Addicted After All

by Krista Ritchie

  “Lily…” My dad starts but then hesitates and his lips close. He smiles nervously like he’s unsure of what to say or how to say it.

  A lump rises in my throat, and for a split-second I contemplate clearing it with Blue Squall.

  But he speaks again before I venture down that road. “I was upset for a long time.”

  My bones lock, and my eyes widen in surprise. I can’t say anything. He hasn’t mentioned my sex addiction to me ever, and I have a feeling that’s the direction he’s going.

  “I just couldn’t find a reason why you’d do…that.” He pauses, his eyes dropping to the grass. “…when I’d given you so much.”

  A violent breeze tangles my hair and waters my eyes. I’m going to blame the wind as my father finally admits to blaming me. The pain wells like a pit in my ribs. “I’m sorry,” I barely croak.

  He shakes his head, and his reddened eyes meet mine. “Don’t be. I felt betrayed and hurt because I couldn’t face the reality.” He gives me a saddened smile, and I’m more aware of the gray strands that salt his brown hair. “I spent over half my life working for my daughters, to provide you with a better life than I had, and it’s a very hard realization to admit—that what I worked so hard for ended up doing the inverse of what I dreamed.”

  I shake my head. He blames himself. For my addiction. Tears threaten to fall, and I try desperately to suppress them.

  He takes my hand in his and says, “You’ve been my shy little girl for so long, and I should’ve recognized that you weren’t all there. As an adult, as a parent and as your father, I am so sorry.”

  Hot liquid rolls down my cheeks. Why here? Why now? I ache to ask these questions, but I see the answers in his watery gaze. And as he wipes my tears. No one can really pinpoint a reason why and when someone grows courage.

  It happens over time, and my father has cemented this painful, raw reality—the one I have always been living in. And what’s funnier, it’s more peaceful with him here. It doesn’t hurt as badly.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, sniffing and blinking back more tears. I have to ask… “Would you want to…maybe come to therapy one day with me? If you don’t want to, I completely understand—”

  “I’d like that, Lily.” And then he hugs me, my heart bursting. A moment passes and he asks, “Now how do you like Ziff? Be honest.”

  Oh no. I rub my nose with my arm, very unladylike, but my father doesn’t care. “Uh…” I wince like I can’t exactly say my thoughts aloud.

  “That bad?” he asks, his brows shooting up his forehead in worry. He steals my bottle and inspects the label. “The recipe did well with kids your age.” I remember Sam saying as much about the multiple test groups.

  “Maybe it’s just me.” I shrug.

  He gives me a tight squeeze. “With Ryke as the face, it has a good chance to succeed. That’s what I’m hoping.” He never intended for Ryke to fail. All this time, he was hoping Ryke could help Fizzle, a company that my dad considers a fifth child. It’s nice to know that he’s had good intentions, even if we all predict a Mountain Berry Fizz 2.0, with a short shelf-life.

  After another brief second, I focus on the cliff with my father. The tension is nearly gone, and he keeps his arm around my shoulders. The waterworks almost start up again.

  In a matter of minutes, Ryke scales the rock with speed and precision. Twenty feet high. Then fifty. He’s to the top faster than those bottled pyramids probably took to build. With a sweaty chest and slicked back hair, he chugs another entire bottle of Ziff again.

  The crowds roar in enthusiasm. It’s a picture-perfect moment, a brilliant ad for a magazine or a commercial. Everyone claps and cheers. Even my father. With a prideful smile, his palms smack together.

  He likes Ryke. He may not want him with Daisy. But it’s hard not to admire Ryke’s bravery. He defies the impossible every time he climbs.

  I try to let out a breath, but it tightens the moment Ryke begins to put on a harness, preparing to repel to the base. Ryke once mentioned that the most dangerous part of rock climbing isn’t the ascent but rather the descent. So my stomach flip-flops all over again.

  And then he repels.

  Down.

  And down. And down.

  When a big gust of wind blows through, the crowds seem to shush at the exact same moment. But it’s nothing to Ryke. Within seconds, he safely touches the grass. Then he stumbles over his own feet and reaches out for the rock face as a support.

