Addicted to You

by Krista Ritchie

  “Gross,” Rose deadpans. If only she knew he was talking about booze and not sex. My mother gives a circle of disapproving looks, full of the same ice that Rose inherited.

  “Any graduation plans yet?” my father asks.

  I think about Lo’s future again, wearing a tight suit, working for his father, his lips pulled into a perpetual frown.

  “We still have a year to decide,” Lo answers.

  “You both need to start formulating a plan,” my father says, sounding critical.

  A plan. I’ve been so focused on Lo that I haven’t even begun to imagine my life past college. Where will I be? What will I be? White empty space fills the void, unsure of what picture to paint.

  “We just want to give school our full attention. Grades are really important to us.” Yeah right.

  My father folds his napkin on the table, about to switch topics. “Jonathan and I were discussing the upcoming Christmas Charity Gala sponsored by Fizzle and Hale Co. The press has been buzzing about the event for weeks, and it’s important that everyone is present to show support.”

  “We’ll be there,” Lo says, raising his glass.

  “Any news on a ring?” Poppy asks with a teasing smile.

  “I’m still twenty,” I remind her, shrinking. My mother missed the opportunity to call me Violet.

  “You don’t have any news?” Rose questions, her face sharpening.

  I frown in confusion and shake my head. What is she getting on about?

  Her lips tighten in a thin line and she whispers to Poppy, who quickly whispers back.

  “Ladies,” my mother chides. “Don’t be rude.”

  Rose straightens and sets her frosty gaze on me. “I think it’s odd that you’ve been drinking orange juice and water.”

  “I’m driving,” I tell her. What is with everyone and my choice to be sober? When did it become abnormal to refuse alcohol at a meal?

  My mother huffs. “That’s what Nola is for, Lily.”

  “Anderson as well,” Jonathan adds.

  Anderson the Nark. Never.

  “Well, I have a reason to believe your choice of drink has nothing to do with driving,” Rose says. What?!

  “What are you insinuating?” My heart beats wildly. Please don’t let it be what I think. Please, please, please. Lo squeezes my hip to reassure me, but whatever is coming, is bad.

  “Yes, Rose, what are you insinuating?” My mother comes to my defense.

  “I have a friend who goes to Penn. She saw Lily walking out of the pregnancy center last month.”

  Last month…oh, jeez. I cover my eyes with a hand, and slouch so low in my seat, I’m practically eye-level with the table.

  My father chokes on his drink, and Jonathan has gone very, very pale, a feat I didn’t think possible for his Irish skin.

  “Is this true?” my mother asks.

  Yes.

  I open my mouth. I can’t say the real answer. Yeah, I went there. I visit the health clinic to check for STDs every couple days, okay? And I take pregnancy tests. I am safe and I know it. Most people can’t say that.

  Or the whole truth, one afternoon the pink plus sign actually haunted me. They sent me to the pregnancy center for an ultrasound. False alarm, thankfully.

  “Lily, explain,” my mother nearly shrieks.

  Lo stares at me for a long moment before he realizes I’m in no capacity to form words, let alone lies.

  “It was just a scare,” he says and turns his attention to Rose. “It’s funny how you choose now to bring this up when you’ve known for a whole month.”

  “I was waiting for Lily to tell me herself. I thought we were closer than this.”

  My lungs collapse.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” my mother asks.

  I swallow hard.

  “Or me,” Poppy says.

  Daisy raises her hand and points to herself. “Me too!”

  I press my fingers to my eyes before waterworks kick in. “It-it was nothing.”

  My mother’s nose flares. “Nothing? An unplanned pregnancy is not nothing.”

  Dad cuts in, “You have your entire future ahead of you, and children will change the way your life works forever. You can’t undo that.” Yeah, I’m pretty positive a kid would hinder our lifestyles, a reason why I’ve been so careful thus far. I don’t have the heart or strength to tell them everything. That if the pink plus sign stuck around, the kid wouldn’t even belong to Lo.

  I stand up quickly, my head pumping with helium. It floats but I still manage words. “I need some air.”

  “We’re outside,” Rose says.

