Addicted After All

by Krista Ritchie

  Entering the store will be like slipping into a version of outside, a smidgen less boisterous but still chaotic and loud. I like coming here after closing, when everyone is gone. It’s just red vinyl booths and racks of comics. But I take the risk now, and I push through the door.

  The store is packed. Every booth occupied by a group of people, some just drinking coffee, others reading too. And people really peruse the shelves, like they’re interested in comics and not just spotting the Calloways.

  It makes me smile.

  Though the moment I scoot behind the counter, a kitchenette as the backdrop, heads whip in my direction. And the line outside the door suddenly rushes to the store window. People pull out their phones and snap photos. Inside the store too.

  I shrink only a little. I’m used to the constant gazes now. Maya trails me, some plastic hammers swinging by their price tags and clanking together. “Where is she?” I ask her.

  But the moment the words escape, a girl springs up from the floor near a rack of X-Men comics. Her light brown hair in a messy braid, she slings an old jean backpack on her shoulder and walks slowly towards me. She fixes her large round glasses on her nose with shaky, nervous hands.

  I thought she’d be excited, like the girls who shriek outside every time I glance their way. Instead, the color drains from her face.

  With the checkout counter separating us, she’s not too close. “Hi,” I smile, but she doesn’t return it. Oh…what if she hates me and only loves Lo? I didn’t think this through.

  “Is Loren around?” she asks. “I really want to see him.” She pushes her glasses up again.

  “He’s working,” I say with the scrunch of my nose. “It sucks. But I’m here.” I smile again, but her frown deepens. I’m a shit alternative to Loren Hale’s six-pack and sharp-as-ice cheekbones. Daisy is also better at small talk than me. But she’s taught me some things through our Hale Co. competition. Compliments get you far. “I like your pin,” I tell her.

  “What?” she asks in a daze.

  This is not going well. I point to the well-worn pin on the strap of her backpack. The blue words are half-scratched off but I can read the saying: Mutant & Proud. I add, “X-Men: First Class is one of my favorites too.”

  Her clutch tightens on the strap and she adjusts the weight of her bag. “Is there any way I can see him? Tomorrow maybe?”

  I can’t promise her a one-on-one meet-and-greet with Lo. He’s dealing with so much that it’s just not a good time to be shaking hands with strangers. But I want to give him the option. “I’ll have him email you,” I tell her. “That’s as much as I can offer.”

  Her shoulders rise in shock. “Yes, please, thank you.”

  I find a notepad beside the register and slide it to her with a pen. “Write down your email address for me.”

  While she scribbles, the chimes on the door ding, and the noise level increases. Loud, obnoxious boys enter the store, a group of four stumbling through. One knocks into a cardboard cutout of Cyclops, which is just rude.

  Maya groans in distress beside me. “They’re awful.”

  I frown. “They’ve been here before?”

  “Twice. And they always make a mess.”

  They can’t be any older than seventeen. One of them clutches a brown paper bag. They’re drunk. A guy with a black hoodie trips into a not-so-empty booth. A couple girls curse them out as they leave the table, and the guy slurs, “Bitches.” He even flips them off.

  My heart speeds as I text my bodyguard: Superheroes & Scones needs your assistance, Garth. He took a bathroom break ten minutes ago and said that the Lucky’s chili isn’t sitting well with him. I warned him. I love Lucky’s but that chili is never to be eaten.

  And then I text Lo: There are some rude guys down here. How should I kick them out?

  When I press send, the girl hands me the note with her email. She seems like she’s genuinely interested in comics, so I’m not surprised when she says, “I’m going to stick around if that’s okay? I was in the middle of Messiah Complex.”

  “Of course,” I say with a smile. She slowly retreats back to the floor and row of X-Men comics. I read the note before I pocket it: willowbadaboom33@gmail.com

  My phone buzzes.

  I’m coming down with Moffy and Ryke. – Lo

  What? No. I quickly text back: No, I have this…wait, what’s Ryke doing there?

