But a blonde rushes to take it before I can claim the spot. Oops.
“I don’t have any siblings.” I overhear Ryke say. “It’s been pretty much my mom and me since I was a kid.”
Lo shifts, uncomfortable by the topic of mothers, especially after his phone call with his father. So he redirects the conversation. “How did you get into running?”
I’m surprised Lo chooses to ask questions and not be evasive like usual.
“When I was little, my mom put me in a lot of races. She told me it was either tennis or track, and I picked track.” He laughs to himself. “I have a thing for running towards finish lines.” I can believe that.
“That’s funny,” Lo says bitterly, “My father always tells me I run away from everything.”
“Do you?”
Lo’s cheeks sharpen, his lips forming a pout.
“Forget it,” Ryke says quickly. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“How much of what I’m telling you are you going to exploit?” Lo asks.
Ryke frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“The article,” Lo reminds him. “I’m expecting to be in the tabloids by the end of the semester.”
“I wouldn’t sell you out.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?” Lo turns back to the bar and orders another drink. To me, he asks, “Want another beer?”
I shake my head. What I really want doesn’t reside at a bar, but Lo has jumped into the rabbit hole of self-involved drinking. I can’t pry the shot of whiskey from his fingers, and he’s had enough liquor to forget about my problems.
“We need to toast,” he tells us and holds up his drink in salute. “To Sara Hale. For being a fucking bitch.” He throws back his shot and I steal a glance at Ryke.
His eyes narrow to hard stone. “Maybe you should switch to water.”
“If I’m bothering you, you can always run towards the door.” He takes his next shot in hand.
Ryke tensely leans back and shoots me a wide-eyed look like do something.
No, I mouth. There’s nothing I can do. I see the end of the night. Lo wants to pass out. He wants to reach that point so he can drown his feelings. No matter what I say, he’ll continue to do it. Even if I plead and scream and beg Lo to stop, he won’t.
I wouldn’t.
He needs to wake up by himself, and nagging Lo will only push him from me. That’s not what I want. Or what I need.
Ryke shakes his head at me in disapproval and watches as Lo curses his mom again in a more callous toast.
“Can you not?” Ryke spits.
“What’s it to you?” Lo watches the bartender help someone at the other end, waiting for her to return to this side.
“I generally don’t like toasting to bitches and whores.”
“No one’s making you,” Lo retorts.
Ryke looks distressed as he runs a hand through his brown hair. “I know you hate your mom—”
“Do you?” Lo spins towards him.
“Let’s go dance,” I tell Lo, tugging on his arm. He jerks away from me and glares at Ryke on the other side.
“You don’t know me,” Lo sneers. “I’m sick of you acting like you understand what I’m going through. Did you live in my house?”
“No.”
“Did you watch the cops take away my bed because my mom claimed it belonged to her?”
Ryke rubs his jaw. “Lo—”
“Did my father grab your neck”—Lo places a hand on the back of Ryke’s, bringing him close—“and tell you, ‘son…’” He pauses, only inches separate their faces, and something intangible circulates in the air, a tension so thick I can hardly breathe. “…‘son, grow the fuck up.’”
Ryke refuses to back down. He meets Lo’s challenge, not deterring from his sharp gaze. He even goes one step further and sets a gentle hand on the back of Lo’s neck. “I’m sorry,” Ryke breathes with so much hurt that it takes me by surprise. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lo. I’m here for you now. Whatever you’re going through, I may not have experienced it, but I’m right here.”
And just like that, Lo takes his hand off Ryke, the strangled moment passing. What kind of response did Lo expect? A fight? Another verbal showdown? Something other than compassion—that’s for sure.
Lo flags down the bartender and acts like nothing happened. Like Ryke never offered to help in some giant immeasurable way.