Thrive (27 page)

{ 43 }

1 year : 06 months

February

LOREN HALE

On the short trek to my father, I look back at
Ryke once. He shakes his head at me like I’m going in the wrong direction,
facing the wrong man. But I’m not filled with false bravado. This is a person
I’ve faced my
entire
life.

He’s my future if I’m not careful.

And he’s Ryke’s biggest demon that he’s buried.

I’m not even five feet from my father before he starts
talking, out of hearing distance from everyone else. “How tough are you?”

My face contorts in malignant irritation. He did not call me
over here for this shit. “Tough enough to not roll my eyes at
you
.” I don’t have a chance to flash a
dry smile.

When a foot separates us, he clamps a hand on my shoulder,
his fingers digging in. I hear
little
shit
on his tongue, but he swallows that insult down with his drink. “How
fucking
tough
are you, Loren?” he
asks, the bar behind him.

I grit my teeth. “Is there a fucking level? Scale one
through ten? A numerical system? What do you
want
from me?”

He breathes heavily, his nose flaring. “In a few weeks,
we’re going to see what kind of man you really are. You can sell me down the
river, son.” He sets his glass too forcefully on the bar, and a fissure snakes
through the crystal.
 

“What are you talking about?” My pulse kicks up a notch.

“You’re going to be hearing some things soon,” my dad says
with a curled lip. He’s drunk. Wasted. I can see it in his glazed, pained eyes.
“Maybe it’s punishment, on my part. For thinking that I could raise a bastard
as anything more than what you are.” His tongue runs over his teeth in
distaste. No guilt flashes. No fucking remorse.

His words slice straight into me. My jaw locks, my muscles
burning as they tighten.
I’m just a
bastard then.
“Tell me what’s
going
on,” I sneer. “Is it about Lily?” I hate the desperation in my voice.

“Don’t
whine
like
a little girl,” he says with a grimace. His hand lifts off my shoulder and
clutches the side of my face. I can see Ryke stand up from his chair in my
peripheral.

He can’t get in the middle of this. I need fucking answers.
I try to give my brother a look that says:
don’t
come near me.
But my father forces my face towards his.

“Look at
me
,” he
growls.

I have no other choice. Our foreheads almost fucking touch
we’re so close. I smell the alcohol on his breath, and it grips my stomach in
new, horrifying ways. His hand drifts to the back of my head. “Are you tough,
son?” he repeats, drunk out of his fucking mind, upset about something he
heard.

“Just tell me,” I say lowly. “Why can’t you fucking tell
me?” He has all the answers. He’s always had the answers, and he
keeps
them from me. He always does.

He opens his mouth like he may let it out, but anger just
warps his hard, coarse features. And then he says, “We’re going to burn, you
and me.”

I search his eyes, and all I see is blackness. Mine begin to
cloud. “What could be worse than what I’ve already been through?”

“You have no idea.”

I stifle a scream that tries to reach my throat. “I deserve
answers.”

“You deserve
nothing
,”
he says. “I’ve given you
everything
,
Loren, including your life. You realize that, don’t you?”

A pain crashes into my chest. I lick my dry lips. “Yeah,” I
say. “I realize that you’re the only one who wanted me. I get it. I’m just a
bastard. Thanks.” I wait for him to let me go. I just need to walk away. I need
something to drink—
Christ.

I rub my lips.

I have to get out of here. He’s not going to tell me
anything. He never does. I feel like I smashed my head against a wall.

I breathe heavily. “Lily…” I try to turn, to find her, but
my dad grips the back of my head, harder.

I’ve given you
everything, Loren.

I forgot what it feels like to stand against him when he’s
this
wasted and I’m not. It’s easier
when I’m numb. It’s easier when we’re sinking in the same fucked up black hole.
But he’s dragging me down, and every brutal cut tears into me. The weight of
every word pummeling me.

I am sinking beneath it all.

Like quicksand I should’ve seen in front of me.

“Grow
up
,” he
sneers. “You shouldn’t have to call your goddamn girlfriend when you’re feeling
weak.” He removes his hand off my head, and taps my cheek, twice with force. My
head jerks back on the second contact. And disgust lingers in my dad’s eyes.
For not being strong enough to withstand a fucking slap to the face.

“Hey!” Ryke yells at him.

I feel Lily’s hand in mine almost immediately. And I spin
around, done with this shit. Just over everything.

“Lo…” she says, hurrying next to me, but I readjust our
hands, lacing my fingers with hers.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper. I’m afraid of myself, I
realize.
I don’t want to drink.

Yes I do.

I do so fucking badly.

“Lo,” Ryke says forcefully, about to take a few steps
towards our father. I put my free hand on my brother’s chest.

“Don’t start a fight with him,” I say.

“He fucking
hit
you!”

The pool is dead quiet.

Our dad retreats inside with a new glass of scotch while Sam
lifts Maria in his arms and brings her into the courtyard. The rain has
stopped.

