Krista Ritchie - Hothouse Flower

“You don’t believe them, do you?” Lo suddenly asks, his voice still edged.

“Who?” I ask.

“The news, all those reporters…you don’t think our dad actually did those things to me?”

I try to hold back a cringe. Someone told the press that Jonathan physically abuses Lo. The rumors just kept escalating after that. I don’t know if our dad could hit him…or molest him. I don’t want to believe it, but there’s a fucking sliver of doubt that says maybe. Maybe it could have happened.

“It’s not fucking true!” Lo shouts at me.

“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands to get him to calm down.

He’s been like this since the accusations, pissed and angry and looking for a way to fix things. Booze was his solution unfortunately.

Our father filed a defamation lawsuit, but no matter the outcome of the court case, it won’t change the way people look at both of them. Vilifying our father, pitying Loren. There’s no going back.

“You just have to move fucking forward,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about what people think.”

Loren inhales deeply and stares at the sky like he wants to murder a flock of birds. “You say shit, Ryke, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Do you know how annoying that is?” He looks back down at me, his features all sharp, like a blade.

“I’ll keep saying it then, just to irritate the fuck out of you.” What else are big brothers for?

He sighs heavily.

I rub the back of his head playfully and then guide him towards his house. I drop my hand off his shoulder, and he stops in the middle of the road, his brows scrunching.

“About your trip to California…” He trails off. “I know I haven’t asked about it in months. I’ve been too self-absorbed—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I motion with my head to the white colonial house. “Let’s go make some breakfast for the girls.”

“Wait,” he says, holding out his hand. “I have to say this.”

But I don’t want to hear it. I’ve made up my mind already. I’m not going to California. Not when he’s in a bad place with his recovery. I’m his sponsor. I have to be here.

“I need you to go,” he says. I open my mouth and he cuts me off. “I can already hear your stupid fucking rebuttal. And I’m telling you to go. Climb your mountains. Do whatever you need to do. You’ve had this planned for a long time, and I’m not going to ruin it for you.”

“I can always reschedule. Those mountains aren’t fucking moving, Lo.” I’ve wanted to free-solo climb three rock formations, back-to-back, in Yosemite since I turned eighteen. I’ve been working up to the challenge for years. I can wait a little longer.

“I will feel like shit if you don’t go,” he says. “And I’ll drink. I can promise you that.”

I glare.

“I don’t need you,” he says with malice. “I don’t fucking need you to hold my hand. I need you to be goddamn selfish like me for once in your life so I don’t feel like utter shit compared to you, alright?”

I internally cringe. I was selfish for so many fucking years. I didn’t give a fuck about him. I don’t want to be that guy again.

But I hear him begging me. I hear please fucking go. I’m losing my mind.

“Okay,” I say on instinct. “I’ll go.”

His shoulders instantly relax, and he lets out another deep breath. He nods to himself. I wonder how long he’s been carrying that weight on his chest.

I can’t explain why I love him so much. Maybe because he’s the only person who understands what it’s like to be manipulated by Jonathan for his gain. Or maybe because I know deep down there’s a soul that needs love more than anyone else, and I can’t help but reciprocate to the fullest degree.

I put my arm around his shoulder again and say, “Maybe one day you’ll be able to outrun me.”

He lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “Maybe if I break both your legs.”

I grin. “Would you even be fucking fast enough to do that?”

“Give me a lacrosse stick and we’ll see.”

“Not fucking happening, little brother.”

I don’t say it with scorn.

I never do. And I never will.

DAISY CALLOWAY

I have this theory.

Friends aren’t forever. They’re not even for a while . They come into your life and they leave when something or someone changes. Nothing grounds them to you. Not blood or loyalty. They’re just…fleeting.

I’m usually not this cynical, but I popped up Facebook this morning, my laptop resting on my bent legs. I should have deleted my account a couple years ago, around the same time my family was thrust into the public eye—when my older sister’s sex addiction went public.

But alas, I had a different theory about friends back then.

Butterflies, rainbows, hearts holding hands—it was literally a PBS special in my brain whenever I thought about my friendships.

And now Cleo Marks posted this on her wall: During Daisy Calloway’s sweet sixteen party, she couldn’t shut up about sex. It’s all she cared about. You know she’s a closeted sex addict like her sister. All the Calloway girls are skanks.

Those are the beautiful words of my former best friend. And it doesn’t even matter that she brought up an incident from two and a half years ago. Resurfacing it is enough to elicit 457 comments, mostly all in agreement.

Four months have passed since I graduated prep school and I’m still being haunted by my former friends. Like the Ghosts of Hell’s Past.

A hand reaches out and smacks my computer closed. “Stop wasting your fucking emotions on them.”

A tall six-foot-three guy is in my bed. Beside me. In only a pair of drawstring pants. And I’m sitting against the headboard, wearing white cotton shorts and a cropped red and blue top that says: Wild America.

On the outside, we probably look like a couple, gently rising from the morning sunlight that peeks through my curtains.

On the inside, there’s no touching. No kissing. Nothing beyond friendship status.

Reality is a whole lot more complicated.

“When did you wake up?” I wonder, avoiding any discussions that center on my old friends.

He doesn’t sit yet. He stays beneath my green comforter and sheet, running his hands through his disheveled dark brown hair. Attractive doesn’t even begin to describe his “I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-it” hair. It never looks neater during the day, but he knows that.

“The better fucking question is when did you go to sleep?” He stares at me with narrowed, accusatory eyes.

Never. But he knows this too. “Good news, I finished packing in the wee hours of the night.”

He rises and nears me a little. I tense at his closeness, reminded that he’s a man, his body easily dwarfing mine. It’s not a bad tense. More like the kind of tense that stops my breath for a second. That makes my head float and my heart do a weird little dance. I like it.

The danger of it all.

“Bad news, I don’t give a fuck about your packing,” he says roughly. “I just give a fuck about you.” He reaches across my chest to grab a pill bottle off my nightstand. His muscles constrict as he accidentally brushes against my boobs. Neither of us announces the brief touch, but the tension has turned a corner, down onto Don’t Go There Lane.

To relieve this new tension, I stand up on the bed and kick a decorative pillow off. “You do care about my packing. You thought I’d never get it done.”

“Because you’re fucking ADD and a lot of other things.” He watches me from below, his eyes traveling up the length of my long bare legs. “Sit down for a second, Calloway.” Instead of acting like he’s into me and all that, he just reads the back of the pill bottle, his brows tightening in concern.