I watch the rain scatter my window as I think this through. It’s not weird to be aroused by them, but it’s wrong to compulsively abuse porn. That sounds right.
“Hey,” Lo says, wanting my attention again. I turn to him, and he gives me a hard look, his eyes flickering between the road and me. “If his therapy methods are fucking with your head, then you’re going to stop.”
“I’m fine, honest. Talking to you helps.”
He grabs my hand and kisses my palm.
“So we went to our respective press conferences, finished publicly apologizing,” I list off. “I’m seeing my new psychiatrist. All we have left is the wedding, and after that I’ll receive my trust fund. My parents should forgive me fully, and everything will turn back to normal—or as normal as we can be.” Once a week, my father actually calls me to catch up. He even told me he was proud that I was seeing this psychiatrist. After everything that I did to his company—the backlash that he’s been through—for him to tell me that he’s proud was enough to cause happy tears. I can’t screw with that.
My mother will take more finesse to win over, and I know she won’t be completely content until the marriage. I can’t afford to stumble anymore.
“What if they don’t?” Lo says softly.
“What?”
“Have you ever thought that maybe, even after you do all of this, that your mother may still not forgive you?”
I shake my head, not willing to believe she could be that cruel. “She has to.”
But the way Lo stares at the road, like he sees a colder future than the warmth I’ve planned, makes me worry.
{ 44 }
LOREN HALE
Some days are harder than others. There are days where I don’t even think about alcohol, and then days where my brain circumnavigates around drinking and nothing else.
Today all I can think about is my mother. My real mother. Emily Moore. After my father gave me her address, I often imagine her house, what she looks like, her life without me.
What I do know for certain is that she’s a substitute teacher in Maine. Married. Two kids. When I was little, I rehearsed the same confrontation in my head. I’d stand on the stoop of my birth mother’s house. I’d ask her why she didn’t want me, why she never called or left a note. But in my mind, I was thinking of Sara Hale—not this Emily Moore.
The name has changed, but my questions haven’t. I just have to figure out when to go and who to take with me. Maybe Ryke or Lily, but neither know I’ve been plotting the date to travel to Maine. Ryke will disapprove, thinking I’ve embedded myself further into my father’s world. So I’m leaning towards a trip with Lily.
But I can’t meet Emily today, even if I want to.
Ryke wants to teach me how to rock climb. Not in a gym. Like on a real fucking mountain. I had to ask whether we were going to use ropes and a harness—considering the guy free climbs （he’s stupid enough to scale a mountain with nothing but his hands, legs and some chalk）。 We’re planning on climbing the normal, sane way. He can do the whole Spider-Man routine when I’m not watching.
I can’t leave until I finish filtering the morning mail with Rose.
The kitchen table overflows with letters, manila envelopes, and small packages.
Paparazzi have sold photos of Lily buying tampons in the grocery store. It’s ridiculous. And her “fan” mail accumulates with each new headline on the cover of a gossip magazine. Most letters are from old men who think she’ll reply or meet them somewhere for sex. That’s what’s been happening lately. People are grabby as hell. I thought that the guy in the hallway of Princeton was just a fluke, but a lot of men feel as though Lily wants all sex, even from them, just because of her addiction. And they make a go of trying to get it from her.
It’s like she has a twenty-four-seven “open” sign plastered to her body now. And there’s no way for her to spin it around to “closed,” which I know she wants to. Thank God she has a bodyguard.
I rip open a couple letters and nearly vomit at a picture of some dude’s balls.
“Shred this one twice,” I tell Rose, throwing the photo into her pile. The shredder rumbles by her feet as she feeds the machine more and more mail.
She glances at the photograph, flips it over and lets out a snort. “I’ll be thinking of you while you touch yourself,” she reads. “Your sentiments are not shared, Mr. Gordon.”
“This guy is living at the State Penitentiary. That makes me feel fantastic.” I toss her another letter and then slice open the packages with a knife.