Thrive (25 page)

And how grateful I am to have him as a friend. And a
roommate.

{ 39 }

1 year : 01 month

September

LILY CALLOWAY

“Should we walk?” I ask my bodyguard, whose
mammoth body occupies
two
cushions on
the couch. Garth reads a gardening magazine (I don’t question it) in the break
room of Superheroes & Scones. “Or maybe we should drive? Have you seen the
crowds outside? Are they big?”

I reach over the blue couch with red pillows, flipping a
blind to peek outside. A long line of bodies winds across the sidewalk, black
velvet ropes barricading them from the street. The line never shortens until
thirty minutes from closing.

“Whatever you want, Lily,” Garth tells me.

“It’s just across the street,” I mention. “It’d be kind of
silly to drive, right?”

He shrugs, not giving me an answer.

My nerves are already heightened, and I’ve practiced my
apology into the mirror about a million times. I don’t want to pussy out
though. Not like yesterday and the day before that.

I value my relationship with my sister too much to keep
going on like this. “Okay.” I jump off the couch. “We walk. Quickly. And we
don’t make eye contact with any of the cameras.” Paparazzi always linger
outside the store to catch footage of me leaving.

“All right.” He closes the magazine and stands, just as the
store manager breezes into the break room. Michelle, a curvy college grad, has
on a Superheroes & Scones T-shirt with the slogan:
Channel your inner superhero.

“Hey, are you leaving?” she asks, her brown bangs nearly
hiding her eyes, but I catch her looking to Garth who rarely ever moves off his
post on the couch.

“Yeah, I’m going to finish the day at my house. Do you need
anything?”

“We just sold out of the
Guardians
of the Galaxy, Volume 1: Cosmic Avengers
, but I can make a note of it in
the inventory list.”

Michelle used to help run this small Indie comic book store
in D.C., and after many, many interviews with other potential store
managers—and having to let go of a few others before her—we’ve hired Michelle
full-time.

I wave her goodbye. The biggest benefit with Michelle, she
never asks about my personal life. Our relationship is purely professional and
comics based. I kinda love it. “See you tomorrow.” I push through the door and
Garth follows, keeping up with my quick stride.

When the crowds spot me, the familiar screams of glee and
click, click
of cameras overwhelms my
senses.
Focus on the ground, Lily. The
gravel is your friend.

I concentrate on the pavement, crossing the street with
little traffic and then reach a new store window. I dig into my pocket and try
to find the right key on my jangling ring.

Last week, Rose set the key on the counter with a note.

Lily,

This key is for you if
you ever want to stop by.

Love you, Rose

Our relationship hasn’t mended enough for her to hand me the
key in person or for her to say those words to my face. Today is the day that
everything changes. It has to.

The brick store has newly-painted letters up above:
Calloway Couture.
After the sex tapes,
as in plural (the online porn site has already released
two
), Rose gave up her dream of having a fashion line in thousands
of department stores. She settled for a boutique in Philly.

The
coming soon
sign
hangs across the front window, and my hands sweat as I struggle to open the
door.

“Lily! Where’s Lo?!” a camera guy shouts behind me.

“Lily! Have you watched Rose’s sex tapes?”

No.
Never.
Everyone has this stupid theory that I’ve seen them, that I’m
so
addicted to porn, I’d watch my own
sister banging her husband. Even if I was in a very bad place, I’d never want
to watch that. We’re
related.

“Do you need help?” Garth asks.

The lock clicks. “Ah-ha!” I smile. “Got it.” The success
almost distracts me from my current mission, a bundle of anxiety attached. With
one deep inhale, I enter the store.

I expect to see workers bustling around, hanging clothes and
fixing up mannequins, but the white marble floors are nearly bare, no
pitter-patter of hurried feet. I wonder if she just wants a quiet, less hectic
job than the one she had.

The empty store is only brightened by the chandelier lamps
hanging from the ceiling.

The bells on the door clink together as Garth shuts it.

“Poppy, if that’s you, I need your opinion on the
mannequins.” Rose’s voice sounds further back in the store, and I hear paper
crinkling and the clap of her heels. “Do you like the headless, faceless or
realistic ones?”