“Lo!” He grabs my shoulder, practically pushing me to face
him.

“You don’t understand!” I shout back, squeezing Lily’s hand.
“You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?” he growls. “How can you put up with that
shit and then defend him?”

“Because he’s just like me,” I retort.

“He’s
nothing
like
you.”

 
“He’s in pain!” I
shout.
I’ve given you your life, Loren.
“And
he’s hurting me before I can hurt him.”
You
can sell me down the river, son.
I have no idea what’s wrong with him, what
he heard to make him bitter and malicious. Why he thinks I’m going to fuck him
over. I hate that he can’t just tell me. I hate that
everyone
censors parts of my life from me.

“You’re an idiot if you think that.”

“Then I’m a fucking idiot,” I retort, my blood pumping so
fast.

His face twists and he rests his hands on his head. “I
didn’t fucking mean it like that.”

“I think we should go,” Lily says, wrapping her arm around
my waist. I look down and realize her fingers are purpled from my grip. I
loosen my hold.

“Do you want to drink?” Ryke asks.

He’s killing me. “Please,
stop
,” I sneer, my voice scratching my ears. “I just need…air.” I
breathe heavily, trying not to imagine what’s going to happen in a few weeks—my
father’s fucked up version of a warning.

I go outside with Lily, to the courtyard gazebo, away from
Maria and Sam. I stopped taking Antabuse about four months ago. This time I sat
everyone down and told them before I did it. I wanted to test myself without
the pills. A challenge that I was sure
I
could defeat. They agreed that I’d been sober long enough to toss the pills. To
try.

I have no voice in my head that says:
you’ll puke if you take a sip of whiskey. You’ll be sick. It’s not
worth it.

This is the hardest day I’ve had in
years.

And according to my father, it’s only going to get worse.

{ 44 }

1 year : 07 months

March

LOREN HALE

It’s 2 a.m. and my phone won’t stop ringing.

Lily is hogging our comic book in bed, flipping through it
too quickly. “Are you going to answer that?” she asks, licking her finger,
about to turn the next page.

“I thought we talked about licking the pages.” She puts
fingerprints all over the panels when she does that.

“I’m not licking the pages,” she refutes. “I’m licking my
finger
. Smart people do it.”

“Like who?”

“Connor Cobalt,” she notes.

“Yeah? Well he’s a weird smart person, so he doesn’t count.”
My phone rings
again.
I internally
groan and shut it off, not recognizing the number.

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“He’ll probably take it as a compliment,” I say, scooting
closer to her. And then my phone goes off
again
.
“Jesus Christ. Who gave my number to a telemarketer?”

“Not me,” she says quickly. “Maybe someone posted it online.
That happened to Ryke, you know.”

“I’m also not sleeping with random girls who’ve decided to
share my number with the world,” I say crossly, more because of my cell than
anything. Ryke should also be more careful with shit like that. He doesn’t care
though. He barely cares about what anyone thinks of him.

I can’t be like that. Not completely.

When the next ring comes, I groan out loud. About to silence
my cell. Instead I answer the call. My eyes narrow at the comforter, the cold
speaker to my ear. “Who is this?” I snap.

“This is Mark Johnson from GBA News. How are you today,
Loren?”

A chill sweeps the back of my neck. It’s been about three
weeks since Daisy’s pool party—since my dad lashed out at me with seemingly no
goddamn reason.
This is why.
I deduce
in two seconds flat that a series of reporters have been trying to reach me.

I can’t do this here, in front of Lily. I lick my lips.
“Hold on a minute,” I tell him. My chest constricts, and no matter how hard I
tell myself to relax, my muscles just keep tightening.

Lily frowns at me. “Who is it?”

“Can you save my spot in the comic?” I ask. “Don’t dog-ear
it; just remember the page.”

“Yeah,” she says softly while I swing my legs over the bed
and exit our room, shutting the door behind me. I practically skip steps
downstairs and make my way to the kitchen, out of earshot from Lil. If this has
to do with her—I need the answers first. So I can break it to her gently.

I try to inhale, to breathe a full breath, but the pressure
on my ribcage only pains me.

“Okay,” I say to Mark, standing between the kitchen island
and the sink. “What’s this about?”

People holler in the background—on his end, not mine.
“Sorry,” he apologizes with a heavy breath, like he’s walking somewhere else.
The interfering noise suddenly dies out. I hear a door close. “The newsroom was
going crazy when you answered the call. We know that other networks have been
trying to get in touch with you too.” And he’s the first one I clicked into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say coldly. “It was random that
I picked up your call.”

“And I appreciate
it
one-hundred percent,” Mark says quickly, as though to keep me on the line. “I
know this has to be a tough time for you and your family, Loren, but we’d love
to hear your side of the story. Do you have a statement or anything you’d like
to say? If you don’t have time, we’d be more than happy with just a short
quote.”