  Lo rises from his seat. “Air that you don’t breathe.” He places his palm on the small of my back.

  “Loren,” Jonathan growls.

  “What?” he growls back, his gaze falling to his father’s whiskey, envy and bitterness clouding his amber irises.

  “It’s been a long afternoon,” my father says. “Lily looks pale. Take her inside, Loren.”

  Before anyone changes their mind, Lo ushers me through the French glass doors and into the nearest bathroom. I collapse on the toilet seat.

  “Why would she do that?” My chest constricts with each breath. I tug at the tight fabric of my dress that suctions to my ribs. What if her friend saw me walk out of the sexual health clinic instead? How do I explain checking for STDs?

  Lo kneels in front of me and presses a warm wash cloth to my forehead. A flashback hits me—of doing the same to him. In less than a few hours, we’ve switched places.

  “Rose can be cruel,” Lo reminds me.

  I shake my head. “She was hurt.” And this is how Rose Calloway retaliates against someone who’s affected her. “She wanted me to tell her first.” I rub my eyes, trembling. How will Rose take the knowledge that I sleep around? Will she hate me afterwards? I have no clue. Predicting her reaction has caused restless nights, and so I decided it’s safe to just keep my nighttime activities to myself. I thought it would be easier on everyone.

  “Breathe, Lil,” he whispers. When I inhale and exhale in synchronization, he deserts the washcloth for his flask. After a couple swigs, he wipes his mouth with his hand and rests against the sink cabinets.

  “This is getting harder.” I stare at my hands, as though they hold my intangible lies.

  “I know,” he breathes. I wait for him to say the words, I’m done pretending.

  Instead, we eat the silence. The swish of his alcohol and my sniffles are the only music to our misery.

  Someone knocks on the door, and Lo stuffs the flask back into my purse.

  “Lily? Can I talk to you?” Poppy asks.

  Lo glances at me for what to do. I nod. And he goes to the sink, putting his mouth underneath the faucet. He spits water back into the bowl and then opens the door.

  Poppy gives him a warm, maternal smile. “Your father wants to talk with you. He’s waiting in the parlor.”

  Lo practically slams the door on his way out.

  Poppy fiddles with her fingers while I stare at the black marble floor. “I didn’t know Rose was going to say anything. She told me this morning, and I thought we’d have a chance to talk to you before announcing anything to Mom and Dad.”

  I unclip my heels and set my toes on the cool marble, not strong enough for words.

  Poppy fills the void. “Rose is going through a tough time. She sees Daisy with her modeling career, you have Loren, and I’m busy with my daughter.” She pauses. “You know Calloway Couture was just dropped by Sax?”

  I frown deeply, not realizing.

  Rose built Calloway Couture with our mother as a little side business when she turned fifteen. Years later, it’s grown into a profitable fashion line that Rose can call her own. I never ask about her months or her life. Yet, she always finds the time to ask about mine.

  “I’ve tried to call you,” Poppy continues. “For two months, and you haven’t answered. Lo hasn’t answered. If Rose doesn’t stop by and assure me you’re alive, sometimes I won
der…” Her voice turns grave. “I can’t help but think you’ve eliminated us from your life.”

  I don’t dare look at her. Tears prick my eyes, burning, but I hold them back. It’s easier this way, I remind myself. It’s easier if they know nothing. It’s easier to disappear.

  “I was in college too, and I know your social life and studies can take precedent over family, but you don’t have to cut us out completely.” She pauses again. “Maria is three. I’d love for you to be a part of her life. You’re good with her—whenever you’re around.” She takes an unsure step forward and reaches out for me. “I’m here for you. I need you to know that.”

  I rise on two shaky legs and let her wrap her arms around my shoulders, squeezing me tightly. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. She sniffs, her tears falling on my back. After pulling away, I inhale. “Thanks, Poppy.”

  Her words defeated me, tearing down any ounce of resilience. I have nothing left to give, no comfort to spare. I feel like a shell, waiting for the hermit to return home.