My stomach flips a little, and I notice the three mannequins
she’s talking about. The middle one has a smooth head. “The faceless one is
really freaky,” I say, my voice squeaking out.

Dead silence fills the room. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Before I can make a decision, Rose walks into view, carrying
a half-opened package with tissue paper and plastic falling over the sides. The
tension stretches and is only broken by Garth, who clears his throat and says,
“I’m going to go sit down.”

He motions to the champagne-colored couches beside the row
of dressing rooms.

When he disappears, I try really hard to keep my focus on
Rose, even if my heart wants to jettison out of my body. “So, I came here to
apologize, and I had this whole speech planned, but now that I’m here, I’ve
kind of forgotten it. It’s like that time I played a teapot in an
Alice in Wonderland
play in the fifth
grade. I only had two lines but still managed to forget them. You remember
that? I think school plays are designed to embarrass little kids.” I cringe and
shake my head. “I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”

“Just take a breath and slow down,” she coaches in her icy
voice, but her softened face says differently.

Right. I regroup and meet her yellow-green eyes once more,
the deadly poisonous ones I’ve avoided for many weeks. A wave of emotion floods
me all at once. “I miss you,” I blurt out, tears welling. “I know you may never
forgive me. I was cold and—”

“You should be cold,” she snaps, taking a few steps forward.
She tentatively stops, still ten feet separating us. “What happened was fucked
up.”

I shake my head. “I should be happy that people admire you,”
I choke on the words. “You’re my sister, and I love you.” Tears slide down my
cheeks. “And I should be so, so happy that you didn’t have to experience what I
did.” But deep down, I’ve been wishing for a different outcome. That desire to
place pain within my sister has festered guilt too vast to handle. It eats at
me every day, tearing at all the good parts.

I haven’t been able to talk to Rose. She’ll justify my
feelings, telling me that it’s okay. I don’t want it to be okay.

“Lily,” she says forcefully. “The media shouldn’t have shamed
you to begin with. And since they did, they
shouldn’t
have treated me any differently. If our roles were reversed, I’d
be so fucking furious that I’d have stormed twenty news outlets by now and
wrung their necks.” She flips her hair off her shoulder. “I’m not going to lie
to you, I called seven of them to bitch, and the only reason I stopped was because
Connor told me that I was making the headlines worse.” She takes a strained
breath. “It’s not right, and you know…I wish, more than anything, that you were
treated like me and I was treated like you.”

My chin quivers, and she looks away from me so she doesn’t
start crying too. I sniff loudly, trying to halt the waterworks.
 

“Stop,” she snaps, wiping underneath her eyes. “I’m not
wearing waterproof mascara.”

I smile weakly and step closer to her so we’re only a few
feet away. “I’m sorry…” My face breaks even more. “I don’t want this to tear us
apart. I can’t lose you. So I’m really,
really
sorry for being so…”

“Human,” she tells me, tilting her head as she looks at me
again. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished ill for other people. It’s
completely normal, Lily.”

“But you’re my sister—”

“So? I’m certain I wished Connor would fall on his face when
I was fifteen, break his nose and lose at Model UN. Envy, jealousy—I know them
probably better than you do.” One step closer. We’re in hugging distance. “And
guess what, little sister,
you
are
better than me. I rarely feel guilty by those emotions, but you beat yourself
up about it. So tell me, which one of us is the real cruel bitch here?”

I would never trade Rose for another sister. Not for
anything. I wipe my nose with my arm. “Can I hug you?” I ask.

She scrunches her nose. “Is that what happens now?”

“Yes,” I nod.

She sighs and then places the box on the floor. “Don’t make
it last too long.”

I smile and wrap my arms around my stiff, rigid sister. She pats
my back like she’s giving it a golf clap.

When we part, she points to the three mannequins. “Do you
think the faceless one will scare off kids?” Her eyes twinkle at the thought.

“Or just make them cry in your store.”

She grimaces now. “I wish I could have a sign outside that
says:
No strollers. No babies. No dogs
over five pounds.
”

“What about cats?”