What could be
this
newsworthy
that he’d grovel for a fucking statement? When Lily’s sex addiction became
public, reporters didn’t even hound me like this. “How about you start by
telling me what’s going on.”

His shock amplifies this heavy silence, and it builds an
unbearable amount of tension. I try to exhale, like razors cutting through me.

“It’s been breaking news since 1 a.m.” He pauses. “I thought
you’d heard by now.”

I grip the sink counter, leaning over. I could hang up on
him, read a news article online. See the headlines. Turn on the television. But
I have the answer in the palm of my hand. Right now. And nothing motivates me
to drop the cell. If I let go, I may lose my shit. “Just tell me.” My voice is
achingly deep.

He clears his throat. “Your father is being accused of
molesting you.” He keeps speaking, but the words don’t register in my brain. I
stare blankly at the white sink.
Your
father is being accused of molesting you.

There is a pain buried so deep inside of me. I’ve never
tapped into it, never felt it until today. “It’s not true,” I say, shaking with
emotions that I can’t sort through. “It’s
not
true. There’s your quote.” I hang up and immediately dial my dad’s number.
My hand quakes as I rub my lips. The line clicks. “Dad?” And everything begins
to pour out of me. “It’s not fucking true. What sick fuck would say this?” I
almost scream. It rises to my throat, and it turns into a silent one, the sound
completely lost. Hot liquid creases my eyes, and I sink to the floor, leaning
against the island cupboards.

“Loren Hale” has always been synonymous with:
failure, fuck up, bastard, alcoholic, Lily
Calloway’s boyfriend.
Those are the titles the world has given me. I never,
in my life, believed that this could be attached to my name, to my father’s.

“It was a family friend,” is the first thing my father says.
“He made these allegations to tarnish my reputation, my company’s name.” He
lets out a weak, irritated laugh. “Hale Co. produces baby products, and whoever
believes in this lie will likely boycott us.” He doesn’t say:
because who wants a stroller made by a
pedophile?
He can’t utter the words.

I rest my head on the wood, realizing that he couldn’t tell
me at the pool because he couldn’t stomach it. He tried, but it wouldn’t come
out.

“No one will believe it,” I say under my breath. “I already
made a statement. I said it didn’t happen.” It’ll all just pass like every
other rumor.

“There’s an investigation, Loren,” he says.

“What?” My nose flares, hot pools welling in my eyes.

“They’ll talk to your teachers from Dalton Academy, maybe
some of your professors from Penn before you were expelled. Any friends.”

I bury my face in my hands, a wave thrashing against me. The
riptide swallows me whole.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat anything,” he says with a rough
voice. “You’re old enough to hear the goddamn truth.” He inhales loudly.
Exhales coarsely. “I’ve already filed a defamation suit, but after what our
family has been through…with the reality show.” I hear ice clink against his
glass. “We became celebrities with almost no privacy, and to ever win a
defamation case, we’re going to have to jump through fifteen-hundred hoops.”

“So what do we do?” I ask, anger rising. “We just wait
around? We just
hope
that these
allegations go away? I told the reporter that
it never happened
, and it’s about
me.
Case closed.”

“No, son,” he says. “No.”

A scream almost breaches my throat this time. I force it
down, the pain swelling my stomach. “Why not?”

“You’re twenty-three. You went to rehab. Your word means
nothing to anyone because I could’ve manipulated you.” He pauses, more ice
hitting glass. “This surpasses the both of us, Loren. It’s about the people
around us, who can vouch for our relationship as father and son.”

It’s over
, he’s
saying. No one understands us. He’s not the greatest father, but he’s never
touched me like that. He’s never abused me—not in that way. And I hate…I
fucking hate that this is going to be a part of me, for the rest of my life.

And every day, I’m going to have to repeat the same words
over and over:
my father did not molest
me.

I rub my eyes that sear and water with emotions that I’ve
never felt. I wish I was like Ryke. I wish I didn’t give a fuck about how other
people see me. How does someone even get that kind of strength?

I grasp at a sliver of hope. “The people close to us will
vouch—”

“No,” he snaps, shutting me down. “Stop being delusional.
They’re looking for answers from two people. They matter most. Not you, not me,
not Greg Calloway or your girlfriend.”

I swallow hard. “Who then?”

“My bitch of an ex-wife and my other son.”

Sara Hale.

And Ryke Meadows.

They both hate Jonathan. Can’t stand to look at him. Why
would they ever testify
in favor
of
him? It’s over. There is nothing we can do but live with this news.

“I get it,” I finally say. I just want to drown. To numb the
parts of me that can’t withstand this reality. I just want to go away for good.

Maybe when I wake up my life will be different. Everyone
will be happy. There will be no more pain. A scalding tear rolls down my cheek.
My phone slips from my hand, thudding to the floor. I reach into the cupboard
behind me and find a bottle of Glenfiddich. Three-fourths full.

I pop off the crystal stopper and put the rim to my lips.

I hesitate for only one second before the sharp liquid
slides down my throat.