I always say the wrong things.
And the facility administration forbade me from going to group meetings because I was “adversely affecting my peers.” They also highly advised I not attend AA meetings in fear that I would be the same asshole there.
Ryke agreed with them.
So here I am.
“I haven’t taken it yet,” I tell Ryke. “I think I’m going to start tomorrow.” I’ve heard horror stories about people becoming violently ill just from a sip of beer. I wanted to have a couple days without that suffocating fear before I started.
“You should take it now. Do you have it on you?” Ryke asks. He’s such a fucking pusher.
“No,” I snap. He doesn’t listen to me, already unzipping my bag and rummaging through it. “What is this, TSA? Leave my shit alone, Ryke.” He finds the inside zipper easily and holds up an orange bottle. His eyebrows rise accusingly.
My teeth ache as I bite down. “Wow, you found my pill bottle. Congratulations. Now put it back.”
I wait for him to yell at me for lying. I prepare for the verbal onslaught with narrowed eyes, ready to combat or storm away.
But he never mentions it. Instead, he uncaps the bottle and doles out a pill on his palm. “Take it,” he says roughly. “If you’re waiting for yourself to fuck up, then you might as well fuck up while you’re on it. I’m sure puking all night after a shot of whiskey will do you some good.”
He’s right.
I hate that he’s right.
I take the pill from him and toss it back with some water. It feels official. Like this is it. No alcohol. Forever.
Forever.
God.
I have a sudden impulse to run to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat. Somehow my Nikes weigh me down on the trimmed grass, and I clench my water bottle as I take another large swig.
Ryke starts to stretch, pulling his arm across his chest. “Have you spoken to Jonathan?”
“No.” I leave it at that, not wanting to be probed about my father. No one really understands my relationship with him. Not Lily. Definitely not Ryke.
And it’s more complicated than just hate and dislike. It’s what drives my mind wild. It’s what makes me seriously want to kick that fucking bleacher and grab a beer.
But I remember Lily, and I immediately tell myself no. No alcohol. Ever. One memory has kept me grounded for a while, deaf to any compelling arguments from the devil on my shoulder. It’s what stopped me from heading into that bar yesterday.
In my foggy memory, I wake up, glazed and half-delirious to the people in my kitchen. Rose, Connor and Ryke camped out in my living room like the Scooby Gang. And the three of them told me the night’s events—as though I wasn’t even there. My body was, but my head was floating in another dimension.
And Ryke was the only one who could stomach the words. “You fucking passed out while a guy attacked Lily.”
And “attack” was an understatement. Something could have happened that night. But it didn’t. Ryke and Connor stopped the guy when that should have been me. My whole life, I had one fucking job. Protect Lily. Make sure her addiction doesn’t get the better of her. Make sure she doesn’t get hurt. She did the same for me. And I failed her. Somewhere down the line, I fucked up.
Never again.
Ryke holds out his arms like what the hell, and I remember what he asked me. Have you spoken to Jonathan?
“I said no,” I tell him again, like the answer isn’t registering in his head.
“No, that’s it?” Ryke wants more. Everyone wants more.
But I feel like I’m giving everything I have.
“I thought it was a yes or no question. What else is there?” Lots. But nothing I can bear to say out loud. My father left me a few messages on my phone the past week.
I want to have lunch, Loren.
We need to talk.
Don’t push me out of your life over something this fucking stupid.
Call me back.
I’ve ignored him so far, but I can’t forever. There’ll be a point where I’ll have to face my father. It won’t be for money, but the allure of a handout will always be there. Because it’s so fucking easy. Drinking, that’s easy. Taking his money, that’s easier.
The hard things are the right things, I’ve learned. But I’m not Connor Cobalt—built with the infallible ability to go the extra mile, to do the extra work. I’m the kinda guy that always stops short.
But I do have a plan for some cash. The only problem—it involves a conversation with Rose Calloway.