Where did your father touch her?
Stop.
Thinking.
Today.
It was the first day that I’ve ever heard Lily’s name thrown around with this mess. I just want everyone to see the truth. To realize how much damage they’re doing to my family by speculating. Instead, every lie keeps growing into a bigger one. I don’t see how it’ll ever end.
Connor looks between me and the television, eating a fry.
“Did you hear,” I finally say, “that Sara Hale is going to be interviewed on television?” Some sort of tell-all special. “She’s going to bury my dad.” And I’ll be dragged down with him.
The bartender slides the newly-filled glass towards me. She avoids eye contact, fear in her brows. She’s afraid of me. I must wear the worst fucking glare—like I’m sitting here hoping that the world burns with me in it.
I partly do. And then I take another sip, a buzz barely even present.
“Sara has nothing to gain from that,” Connor says easily, as if the matter is settled.
“Not everyone is like you,” I retort spitefully, clutching the cold glass. “Everything Ryke’s mom has ever done is because she hates Jonathan.”
“I never said that she wouldn’t lie on camera. I just meant that it’ll solve nothing for her if she does. So revel in that fact. I am.”
“You go ahead and revel in that, Connor.” An acidic taste sears my throat. “You’ll be the only one.”
“I’m used to being the only person who thinks intelligently. I honestly can’t expect everyone to reach my level.”
His arrogance doesn’t fuel me like I thought it would. Maybe because he takes my insults and just creates more of his own. It makes being an asshole easier. “Cheers,” I say raising my drink and taking a long gulp.
It’s not that sharp. If I could, I’d just drink whiskey straight.
The bar erupts in exclamations and overly energetic shouts at the rugby match. French chatter overwhelms the small pub. Just as the noise begins to die down, a hand rests on my shoulder. “Hey,” Ryke says.
I just sip my drink.
“How was shopping?” he asks, his voice deep, like black, rolling clouds before the downpour.
“Boring.” I eat a fry and glower straight ahead, ready for his onslaught of: what the fuck are you doing? How could you break your sobriety again? Stop this stupid fucking shit.
It doesn’t feel stupid. He doesn’t have to be rushed by cameras and people that see a victim of a crime that never happened. Doesn’t he fucking get it?
I will always be Loren Hale: the guy who was touched inappropriately by his father.
And now Lily…
Ryke drags an empty stool between Connor and me, and I grind my teeth. I wait for Connor to move back, but he stays quiet.
Fine.
Whatever.
Ryke motions to the female bartender, and my muscles constrict. “What can I get you?” she asks.
“What he’s having.” He points to the glass.
The bottom of my stomach drops, realizing his stupid ploy. All so I can admit, out loud, that I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a bastard. I get it! I know what I am, and it’s no one good. I down the rest of my drink in one swallow. “I’m done. Let’s just get out of here.” I stand off the barstool. This isn’t happening. I don’t need him to do this. Why can’t he just let me go this once? I just need to breathe.
His hand grips my shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I want a fucking drink.” He literally forces me back onto the stool.
“You sound like Dad, you know that?” I retort. Just tell him. Just say the fucking words: I drank. They rise in a jagged ball to my throat. And I keep swallowing them.
The bartender begins to make his drink, setting ice in a glass.
“Ryke,” I snap, forcing his gaze towards mine. A purplish bruise mars his cheekbone, from when Daisy slapped him while she was having a night terror.
“What?” His jaw is hard. His eyes never softening. He reminds me of our dad. And it makes this more difficult. It makes it worse.
I inhale a strained breath, the oxygen never meeting my lungs. In my peripheral, I see the bartender grabbing the whiskey. “Let’s go.”
“I told you. I want a fucking drink.”
Why is he doing this? I tug at the collar of my shirt and turn back around, setting my forearms against the cold bar. Ryke has been sober for nine years.
Nine goddamn years.
Why would he even toy with the idea of breaking that? For me? My stomach roils, the alcohol making me more nauseous than anything.