What could be this newsworthy that he’d grovel for a f**king 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 f**king true. What sick f**k 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, f**k 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 f**king 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 f**k 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.
45
1 year : 07 months
March
LILY CALLOWAY
I snoozed with the comic book open on my chest. I startle myself awake, in a half-sleep. “I’m up,” I practically snort the words and blink quickly. Oh shit, what was his page number? Forty-seven? Or forty-nine? Somewhere in the forties, for sure, right?
I flip through the comic hurriedly. “I remembered your page,” I fib. I’ll find it. “I didn’t get that far when you left…” I trail off as I see his side of the bed. Bare. The comforter rumpled where he had crawled out. I read the clock on the end table.
5 a.m.
Maybe he fell asleep on the couch, I think first. But I can’t recall a time where he’s done that before. My heart skips, and I slip off the bed, in black cotton panties and a white tank top. The probability of running into Connor is about fifty-fifty since he wakes up early for work, but I don’t waste the time hopping into pajama pants.
I just briskly walk out the door, my bare feet padding against the cold floorboards as I descend the stairs. The living room is pitch-black, and I flip on the overhead light. My eyes dart across the furniture, pillows fluffed, no butt indentions.
Okay. I pass through the archway into the kitchen, the microwave light turned on. “Lo?” I whisper, walking further.
And then I freeze, my eyes growing big. “Lo?” His limp hand sticks out from behind the island. I awaken with pure panic, my heart on a freefall. “Lo!” I rush to the space between the sink and the island, and I find Lo half supported by the cupboard, his head drooped to the side, his body slumped.
I drop to my knees and touch his face, his eyes closed like he’s sleeping. I feel his slow pulse, beating sluggishly.