  {5}

  Days move by in a sluggish haze filled with random bodies and carnal highs. I try to keep to my word and answer my sisters’ calls (I still screen my parents), but at times, my runaway phone acts like an angst-ridden teen and goes missing. Usually, I’m too self-absorbed in bodily pursuits to care.

  I also have one valid excuse to keep my phone off.

  Class.

  Business and economics courses at Penn hijack my time. Maybe I should’ve picked an easier major, but my talents start and stop at being able to woo a boy into bed. And most girls can easily succeed where I do.

  Life would make more sense if I happened to be a prodigy in art or music. I’d have a direction, a purpose. Then maybe my future wouldn’t look so blank.

  Since my artistic gifts peak at stick figures and whistling, I’m stuck with statistics. At noon, I sit beside Lo in the very back auditorium row. Managerial Economics and Game Theory—it really does exist. And I understand about 1.111% of the professor’s dry lecture.

  Lo kicks his feet on the empty chair below while I feverishly take notes on my laptop, my fingers pounding against the keys. After a few minutes, I feel note-fatigue. It happens. So I pop up another window and search my favorite sites.

  My eyes widen in glee. KinkyMe.net just uploaded a video featuring a pro soccer player (a porn star) and a fan (another porn star) in sultry positions. I tilt my head as he caresses her neck and takes her in the gym shower. Ooh, steamy.

  The footage rolls on mute, of course, but my breathing shallows as his muscles enclose the fan-girl into the corner, trapping her beside the hot, wet tiles.

  Laughing erupts, and my head shoots up from the computer, my face flaming in retaliation.

  No one stares at me.

  In fact, eyes plant on the professor. He makes another joke about Ke$ha and glitter, a humorous digression. I swallow, okay, my mind is playing tricks on me. I minimize the porn and expand my notes again.

  Lo gnaws on the end of his pen, not aware of the students or the professor. He reads the latest X-men comic on his iPad and nurses a thermos in his other hand.

  “You’re not borrowing my notes,” I remind him in a whisper.

  “I don’t want them.” He takes a large swig of his alcoholic beverage. I think I saw him concocting an orange, lemon and whiskey mix this morning, something nauseating.

  My brows scrunch. “How do you plan on studying?”

  “I’ll wing it.”

  That’s what he always says. I hope he fails. No, I don’t. Yes, I do. Sort of. While I’m saddled with anxiety, he leisurely relaxes in his seat.

  “You really want to piss off your father?” I ask. At last week’s luncheon, Daisy told me his father took Lo aside and laid into him about grades and being safer with me. She said she saw “spit fly,” which could be entirely true. I’ve seen Jonathan Hale grab the back of Lo’s neck like a pup, pinching so hard that Lo squirmed in pain until his father released the hold. I don’t think he realized the amount of strength he was using or the hurt in Lo’s eyes.

  “He’ll find something to be angry about, Lil,” he whispers. “If it’s not school or you, it’s my future and Hale Co. He can’t send me to fucking boot camp if I flunk, not when I’m an adult. So what is he going to do to me? Take away my trust fund? Then how will I support my future wife?”

  I can’t see that future. The one where our lies go as far as marriage. And by his bitter tone, I doubt he pictures it too. I lick my dry lips and return my attention back to the professor. I’ve missed a good chunk of information with that one conversation, and I don’t have any friends in the class to ask for notes. I start typing hurriedly again.

  After a couple minutes, Lo sighs in boredom and nudges my side. “Have you had sex with anyone in this room?”

  “Why do you care?” I try to multi-task and concentrate on the lecture too. The little tab at the bottom of my screen also distracts: Pro Pleasures Fan, Watch Full Video HERE.

  “I’m about to fall asleep.”

  Huh? I concentrate on highlighting a line in my notes. “Then why’d you even come?”

  “Attendance counts ten percent. I can actually control that part.” He leans his shoulder into me, his warmth entering my space, his hard bicep on my soft. A breath dies in my chest. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  My eyes dart around the hundred bodies compacted into the auditorium-styled room. I land on a short guy with a fedora, brown hair peeking beneath. Two years ago. His apartment. Missionary. I spot another with nearly black hair tied into a tiny pony. Five months ago. His beat up VW. Reverse cow-girl. The moments bleed into my brain, replaying. My heart quickens at the images, but my stomach sinks at the answer to Lo’s question. In a hundred person class, I at least slept with two guys. What does that say about me? Slut, whore. I hear the condemnation.