“If you’ve taken your cat shopping, you have a serious
problem,” she says and then appraises the mannequins once more. “You’re right
though. The faceless one is creepy.”

I rub my tear-streaked cheeks. “You really thought I was
Poppy?” I ask. Rose is my main line of communication where family matters are
concerned. Our silence has pushed me out of the loop and into a dark black
hole, and I’m worried now that I’m crawling out, things will be changed.

“She stops by sometimes.” Rose picks up her box and sets it
on the checkout counter. “Mother does too, but I think she just likes the
attention from paparazzi.”

I frown. “She does?” I haven’t noticed all that much. But
maybe that’s because I purposefully don’t make eye contact with our mom.

“She doesn’t want it to go away,” Rose says. “She’s even been
feeding stories to the media so we’ll stay relevant.”

My lips part. “What?”

Rose sighs. “I’m not sure what
she tells them. She definitely leaks where she’s eating lunch
during the day so they can take photos. She says the attention is good for
Fizzle, but really she likes the status. She has way too many fake friends
fawning over her now.”

I realize that we may never distance ourselves from the
spotlight, not if our mom purposefully brings us back in. All for the “good” of
the family. The weight sinks low and I let it settle there.

“I missed a lot then,” I say softly.

She gives me a sharp look like
don’t think about it too much.
And to distract me further, she
says,
“Maria is in the Nutcracker
this December. The entire family is going in support.”

 
“I’ll be there.” I
pick up the hint. “Umm…” I scan the half-decorated store. “Do you need any help
here?”

“I have it under control,” she says quickly, almost like a
reflex. She spins back on her heels, and as I turn to leave, she pauses.
“Wait.”

I glance back.

“I’m starving.” She grabs her keys off the counter and her
clutch. “Let’s go eat lunch.”

I smile softly, kind of loving that it wasn’t a question.
It’s more like Rose to demand your company than to ask for it. “Okay.”

The knots in my stomach slowly begin to untangle.

{ 40 }

1 year :
 
04 months

December

LILY CALLOWAY

Our limo driver slams on the brake for the third
time, and I fall backwards on the leather seat, laughing so much that my chest
hurts. Lo breathes heavily, his hand gripping the seat above me, and as he
stares down, he shakes his head. But his own smile envelops his face and
dimples his cheeks.

“You think he’s doing it on purpose?” he asks, his amber
eyes flitting down my body, creating hot trails.

“He’d be a grade-A cock-blocker,” I say.

“Well, I
refuse
to
be cock-blocked tonight.” The headiness, the desire in his gaze sweeps me into
a bigger, better ride than the swerving limo ever could. “You ready?”

As he says the words, the car careens forward once more, and
he nearly slides off the back seat. He grips my shoulder, his body pressed
against mine, and fixes a sturdy hand to the door above my head.

I laugh more, especially as he nuzzles his forehead in the
crook of my neck and lets out a long, agonizing groan.

I love that he’s hornier than me.

I love that I can laugh during sex.

But mostly, I love that being tangled together in the
backseat of a car is no longer wrong. It won’t turn me into a compulsive
monster anymore. It’s a level of control that I never thought I’d reach.

Yet, here it is.

I’m starting to feel normal. Or at least,
our
kind of normal.

Lo’s groans turn into kisses on my neck, ones that soak my
underwear and rouse so many sensitive places. My laughter burns out, replaced
by deep breaths.

He rolls my velvet black dress up to my belly and hooks his
finger in my panties, pulling them aside. When his lips reach mine, he fills
me, his hardness slowly lighting up every single nerve. My chin rises with a
silent gasp.

And then he kisses me deeply, in immeasurable increments
that weld our bodies together. Like they were made to
never break apart.

The car whips left like the driver missed the turn, but Lo
has braced himself to me. And he uses the momentum to drive deeper between my
thighs, my body electrifying. I let out a ragged moan. Everything clenches, my
legs tremble, and he just holds me tightly, creating a fullness inside me that
didn’t exist before.

I can feel Lo’s smile on my lips. I return the kiss, trying
to wipe away his grin, making it a goal. He cups the back of my head, and the
more aggressive I become and swell his lips, the harder his cock pounds into
me.