  I called him when you left. He was in town. I’ll see you in a second. – Lo

  Before I reply with a more forceful text or even process Ryke being here, the break room door swings open, and Ryke and Lo emerge. It’s like the floodgates open, shrieking and screaming from outside. And the chatter escalates in the store. Almost everyone has their phones pointed at us, except the employees.

  Moffy cries in Lo’s arms like he’s being attacked. My heart catapults, and I instinctively pry him from Lo and tuck him to my chest. Lo hardly even notices, his eyes plant on the booth of rowdy, drunken guys.

  “No fucking way,” Ryke curses, his tone more shocked than angry.

  “What?” I gape.

  “Those are the guys,” Lo tells me with gritted teeth, “the ones who’ve been pranking us.”

  Oh. Oh. Shit.

  { 57 }

  LOREN HALE

  Ryke and I squeeze into either end of the red booth, blocking all four guys from a quick, easy exit. “Hey there,” I say with the most agitated half-smile.

  The teenager in the hoodie sits closest by the window, and he makes a show of swigging from the paper-bagged bottle. Ryke rests his forearms on the table, itching to trash it, but he forces himself to stay seated.

  Most of the teenagers wear normal clothes: jeans and a nice shirt. I can’t stereotype them as anything more than bored rich kids. Something I’m pretty familiar with.

  Next to Ryke, a guy with jet-black hair speaks first, “Where’s your prick friend?”

  “Yeah,” a redhead next to me asks, “is he going to show up and lecture us for an hour?”

  “Let me guess.” I point at the redhead. “Your last name is Patrick.”

  He crosses his arms and slouches. “So what?” So Connor talked to your parents and only pissed everyone off. This has to go better than that. But maybe it’s a lost cause.

  Regardless…I still plan on trying.

  “I’m not going to lecture you,” I begin, but the guy in the hoodie leans forward.

  He sneers at me, “You can’t kick us out. We have a right to be here like everyone else.” He’s the one I remember most, with tousled brown hair and a soft face. The one I grabbed when they shot paintballs at our house.

  A guy with a buzz-cut pipes in, “Yeah, it’s our first amendment right to be here.”

  They’re lucky Connor isn’t at Superheroes & Scones. He’d tear into that statement, and he’d probably make them feel small.

  Ryke rolls his eyes dramatically. “You all smell like cheap fucking vodka.”

  “Sorry,” the hoodie guy says dryly. “We’ll buy better stuff next time.”

  “That’s not what I…” Ryke growls in frustration as two of them make crude gestures with their hands and tongue. He loses his patience, and his eyes flit to me, tagging me in.

  “Come on, you all look no older than seventeen,” I tell them. “Drinking underage is illegal, so you’re not in a power position here.” I nod to the guy in the hoodie. “What’s your name?”

  “Fuck you,” he curses and then switches his V-shaped fingers into one middle finger, flipping me off.

  Ryke and I exchange a look like this isn’t going anywhere. What’s worse, the booth is pressed against a window, and people keep snapping photos of us.

  “How was that bourbon bath?” the jet-black hair guy asks with a laugh. And then he high-fives his friend across the table.

  Ryke’s eyes flash hot. “You think it’s funny?”

  “Ryke,” I interject and shake my head.

  The hoodie guy mutters, “Pussy.” It was directed at me. One-hund
red percent.

  The redhead snickers. “Nice, Garrison.”

  “Dude,” Garrison gapes, his hood falling off his head. And when he catches me watching him, he practically spits at me. “What are you looking at?”

  “You,” I say, with just as much venom. And his guard lowers an inch, hurt flares in his eyes. Instinct guides me to a new place. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You all have two options.” Surprisingly they quiet to listen to me. “You can stop the pranks, never come around our house again. If you’re that bored, I wouldn’t mind hiring some of you to work here. If you don’t want a job, I get it. You can have a discount on comics, if that’s your thing.”

  Ryke adds, “And I’d be willing to teach all of you to rock climb at the gym. But you can’t drink.”

  “Sounds like so much fun,” the redhead says with the roll of his eyes.

