Addicted After All

by Krista Ritchie

  Our dad sighs at Ryke, “I understand why you don’t trust me, son, but you should at least trust your brother. He wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “My track record isn’t good,” I say under my breath and then rub my neck.

  The silence stretches in the room—like I reminded everyone how many times I’ve fucked up. It’s not like I can showcase my triumphs. They’re hidden behind every mistake.

  A redheaded girl abruptly climbs the stairs into the yacht’s living room, adding to the strain. She pinches the stem of a wine glass, her glossy hair draped across her shoulder in curls, wearing a silk green dress that’s practically lingerie.

  I tug at the collar of my shirt, my stomach tossing.

  She’s twenty-six.

  And my father’s date.

  Seeing her sours my body, especially as she struts over to my dad and presses her lips against his. I turn my head the same time that Ryke does.

  I spent my entire life watching women of all ages parade in and out of my house. Never once did he invite them for an extra night. He attended every party stag. No matter if I was five or fifteen or twenty. He was single in public. At night, he did what he wanted.

  I never asked why he refused to marry again or to even date. But now that he’s chosen to do it with a girl practically Ryke’s age—it only makes me sick.

  I try to breathe, and my ribs ache. I need air.

  Without a word, I just head through the sliding glass doors, the moon illuminating the deck. I bypass the hot tub on the way to the railing.

  I just…

  I look up at the sky, full of stars, a glowing moon. And I inhale the sticky air, pain shooting through my lungs as they expand. I wince and rest my forearms on the railing, bent over like a force bears on my shoulders. Gravity is tugging me towards the ocean. Bringing me down.

  I hear the glass door open and shut, but I don’t turn to see which sorry person has decided to spend extra time with me.

  “Do you remember the Cayman Islands trip?” Lily asks, staring at the water in reverence.

  My heart pounds, an added beat, happy it’s her. Here. With me. “When we were seven?” I think hard, trying to wash away the blurry haze of our childhood.

  She nods. “Our dads had a business trip for the week, and they brought us on this yacht.”

  It starts coming back. We were carted around to most of their meetings instead of being kept in daycare. Just us two and a ton of older cigar-smoking men. “We built a fort in the bow with couch cushions,” I recall. I smile at the image of her thin build and big eyes. She was quiet and shy and when the stewards came around to ask us if we’d like any drinks, she’d whisper her order in my ear.

  I also can’t remember a night where we didn’t sleep in the same bed. Innocent sleepovers. At first they all were, and somewhere along the way, we changed. I fell in love with her.

  She smiles at a memory. “You used to tell me that if I didn’t hold onto the railing, I’d fall right off the boat. Like an automatic spring would pop up underneath my feet and catapult me overboard.”

  I nod a couple times. “I didn’t want you to get too close.” I was scared of my best friend drowning. I feared that possibility over my own death as a kid. And then a bigger memory triggers. “You realize we were husband and wife back then.”

  She squints at me, trying to picture this.

  I gape, teasingly. “You can’t remember our first wedding, love?” I touch my heart. “I’m wounded.” It was right before the Cayman Islands trip. We were just playing pretend, but after we went through the “ceremony” in our backyard, I called Lily my wife on the boat. My dad even fed into it, telling me to “go get my wife for dinner” when Lily was taking too long in the shower.

  In our twenties, I never thought we’d be here again. With these feelings more intense than the first ones. With love more powerful. A bad day can overturn into a better one. And all we have to do is be with each other.

  Unable to hide her own smile, she says, “We were husband and wife.”

  “We were.” I wrap my arm around her waist, bringing her closer. And I kiss her nose.

  She’s glowing.

  And the pressure on my chest—I realize that it’s gone. Just like that.

  I felt my son move tonight. It’s a thought that puts every irritation aside. For the longest time, I thought maybe he hadn’t really been alive. Maybe he was going to be swept from us.

  I recognize now what’s important to me. Him. Her. All three of us. “Lil…” I stare down at her green eyes that glimmer in the moonlight. “I’m remarrying you.”

