Rose nears the screen with disbelief. I expect her expression to flood with realization. It doesn’t change.
“That’s you disappointed?” Ryke asks. “You’re sweating and your face is red.”
“It was hot in the bathroom,” I defend.
“It was,” Lo agrees but his voice is soft. He knows that we have no evidence in our favor. They just have to trust us. Maybe they shouldn’t. We are lying to them on one account.
“Are they going to air this?” I ask.
“Probably,” Connor says, “but it helps promote your wedding.” The wedding. I internally shrink. “The bad edit would be you slipping into the bathroom with another guy.”
“We’re just concerned about your health,” Rose says.
I wish, so badly, they could just believe I’m doing okay. But only Lo truly sees my progress. He’s the one wrapped so closely with my sex addiction. The others just see glimpses here and there, and the bad times seem to stick out far more than the good.
“I didn’t have sex, Rose,” I tell her, desperately hoping she accepts this truth. “I’m doing better. I mean, I shouldn’t have asked Lo that…that question. But besides that, I’m doing better.”
I can go a day without sex, no crippling anxiety or fear attached. Sure, sometimes I cling onto Lo more than I should. But it’s an everyday fight.
I don’t know how to show them what I feel.
Lo reaches down and his fingers brush against mine, silently asking if he can hold my hand.
I stare into his amber eyes that express a thousand regrets. He’s beating himself up about the pills more than I ever could. This video is no one’s fault…but maybe Scott Van Wright’s.
I squeeze his fingers, and he laces them with mine.
“I thought you were in a fight,” Ryke says to us.
“We are,” I say softly, not taking my eyes off his. No one is going to hurt us: I read in his gaze. No one is going to pull us apart.
Not Scott.
Not my sister.
Not his brother.
If someone sinks us, it’ll be ourselves. That, I’m sure of.
32
0 years : 08 months
April
LOREN HALE
I stand rigid like marble at the base of the staircase. The living room television is turned on, playing a rerun of Princesses of Philly. The episode revolves around the Alps trip where we all played party games and had to endure Julian as well as Scott.
Rose sits on the couch, her computer on her lap and her eyes flitting to the television. She doesn’t notice me lingering.
“Haven’t you already seen this episode?” I ask. She doesn’t turn around to acknowledge my presence, which pounds another ounce of remorse into me. I haven’t confronted her about what I did after they accused me of drinking. Apologies infiltrate my head. But I always relate “sorry” to a plea for forgiveness. And I don’t know if I want her to forgive me.
Silence hangs in the air and I let out a long breath. Maybe I should just say it anyway. Because I am sorry. I do mean the words.
Before I can open my mouth once more, she finally answers my earlier question, “I’m making a list of how much screen time each Calloway Couture piece has, who wears the garment, and then I’m cross-matching the numbers with sales.”
“How’s it going?” I wonder.
“Surprisingly, the clothes that Lily wears have the most sales, but she also has the most air time, so that’s probably a factor,” Rose tells me.
My eyes lift to the TV, and I see Julian rolling his eyes and taking a sip of beer. Even his virtual presence causes my nerves to fire and my skin to crawl. And yet, I still tolerate him. Is that something we do for the people we care about?
“How can you stand to be around me?” I suddenly ask what’s been plaguing my mind.
Rose shifts in her seat to look over the couch, her gaze meeting mine.
“What do you mean?”
“You hate me,” I say, “but you put up with me for Lily. It must be hard, right?” I’m no easier to be around than this guy. That’s the sad truth that tears at me.
She reads between all the lines, her eyes flitting to the screen and then back to me. “You’re not Julian,” she says like I’m an idiot. “You don’t even come close.”
“I made you cry,” I say, my voice hollow. In her bedroom. I pushed all of her buttons on purpose.
“I forgive you,” she says easily.
“How?”
She’s not soft. She sits up straight with barriers hundreds of feet tall. “Because I know you’ll never forgive yourself,” she says. “Your guilt is punishment enough, don’t you think?”
Maybe. I don’t know. But I do think she knows me too well.
“Anyway, Daisy doesn’t even like Julian. She’s only with him because she’s too scared to dump him and hurt his feelings. We all have a right to dislike him if we collectively know the relationship is doomed.” She pauses. “But you and Lily—you two love each other. It’s not that difficult to put my feelings aside when I can see how happy you make her.”
Her honesty surprises me, and I know, in this moment, I have to reciprocate it. She deserves that at least.
“Regardless…” I say. I’m sorry, Rose. The words stay trapped in the back of my throat.
Still, she nods in understanding. “As long as you keep my sister safe, we’ll be even.”
It’s not even a fair price to pay because I’d do that no matter what. But I take it.
I’m about to turn around and head back up the stairs when she says, “I hope you know that I’m not mean to you because you’re a guy…” She lets out a deep, strained breath.
I overheard Connor yesterday trying to console Rose about the comments online. The ones that call her a misandrist. She was crying. I never thought she would take offense to anything, but they chinked her iron wall. I figure the topic has been on her mind lately.
“It’s just…” she tries again. “…I don’t hate men.” Her shoulders tighten, probably at the thought of all the ridicule.
Rose has always been dramatic—she threatens to castrate guys, to snip off their balls. It’s a part of her humor, but on air, it’s been taken the wrong way.
“I think you dislike types of people,” I tell her, “both men and women. The TV just shows parts of us. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
She nods, and after a brief minute, she focuses back on the television. Our rare, honest moment ends just like that.
32
0 years : 08 months
April
LILY CALLOWAY
Lo found the best way to stick it to production: barricading ourselves in our bedroom. Scott wants footage of us; well, now he has none.
Seven days into our protest and cabin fever starts setting in. I’m used to holing up in a house, but holing up in a room is quite different. For one, Lo and I have agreed that we’ll only sneak out for bathroom breaks.
We’re waiting for Scott to apologize for all the mean things he’s said plus altering footage of us. It’s different than handing me p**n and passing Lo a bottle of alcohol. He’s actively trying to turn our friends and family against us. That’s a new low.
However, I think it’s more likely that we’ll die from starvation up here. Our only source of food comes from my youngest sister, who smuggles us bagels and cookies whenever she’s home—which isn’t often.