  Garrison picks at the paper bag, his gaze faraway on the table. “And the second option?” he asks.

  “You vandalize our house again or harass our girls, and we’ll press charges. The minute we even see your goddamn pinky toe on our lawn, I’m calling the cops. Take it from someone who’s been in jail, you don’t want to be there. Even for a couple hours.”

  Garrison lets out a short, irritated laugh. “When were you in jail?”

  Without blinking I say, “I doused some asshole’s door with pig’s blood.”

  “No way,” the redhead gapes.

  Garrison sits up straighter. “Yeah? Where’s that asshole now?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. That shit is long gone, man. You’re going to leave prep school and you’re only going to take your mistakes with you.” I eye the bottle of booze. “You can stay here if you hand that over and don’t cause any commotion. Otherwise, you have to go.”

  “We’ll go,” the buzz-cut guy says and then nods to Garrison. “Let’s buy that six-pack and head to the elementary school playground.”

  My stomach twists, but I can’t force anyone to do anything. I know this. I stand up the minute the rest of them do, and they all gather to leave. As he passes me on his way out, Garrison gives me a long once-over, his lip either curling in distaste…or maybe something else.

  And then he pushes the bottle in my hands. “Here, you won’t be such a pussy if you drink.”

  “If that’s what you think,” I say without falter. And then I chuck the bottle in the nearby trash.

  His bewildered face is priceless.

  I turn my back on them, hearing the chimes to the door as they exit. I feel Ryke next to me. And to my brother, I ask, “Do you think that’ll work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?” I ask.

  He pats my shoulder. “That I’m really fucking proud of you.”

  It takes me aback for a moment, and I breeze through the previous conversation. I wasn’t malicious or hateful or vindictive. I didn’t treat those teenagers how my father would’ve treated me. I was just honest.

  I let out a breath, and then I scan the store for Lily and our son, not spotting her behind the checkout counter. “Maya,” I call out as I see her zipping down an aisle. “Where’s Lily?”

  “Break room. Garth is with her. Thank you for handling those guys!” She gestures to the now empty booth.

  “If you have trouble again like that, text me.”

  She bows and then she shouts a phrase in Korean. I’ve learned that it’s actually supposed to be in English, a saying from Battlestar Galactica: “So say we all.”

  Just as I’m about to leave Superheroes & Scones, someone says, “Loren?”

  Ryke goes rigid as a girl sneaks up behind him and slides closer to me. My face falls as I get a good look at her.

  No.

  It can’t be…I shake my head in a daze. She’s older, I guess around seventeen now. The first and only time I’d ever seen her—she was in middle school.

  Jesus Christ. That was a long time ago.

  “Hi,” she says, nervously adjusting her backpack. She keeps licking her lips like she doesn’t know what else to do.

  Ryke butts in, “Do you want an autograph or a picture or something?” He’s nice about it, but he’s six-foot-three and intimidating to stare at. In fact, she tries to meet his eyes but can’t.

  She pushes her large glasses up her nose. “No…thanks.”

  Ryke turns to me like what should we do?

  She’s not being weird. There’s no manual on how to go about these things, and I can’t believe she had the courage to even find me. It must’ve taken weeks in order to get this close.

  She takes a deep breath and looks straight at me. “I’m—”

  “My sister,” I finish. My half-sister. Like Ryke, only on the other side. “Willow, right?”

  Her mouth drops. “You…remember me?”

  “Yeah.” I give her a weak smile. “The day I met my birth mother is one I really can’t forget.”

  “Oh…”

  Ryke is stunned to silence. His eyes flicker back and forth between us.

  “Do you want to talk over coffee?” I ask. “Maybe in the break room?”

  Without hesitation, Willow nods—and her eyes well with tears. Relieved. She’s relieved. There was a chance that I could’ve slammed a door in her face. Told her to hop on a bus back to Maine. I didn’t.

  I won’t.

  After truly knowing Ryke, I can’t fathom shutting the door on a sibling. It’s a bond that’s different than a friendship. It’s one that hurts more if it breaks, but when it’s whole, it means everything.