When I come for the second time, it’s short, sporadic, and
leaves me utterly breathless.

Lo laughs between his heavy groans, still rocking against
me, building his own climax and rousing a new one for me. “You would be an
awful lay if you were a guy,” he explains the source of his humor.

“Huh.”

He kisses me and clarifies, “You wouldn’t be able to last
that long.”

True. “How am I as a girl…?” I grip his biceps, distracted
as his thrusts turn slow and deep.
Oh
God.
My back arches, and my lips part in need.

His amber eyes graze me as though I’m the most beautiful
broken thing he’s ever been a part of. “You’re perfect.”

It’s a lie, but he makes it sound so true. I cry as he hits
another sensitive place. My hand drifts to his ass that tightens with each push
into me.

He snatches my wrist and reads my watch. “Dammit.”

“Are we late?” I ask, shutting my eyes and gliding into
another world. “I don’t mind…so much…”
Oh
God.
My toes curl.

“Not yet,” he tells me, and I take it that he’s talking
about the time. Not my climax, because I can’t restrain it like he can withhold
his.

There is no warning before he quickens his pace, slaying
every nerve and seizing my breath. I’m his for the taking.

My eyes stay closed, focusing on his husky grunts that are
primal and needy. My core thrums with deep-seated attraction. Physically,
mentally, emotionally—Loren Hale has all of me.

“Open,” he whispers in a coarse voice.

Oh. I open my eyes.

And drown beneath his amber ones.

*
 
*
 
*

When we exit the limo, the wind
whips my shoulder-length hair, snowflakes settling on my black pea coat.
Fifteen minutes early to Maria’s ballet. Must be a record.

Lo’s breath smokes as he shuts the door and nears me on the
sidewalk. No cameras around. It’s one of those rare nights where no one paid
attention to what the Calloways were up to. Other families excitedly head into
the theatre, and I’m about to follow when Lo grabs my arm.

“Wait,” he says.

I spin back around. Wreaths hang on lampposts, dim light
casting halos on the street. I have a sudden flashback, remembering the snow,
the wreaths. Lo was twenty-one when he went to rehab, on Christmas Eve. And now
he’s twenty-three.

He must read my faraway expression because he says, “Can you
believe I’ve been sober for this long?”

“Yes,” I say definitively. His light brown hair is dusted
with snowflakes, some flutter and land on his eyelashes. His face is flushed
more from earlier than the cold. He’s beautiful, seductive even. I could kiss
him again.

“We’re doing well, aren’t we?” he asks. “This…” He motions
between the two of us. “It’s working.” He’s been so confident about our new
routine—sex almost three times a day and wherever we like—that it’s a surprise
hearing him question it now.

“I think so,” I say. “It feels right.” Not every time is
easy. Sometimes I’m a little compulsive and grabby, but I don’t think either of
us expects it to be good twenty-four-seven for the rest of our lives.

There will always be bad days, but it’s how we live those
bad days that counts.

He says, “Can you believe you’ve learned how to control most
of your compulsions?” He rests his arms on my shoulders, like we’re about to
dance.

“It still feels like a dream,” I whisper.
 

“It’s real to me,” he says. “It took you years. It wasn’t an
overnight thing, Lil.” His gaze falls to my lips. And after a long moment, he
breaks the quiet. “I want to marry you.”

The words rock me back a little. He holds tighter.

“Soon,” he continues on. “In the next year maybe?” His eyes
rush mine, searching for confirmation, to ensure we’re on the same page.

“Next year,” I smile and slap his arm in excitement. “What
if we get married on 6-16?”

He’s grinning. His sharp jawline and cheekbones just plain
gorgeous. “Whatever you want.”

He leans down, kissing me with the Christmas lights
shimmering overhead. With the snow falling, it’s a picture perfect moment.

I wish I could snap-shot it and save it for later. Maybe
because I have a feeling. One that hits me as he hugs me to his chest. We’ve
never let ourselves be excited about something further down the road. Two addicts
constructing a future together: when I think of it like that, it all begins to
sound like make-believe.

Too rooted in fantasy to ever come true.