  Her lips part. “What?” We haven’t brought marriage up since before I first relapsed, over a year ago.

  I turn to her and cup her cheeks in my hands. “Someday we’re going to have another wedding, and it’s going to blow our seven-year-old one out of the fucking water.”

  Her smile rises, but it’s filled with heartache, and one of her tears falls on my hand. “Lo,” she whispers, “it’s okay if it never happens, as long as we’re together…it’s enough.”

  I screwed it up for us when I relapsed. She believed in something and then I crushed it. “Seven-year-old Lily loved being married to me,” I tell her with a weak smile. “I gave you a million piggyback rides.”

  “You said that’s what married couples do,” she notes, her eyes right on mine.

  My hands fall to her hips. “Someday I’m going to make it right again,” I say softly. “Promises from me don’t mean much.” I know this. “So I’m going to give you something better.” I shift her behind me, and then I easily lift her onto my back.

  I can feel her smiling as she wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck. I hold her securely beneath her knees and I walk towards the bow. “Fly away with me, Lily Calloway?”

  She whispers, “Only if we make-believe that we never, ever have to grow up.”

  “There’s a problem with that, love,” I say, carrying her on my back across the deck.

  “What’s that?” she asks, and I picture her adorable crinkled brows.

  I’m smiling more than I have all night. “Our make-believe always turns out real.”

  From our pretend weddings, to our pretend relationship—in the end, it’s all become reality. And I would love to never, ever grow up with Lily Calloway. In one universe, we’ll be young forever.

  { 22 }

  LILY CALLOWAY

  I stare hard at Lo’s back. It’s bare and naked and teasing me. Normally I’d be compelled to jump on him. Koala-bear-style. Now April and back in Philly, my belly has grown much bigger since Daisy’s birthday, so large that it’s a hindrance for all future piggyback rides.

  He concentrates on the wall, running a paint roller across the surface. He only removed his shirt when he realized he had on his Cobalt Diamonds tee, a gift from Connor. And like my sister, Connor takes complete offense if you don’t take good care of his gifts. He wouldn’t appreciate a splatter of blue paint across his company’s logo.

  My space on the wall looks pathetic in comparison to his section. In defense, all I’m working with is a small paint brush, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been taking breaks. The rocking chair calls out to me. Not only is it the only piece of furniture in the room, it relaxes all of my achy muscles.

  Sitting on the floorboards, I languidly move my brush against the wall, not caring much about being neat or perfect. My eyes have landed on a new beauty.

  Lo’s butt.

  It’s beautiful.

  Better than his bare, muscular shoulders. Then again, his butt isn’t naked right now.

  “You staring at my ass, Lil?”

  I jump in surprise, paint catching my wrist. Shit.

  He looks over his shoulder, a smile in his eyes.

  “You have a nice ass,” I tell him.

  His grin descends to his lips, and then his gaze flits to the wide open door. Across from our nursery there’s another one.

  Rose and Connor had all of their
furniture imported from some boutique in Paris. They changed their mind about Hale Co. products at the last minute, and I think it has to do with Connor and Jonathan’s prolonged fight.

  Rose offered to ship some items for us, but we want to support Hale Co., so all of our things should be arriving sometime this month.

  I spot the baby pink walls and the twinkling chandelier dangling from the ceiling. A room fit for a princess. Even the walls have artistic floral designs, hand painted. Our nursery is bare except for the Hale Co. rocking chair and some muted blue paint.

  I’ve never had a problem with my simple tastes, but I worry our kid might.

  Maybe he should have a room fit for a prince.

  Lo passes me to the door, shutting it quietly.

  “Maybe we should hire someone to decorate?” I suggest. Rose has given me three business cards from various interior designers. She’s not-so-subtle with her hints.

  “Our nursery will look beautiful, Lil.” He comes closer, placing his hands on my shoulders. “I mean, it may not have a chandelier.” His lips lift.

  I smile too.

  “But it’s going to be perfect,” he adds. “And if Rose has a boy, you can bet she’ll be jealous of all this.” He motions to the half-painted blue walls. My sister is still pretending that fate is working in her favor and that she’ll have a girl.