  I don’t understand what’s wrong.

  Daisy sprints over to him, and when Ryke raises his head, I notice the color lost in his skin.

  I find myself walking quickly towards him with my father, and I sense Lo, Connor, Rose, Sam and Poppy in tow.

  If Lo didn’t have Moffy, he’d most likely run over to his brother, but we all end up surrounding Ryke around the same time. He’s hunched over with his hands braced on his thighs.

  “Give me…a fucking…minute.” He breathes heavily through his nose.

  “You’re really pale,” Lo says, worry spreading across his face. “Was it that hard of a climb?”

  Ryke shakes his head repeatedly. And then it hits me. He chugged two bottles of Ziff: disgusting, putrid, Blood Squall, Ziff.

  The nausea surfaces in his features and he gags.

  “Alright, let’s back up.” My father waves all of us to move away from Ryke. “Give him some room—”

  He pukes, an avalanche of blue liquid.

  All over Rose’s heels.

  “Jesus Christ,” Lo curses.

  Rose is horrified, and she immediately shuts her eyes. “This is not happening. This is not happening.” She inhales strongly, her collarbones protruding.

  With his brows knotted in concern, Connor moves quickly, handing me Jane who begins to cry like a banshee.

  “Connor!” Rose calls, permanently fixed to the grass, refusing to budge, open her eyes, and see the mess on her feet.

  In seconds, Connor lifts Rose in his arms, cradling her while she tries to exhale normally. More than just destroying a good pair of heels, Rose’s OCD is kicking in. Connor’s lips brush her ear while he speaks fluid French, carrying her towards the nearest bathroom.

  I’m sure my eyes are still hanging out of the sockets. I watch Ryke stumble again, but Daisy holds him by the waist from behind, keeping him upright. And this time, he vomits off to the side.

  “Ryke, why are you sick?!” a reporter yells. Camera flashes go off like fireworks.

  I jostle Jane in my arms while she cries for her mom and dad.

  Sam tenses and says to my father, “We should move him away from the video cameras.”

  “No, no.” My dad rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “His health comes first. Go find the medics. Get them over here as fast as possible.”

  Sam nods once before he leaves with Poppy.

  “Jane, shh,” I whisper. Where is her lion? Oh my God. She did not drop her lion in vomit. I search for a quick second but can’t find it anywhere.

  Lo sidles next to me, keeping an eye on his brother who breathes shallowly. A Fizzle employee hands Ryke a water and he takes small sips.

  “What a weird day,” Lo whispers.

  “Yeah,” I nod in agreement, Jane still wailing in my ear. My dad apologized to me. I can’t say the words now, but I know I will later. It’s a phrase I didn’t ever expect to receive. Definitely not today of all days.

  Even with babies in our arms and mayhem all around us, I have the sense that we’re the pillars standing still.

  The kind of people that others may be able to lean on.

  { 53 }

  LOREN HALE

  Heavy rain beats against Connor’s bedroom windows, the glass fogged from an afternoon storm. My shit mood pretty much resembles the weather. My throat lined with sandpaper, my fingers shake the longer I read the printed-out email in my hands.

  I rub my mouth with my bicep. “Where’d you get this?” I ask, my voice hollow. I can’t move off the edge of his bed.
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  Connor leans against the wall, having trouble masking his emotions. Distraught lines cross his forehead. “I have my sources,” he says softly.

  Tears sear my eyes, threatening to fall and soak the paper. A part of me wants to scream, to cry, to let it all combust—but it stays tight inside my chest. Eating me from the inside out.

  Ryke sits on the wooden surface of Rose’s vanity, his bare feet resting on her velvet-lined stool. Without raising my head, I can feel the heat of my brother’s concern. “Lo…”

  I crumple the paper in a fist and shut my eyes.

  “Lo,” Ryke repeats, his tone deep. “It doesn’t fucking bother me. We should just ignore it like we always have.”

  My leg bounces. These days are the hardest. The ones that make me forget about all the months I’ve spent sober. The ones that could give a flying fuck about tomorrow or yesterday—the ones that only think of right now. And right now, I am in so much…pain.

