom black and murky in the darkness. I’d always end up pushing her in, and she’d scream and try to kick back to me. “One night we woke up the staff, and the butler ended up telling my dad that we’d been swimming.”
“What’d he do?” Ryke asks, his elbows on the table, his focus set on me. Whenever we talk about our dad, it’s always in context with me. His past with our father—it’s like an abyss, a hazy picture that I can’t see. It’s still weird that he’s had conversations with Jonathan Hale where I wasn’t there, talks as a young kid that I know nothing about.
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