  No one knows though. She won’t check.

  “She has to have a backup plan if she has a boy,” I say. “Like some sort of on-call decorators. Rose is always prepared.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think she does.” He pauses. “Can you imagine Rose holding a baby?”

  “No,” I say honestly. It’s such a weird image. She even holds dolls at a distance, like they’ll grow life-like and start crying and spitting up on her. Rose is anti-babies, so the thought of her toting around a beautiful tiny one with her features…it’s just strange. “She must be really scared,” I realize. Rose keeps a lot inside, so it’s not like she struts around with her fears on her chest. They crop up in the actions she takes, the paths she walks.

  “She’ll do fine,” Lo says with more assurance. “She may be an ice queen, but she drops her whole schedule if you need her, Lil, even when you don’t ask her to. That’s love, you know?”

  Selflessness. Something that Lo and I are trying to grow into. “You just complimented my sister,” I point out.

  His fingers slide up my neck, tangling in my short hair. “I know, it feels so wrong.” He strokes the washed strands, not greasy.

  Yesterday, my hair reached my armpits. I wasn’t a fan. So I grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors and whacked it back to its usual length, resting against my shoulders. Magazines have already gone crazy over my new “botched” haircut. I don’t know what they’re talking about. I think it looks better.

  I stare up at Lo while he towers above me. My eyes flit to his lips. Kiss me. The place between my legs pulses for a hardness that he possesses. His hand massages my head in a sensual way. A breathy noise escapes my mouth, and I ache to stand up and press my pelvis against him. But I know my belly will hit his body before my lower half does.

  I don’t want to have sex in our kid’s nursery, but I do want to have sex with Loren Hale.

  I realize I’m gripping his legs, forcing him right here, beside me. He tugs my hair a little, and another sound breaches. I slowly stand, my heart speeding up a hill. I watch his eyes trail my body with a heady gaze. His arousal only heats all the needy places inside me.

  We had sex about two hours ago, before we began painting.

  “I’m insatiable,” I say the words that I’ve always known.

  “You’re perfect,” he breathes, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “And after we finish this wall, I’ll finish inside you.”

  Oh my God. I clench my thighs together. “You know I only have fourteen more weeks left…” My shoulders curve forward in regret for bringing up my due date like the sex-pocalypse. But it does feel like that. With the birth, I can’t do it for six weeks.

  “Are you nervous about abstaining?” he asks me seriously.

  “A little,” I admit. I’ve just been so monstrous about sex lately. I can’t imagine not having it for twenty-four hours. Six weeks seems like forever. “But Poppy said I’m not going to want sex, so I’ve been less scared.” She said that passing a baby through my vagina will make me not-so-horny, but I do worry that I’ll be an exception to this. “I’m sure I’ll be so stressed out about Maximoff that I won’t care about sex.” I frown. That seems false though.

  The more stress I have, the more sex I crave. I fuck to “placate” my worries, putting me in a subdued, content state.

  I don’t meet Lo’s eyes. I know they’re filled with overbearing concern. I just focus on his abs and outline the small ridges with my fingers.

  His hands drop to my hips, holding tight. I ache to be closer, but I settle with splaying my palms on his bare chest. “If anything,” he tells me. “I’m going to be the horny one. And you’ll have to deny me over and over for six goddamn weeks.”

  I smile weakly. “Payback?”

  He nods. “Oh yeah. For every no I ever had to tell your pretty little face.” He pinches my cheeks, and I slap his hand away.

  “Your pretty little face is going to be hearing lots of no’s then.”

  “I’m counting on it.” He leans in, closing the gap between us. His lips touch mine, kissing me softly and then deeply, pulling me awake. He cups the back of my head as I taste his minty breath.

  I only break apart when my phone buzzes on the floorboards. Lo returns to the wall, dipping his roller in paint, while I check my text, plopping back on the ground.