  “This isn’t just about you,” I tell him. I ball the news article, a pre-release emailed to Connor. The time stamp is dated for tomorrow morning.

  In less than three-hundred words, they discredit a legitimate paternity test. They point out how Maximoff has dark brown hair.

  My father’s hair.

  Ryke’s hair.

  I have lighter brown, a color shared with my birth mom. The article stretches and twists the truth into a disgusting, ugly goddamn lie. Earlier, Connor said, “People believe what they want to believe, and no proof will change stubborn preconceptions.”

  His cynical view on humanity may be right, but this isn’t about Ryke’s feelings. It’s not about my feelings. I’ve learned to bear false accusations. I can take this. The ache in my stomach is not for me. Or even for Lily.

  All the agony that courses through my body, razor-sharp and unrelenting, belongs to a two-month old in the room next door.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose as emotions roil. “I don’t want my son confronting shit like this every damn day…” My voice breaks, and I take a breath. I smooth out the article, my vision too blurry to read the words. But I fold the paper into threes this time. “It’s bad enough that he has to live under a microscope. He shouldn’t have to answer any questions about who his real father is.”

  With a rock in my throat, I rise from the bed, my thoughts already set in place. I can’t tell Lily about this. I don’t want to have to. I exhale deeply and face Connor. “I need a favor.” My shoulders tighten. I rarely ask him for favors, and I know that Connor Cobalt attaches a million strings to a single one. He does something for you; you do something for him.

  That’s how it works.

  “For you, darling, anything,” he smiles genially, but I trace grief in his blue eyes. Or maybe that’s just my own.

  Ryke interjects, “You haven’t even heard the fucking favor yet. Keep it in your pants, Cobalt.”

  “Just so you know, your jealousy keeps me warm at night,” Connor says and then winks.

  Ryke flips him off.

  I can’t even join our usual banter. I’m just trying to climb out of this quicksand. The moment Connor retrains his attention onto me, I prepare for a rejection. But he waits for me to speak at least.

  “I need you to make up with my dad,” I say.

  Connor doesn’t blink. He doesn’t say much of anything either.

  I continue, hoping to convince him without pleading like a little kid to a parent. “He can bury this,” I explain, passing the folded paper to him. “But you have the sources.”

  Connor pockets the paper. “I don’t think it will be that easy, Lo.”

  “Can you try?” My eyes burn. This is my only option. My best friend and my father. That’s my last card. I have to play it. Even if these are just rumors, even if they’re dismissed in a couple weeks—this is a rumor that I never want Moffy to hear.

  Not even once. I want him to grow up without a fragment of a doubt that I’m his father. There is a future for him that’s painted without hardship and without judgment.

  I know that future is not his. No matter what I do, there will be cameras pointed at his face. People will ask questions. Over and over and over. Until his ears ring. There will be a day when he learns that his mom is a sex addict. And there will be a time where he’s ridiculed for it.

  But there is another future that is full of promise and certainty, even with the knowledge of our pasts. It’s this future that I’m clawing to obtain. It’s the one where he knows that he was conceived from love.

  That no one and nothing can devoid him of that notion. Because nothing and no one brings doubt into his head.

  I can’t change other people’s beliefs. But I can stop them from spreading their lies.

  I just need help.

  I’m not too prideful or too ashamed to ask for it.

  After a long moment, Connor steps away from the wall. When his blue eyes flit to mine, he says, “I’ll drive.”

  { 54 }

  LOREN HALE

  The ride to my dad’s is short and void of bodyguards. We didn’t take the time to call them, not when his house is gated. My thoughts race. Different paths. Different options. It’s possible my dad could refuse to help, just on the basis that he’d have to work with Connor.

  I reject that theory. My father can be vindictive, but when it comes to his family—when it comes to me—he’d do almost anything. I clutch this thought tight as Connor slows the Escalade and rolls down his window.

  “103190,” I tell him the security code, and he types it into the pad. Soon after, the iron gate groans open.

  He parks. The mansion just outside the car door.