  Yet, I glance back at that little tab on my computer, my chest fluttering in excitement.

  “So?” Lo presses.

  “I don’t know,” I lie.

  An eyebrow quirks. “You don’t know?” Before I can unmask his expression, he smiles with that familiar bitter amusement. “That’s hilarious.”

  “You need to get laid,” I shoot back. Think about your nonexistent sex life for a change.

  “And you need a drink.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “You started it.”

  I bang on my keys and he edges out of my space, the weight of his arm gone. The warmth replaced by cold. I inhale strongly and try not to think about the emptiness in my belly or the spot between my legs.

  My finger slips, hitting a random button.

  “Ahhh, baby, right there, right THERE!”

  The entire room goes silent. And heads turn to the back, towards the source of the sexual noises, towards me.

  Oh my God. My porn stays in the tab, but the sound heightens as the pro-athlete reaches his climax. Her moans. His groans. I click buttons as fast as my finger will allow, but my computer expands the porn window and says Not Responding every time I try to exit out.

  Lo presses his knuckles to his lips, trying desperately to hide his grin.

  “Take me in the ass. Please, please!!! Ahhh!” the girl cries.

  RESPOND!!! I internally shriek. No, my computer has decided to rebel against human intelligence. So I slam the screen shut and close my eyes, praying for my teleportation power to kick in. I know it exists.

  “aaaahhhhHHHH!”

  I bury my head in my arms. Finally, the noise dies off, leaving the lecture hall in dead, awkward silence. I peek up from my arm-fort.

  “I have a virus,” I mumble and cringe, too embarrassed to rephrase it to my computer has a virus.

  The professor’s dark eyebrows draw into a hard line, not pleased at all. “See me after class.”

  People steal glances back at us, and the exposure sends my skin into red disgrace.

  Lo leans in again, but his masculine presence no longer tempts me. I feel like I’ve been
electrocuted. “I didn’t know you watched anal porn.”

  He tries to cheer me up with the words, but I can’t even laugh. An army of fire ants just crawled across my body. “I’m dead,” I mutter, and a horrifying thought hits me. “What if my parents find out?”

  “This isn’t high school, Lil.”

  The words don’t make me feel much better. I stare at my palms and retreat inside myself. My shoulders curving forward, my head slightly bent.

  “Hey.” Lo gently turns my chin to meet his gaze, one full of understanding, narrowed with empathy. I begin to relax. “He’s not going to call your parents. You’re an adult.”

  It’s hard to remember that when my parents cling to my future with such diligence and force.

  “How often do you do it in the ass?” Lo banters with a crooked grin.

  I groan and bury my head into my arms once again, but my lips upturn in a small smile. I hide that as well.

  After another half hour of fearing my computer and producing paper notes at a snail’s pace, the class ends. People take the opportunity to glance my way as they stand to leave, like they want a full mental picture of The Girl Who Watches Porn (In Class).

  I rise and my hands shake by my sides. Lo passes me my backpack, and I sling it over my shoulder. His palm spindles across my waist, for a brief second, as he says, “I’ll see you later. Maybe we can grab lunch during your break.”

  I nod, and he pulls away, leaving me to wonder whether that was real or fake. Whether he meant to really touch my hip or if it was an unconscious movement, trained from all these years of pretending.

  The scary part, I almost hoped it was real.

  I watch him disappear with an old JanSport backpack, nearly empty. No notebooks. No pens. No computer. Just an iPad, a phone and a thermos in his possession. He walks without worry or care, tapping the height of the doorframe on his way out. Something about his self-assured nature, his unhurriedness, mesmerizes me.

  “Name?”

  I break out of my trance. The professor stands at his podium, waiting for me.

  “Your name?” he asks again, just as tersely. He slides his laptop into his briefcase. Students for the next period begin to filter in, and their instructor starts erasing the whiteboard that’s scrawled with economics problems.