  The expresso machine broke. The force is not with us today. Want me to buy a new one or have someone come fix it? – Maya

  I make an executive decision. Have someone look at it first. I press send. I’ve found out that one of our morning-shift employees at Superheroes & Scones is a little aloof, like me, so it may just be operator error.

  I notice that I’ve missed other texts, some I’ve purposefully kept unopened all week. But I click into them now.

  Is there anything I can do to change this? – Ryke

  This fucking sucks. – Ryke.

  I’ve taken the immature silent treatment route this past week, but I haven’t grown the courage to tell him that I’ve been aroused by his presence and that I feel gross by it.

  While the same things happened with Connor, it only occurred twice and it stopped there. Every time I see Ryke, I just feel weird.

  Lo told his brother to give me some space, so he hasn’t bombarded me in person, like he usually would. He’s just been texting me, being pushy from a distance. Soon, I think. I’ll face him. But not this soon.

  Lo’s phone chirps like a bird.

  “What’s that?” Lo asks, his rolling stopping against the wall. I ditch my phone for his, one with internet and app capabilities.

  “Uhh…” My Twitter notifications on your phone. “…a bird?” I’m a horrible liar. Well, that’s not true. I did lie to my entire family for three years. I suppose—I am horrible at lying to Lo.

  “Lil,” he says in warning.

  “It’s not Tumblr!” I greedily check out Twitter and realize that someone has finally discovered my official account. Whoa. My third one about Raisy has been retweeted over a thousand times. “Raisy is alive!” I cheer, bouncing up to my feet.

  Lo gives me a weird look and then snatches the phone out of my hand.

  I don’t care. I’m twirling. I did it. We succeeded! “No more three-way rumors,” I sing-song. “Everyone loves Raisy.”

  “I’m deleting your account,” Lo says, his voice hollow.

  I stop mid-twirl. I realize that I sang out loud and actually spun in a circle. My skin roasts. “What? Lo, it’s working—”

  “Did you read the replies?” His cheekbones are sharpening.

  “No…I…celebrated too soon?”

  He nods tense
ly and hands me the phone back. “Delete it, Lil.”

  I scroll through some of the replies, and my excitement is shot down like a pigeon in the sky. And yes, I deserve to be a pigeon and not a majestic eagle or a sprightly blue jay.

  @littlehex99: @lilycallowayX23 you’re for sure banging Ryke and trying to cover it up. I bet Daisy is still with that model guy, Julian. Isn’t she??

  No.

  @Sherlock2Baby: @lilycallowayX23 I called this from the start!! You LOVE Ryke!!! You can’t fool us, Lily!!

  I’m not trying to.

  @lotusflowwers: @lilycallowayX23 you’re such a fucking slut. I hope you die from banging two guys at once.

  I cringe. That’s not nice.

  “There has to be some good stuff here,” I tell Lo.

  “Lil, please, just delete the account. It’s not worth the stress.”

  I don’t want to give up yet. “Let me take a picture of you,” I say. “I’ll tweet it and ignore all the other comments.”

  He hesitates for a couple seconds. “Only if you don’t respond to the negative tweets.”

  I nod vigorously and my chest expands with more excitement.

  He holds the paint roller, and instead of giving me a signature bitter half-smile, Lo produces a heartfelt, really attractive smile with dimples attached. I have to cross my ankles to keep from throbbing so much down below. I snap a quick pic and then upload it without a caption.

  Words can be twisted worse than pictures. Though the photoshopped pictures of me on the yacht between two hot dogs was pretty bad.

  Lo returns to painting, and I sit back down with his phone, logging into Celebrity Crush, just a quick perusal of all the headlines.

  Ryke Meadows’ Epic Fight in Mexico Caught on Tape!

  The videos went viral. Lo says that whenever Ryke goes out now, people jeer at him—thinking he’s easily provoked. Everyone wants to see a Fight Part Two. For him to feed their entertainment.

  “Is Ryke okay?” I ask Lo. I know how overwhelming the paparazzi and general public can be. But if anyone can take it, it’s definitely Ryke Meadows.

  Lo briefly glances at me. “Why don’t you ask him?” His tone is only a little edged.