  Ryke hesitates in the passenger seat, and then he turns to me in the back. “This may not work. And it’ll be okay if it doesn’t. Moffy won’t have a bad life. We’ll all fucking protect him from the media.”

  He’s trying to prepare me for the worst. But I’d rather look to a better future than agonize over the darkest one. I’m not going to sit here and torment myself.

  I don’t say anything. I just climb out of the car, the cool air filling my lungs. I lead Connor and Ryke to the front door, a lion metal knocker on the black wood. Fumbling with the key, I finally stick it in the lock and enter my father’s mansion.

  I wipe my clammy hand on my jeans and head down the hall. It’s three-o’clock on a Sunday. My dad could be anywhere, but I’m sure he’s here.

  I peek into every room. Wanting, desperately, to end the search as quickly as I can.

  When I near the den in the back of the house, I hear his voice and no one else’s. Like he’s speaking on the phone.

  “I know she spent the night at my house, Greg. I wasn’t fucking blind back then.” My blood runs cold. He’s talking about Lily. I know he is.

  I stop midway to the cracked door, the hallway dim, and as I listen, I skim the photos framed on the wall. Me, as a baby. Me, as a toddler. Me and Lily, as kids. Me and Lily, as preteens.

  “You knew my parenting methods were more relaxed than Samantha’s. I wasn’t going to hover. If either of you had a problem with it, you should’ve kept her at your home.” He pauses. “Oh, come on, Greg, stop blaming yourself. You’re a good goddamn father.” And then I hear the sound of ice cubes clinking against glass. “We all make mistakes.”

  That sound.

  Ice against glass. It breaches my ears like hammered nails. Memories wash over me in a hazy blackness. Shadows filling parts of me. I can practically feel the crystal glass in my hand. And I can visualize the one in his. Not just lime and water.

  It has to be.

  I have to believe it is. He’s sober. My dad is sober.

  Ryke sets his hand on my shoulder. I can’t move. Something cements my feet to this place. Maybe fear.

  “We all knew they would end up together. Christ, it was Lily and Loren. How the fuck were we supposed to know she’d become a sex addict? The best goddamn fortuneteller wouldn’t have predicted that.”

  The edge in his voice is sharp
, too sharp.

  He’s sober.

  My teeth ache, and I realize that I can’t hide behind this wall forever. My feet move before my mind does. I take a step forward, and Ryke’s hand falls from my shoulder. When I slip into my father’s den, I am washed deeper in memories.

  The leather couch, the dark wooden cabinets, organized desk, computer hutch, flat-screen television—it’s the home of a night I’ll never forget.

  I was fourteen, and I’d just fought with my father in that same hallway. When I returned to the den, Lily was waiting timidly on the couch, our sci-fi show paused on the TV. We’d always been more than just friends.

  We were best friends.

  She had all of me by then. I had most of her.

  And I let Lily drown my pain with a kiss. And then something more. I lost my virginity here. Right here. In the torment of my fucked up childhood.

  For years, I avoided this den. Like it contained every calloused feeling from that night. I can walk through it now and not be pulled under. I believe this.

  I have to believe it.

  The minute I enter the den, I focus on my father who gazes out the large window. Rain slides down the pane. His right hand cups a glass…

  I freeze halfway to him. “Dad?”

  He spins slowly, and it’s not a mistake—what I see. Amber liquid floats in the crystal goblet. Scotch. The bottle is on his desk, next to a box of cigars and a stack of clipped papers. I force myself to raise my gaze onto his.

  His eyes are narrowed, sharp and black. Far gone. The difference is easy to spot now that I’ve seen him sober.

  “Greg,” he says into his cellphone. “I’ll have to call you back.” He clicks his phone off and tosses it violently onto his desk. It falls and thuds on the carpet.

  He swishes his drink, not even pretending that it’s something else.

  “Let me guess,” I say sharply, “it’s just water?”

  “Macallan 1939,” he replies. And then he takes a long sip, practically slapping me in the face. I rock back, but our cold eyes never separate. He tries giving me that look—the one where he says you’re just a little fucking kid. Grow up.