  { 58 }

  LOREN HALE

  The break room clears out some when I take the bright blue couch with Willow, coffees in hand. I plan to talk to Lily later, but for now, Ryke whispers to her and ushers her upstairs to my office with Moffy and Garth.

  Willow sets her ratted jean backpack on the ground, one of the pockets torn open from overuse. “I…” she trails off and cups the coffee with two hands.

  Too many questions hit me at once, but we have to start somewhere. “How’d you find out about me?” I ask the most important one.

  She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. She’s timid and a little shy, but I can’t tell if that’s her personality or just her reaction towards me. “My parents divorced about a year ago,” she mumbles.

  My brows knot. “I’m sorry.” That wasn’t the image I left behind in Maine. I pictured a perfect family: Emily Moore, her two daughters, and a class-act husband.

  She shrugs like it hasn’t affected her, but her gaze never meets mine. She pushes up her glasses. “Ellie had her sixth birthday about a month ago, and it was the first time my parents were together since the divorce.” She pauses. “I heard them fighting in the kitchen about how my mom had a son, and she…abandoned you.”

  I scratch the back of my neck. “I had my father, so it was okay.” My throat closes for a second, and I swallow before I ask, “Did you confront her about it?” I thought Emily had finally confessed, but Willow learned about me in the worst way. Overhearing the news.

  She nods. “Yeah, right then. I asked her about it, and it took some screaming for her to really tell me the truth.” She wipes below her eyes to hide her tears.

  I turn my body more towards her. “I’m sorry you had to find out like that.” I warned Emily when I met her—I told her to at least come clean with her daughters. It stung to learn about my brother the way I did, and I didn’t want Willow to experience that kind of betrayal.

  “I ran away,” she blurts out with a sob.

  My stomach sinks. “You what?”

  She cries. “I just…I was so mad. I told my mom that I was going to find you, and she couldn’t stop me. So…I hopped in my car and drove to Philadelphia.”

  I pinch my eyes as I realize what this means. “You’ve been here for an entire month? Does Emily know—”

  “She knows,” Willow says, sniffing. While she talks, I stand and search for a box of tissues. “She’s waiting for me to run out
of money. She doesn’t have any vacation days left to leave work, so she can’t come get me.”

  My chest tightens. Now that I have a kid, I can actually put myself in the place of a parent. I would be a wreck if Moffy ran away as a teenager. I’d hunt him down within the hour, but I also have the means to follow him all across the world.

  I reach for tissues on top of the employee fridge, and I return to the couch. “How much money do you have left?” I ask, passing her the box.

  She plucks one out. “I’m not going back.”

  “Willow,” I force, “how much money?”

  She bites her lip to keep from crying again. “Enough for a couple more nights at the motel.”

  She’s staying at a motel? Jesus Christ. “I’ll pay for a hotel tonight and tomorrow, and I can get you a plane ticket back to Maine.”

  “No, no,” she says. “Please don’t make me go back. I just met you, and…” She hiccups and removes her glasses, wiping the wet lenses with her striped blue and green shirt.

  “Aren’t you in high school?” I ask.

  She stays quiet, and I take it as a yes. She’s missing class by being here.

  “Your mom is probably sick over this,” I tell her.

  “Our mom,” she emphasizes, putting her glasses back on. She has my nose. And my hair color. The longer I scrutinize her features, the more I realize we look related. “And I don’t care what she is.”

  I grimace. “Willow—”

  “She lied to me.” Willow points to her chest, the hurt tearing through her voice. “I don’t want to be around her ever again.”

  Her anger is talking. I understand all of that. I thought I was going to cut ties with my dad too. The moment I found out he’d kept so much from me, I couldn’t fathom ever seeing his face again. Time heals wounds that deep, and hers are too fresh.

  “How about I call Emily and see where her head is at?” The minute I say the words, my muscles constrict. I never believed I would hear her voice again. Not for anything. I can’t even believe I offered this.