I’m f**king things up.
My body goes cold and chills rake my arms. A pressure sets on my chest, so heavy that breathing takes work.
The door swings open again, and I expect to see Lo gracing the room next. Instead, I hear my sister’s edged voice.
“I’m walking in the house right now, Mother,” Rose says, her hand tight on her cell. My stomach thrashes in another beating. My mom’s pissed too?
“Hold on, I’ll ask her.” Rose cups the speaker and meets my gaze. “Mom would like to know why you didn’t use the family publicist before making a statement.”
“That’s a good question,” I say softly. My eyes trail away, looking for the answer, as if it’s on another side of the room.
Rose lets out a sigh and returns to her phone. “She didn’t have Cynthia’s number,” Rose says, which isn’t a complete lie. I have the number to Jonathan’s publicist, but not our family’s. Acquiring Cynthia’s number means communicating with my mother, something I haven’t done for a while.
Brett walks backwards into the house, filming Connor as he passes through the open doorway. Did they all come home early for this? I know I screwed up, but I didn’t expect to ruin everyone’s Saturday.
Connor talks through his own phone. “Don’t worry about it, Greg. Rose and I will remind everyone how to address the media.”
I take out my cell and check for missed calls.
Zero.
Which is also how I rank to my parents. Or at least, they still don’t know how to talk to me. Not before the sex scandal and definitely not after. Though, I am a little disappointed in my dad. I thought we were making progress. He’s called me a few times to discuss Superheroes & Scones and school, but I suppose those were safe topics.
I take a couple steps back, aware that Brett’s camera is whipping around the room, trying to determine who’s the most interesting person right now.
He lands on Rose, who starts arguing into the phone.
I tune her out and turn around completely. There’s not much I can do here. No one will trust me to do damage control. There’s only one place I should go. To my bat cave! (my room). I need to check the internet for more alerts or wallow or both.
Someone grabs my arm, stopping me.
When I spin around, I sink into Lo’s amber eyes. Anger doesn’t invade them. Only concern. The kitchen, I realize now, is silent. All phone calls finished and pocketed.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my throat swelling. “I didn’t mean for this to blow up.” Don’t cry. Channel your inner Rose. Tears are for babies and losers.
I wipe my eyes.
I suck at being Rose.
“It’s not you, Lil. Our parents are blowing this out of proportion,” Lo says, his hand sliding up my arm to my bare shoulder. I’m so scared of myself that I take a step back, away from his touch, no matter how good it feels.
Wrinkles crease his forehead in more concern. It hurts to be away from him, but it’s dangerous to be near him.
Rose walks forward, her heels making an aggressive noise against the hardwood. “As much as it pains me to agree with Loren, he’s right—” she rolls her eyes at the word “—they’re being dramatic and trying to make you feel bad.”
“It’s working,” I mutter.
“Well, get thicker skin, Lily.”
Ouch. But true. So true.
Lo glares at her though. “Not everyone has iron balls.”
“I don’t need balls to be resilient,” she says curtly before turning back to me. “Next time a reporter gets on your nerves, you can write a nasty email but send it to me instead. I’ll even pretend to be the reporter and reply to you.”
I have the best sister in the world.
Hands down.
As much as her words soothe me, they don’t erase what happened. It’s not so easy to move on from something that just happened five minutes ago.
“Maybe we should watch a movie,” Connor says, typing on his cell.
“No,” I speak up. “You all were out doing things. Just, go back to them.” I don’t want to interrupt their lives with my stupid mistake.
“We were just having lunch, Lily,” Rose says, her hand presses against my back, guiding me towards the living room couch. “We have those every day.”
Yeah, but I ache to spring in Lo’s arms, for a little bit of his hardness. Okay, a lot more than a little. The rubbing up on furniture thing I did before—it actually sounds more desirable now, even if it’s weird. My neck heats the longer I contemplate sex in the company of other people.
Lo and Ryke follow close behind. When we reach the couch, I pause for a moment, watching Lo take a seat on the oversized, plush chair. I picture myself straddling his waist, legs tucked tight around him, and he’ll buck up into me—
I can’t lounge on top of him. I force my rusted, unoiled joints to bend and sit next to Rose on the couch. Connor uses the remote to scroll through movies on the television, silence thickening, especially as I sit straight up.
And Lo is stiff as well, his eyes flickering to me every so often.
Everyone, not just us, assesses the weirdness. Aware how strange it is for Lo to be over there. While I’m right here. A large chunk of space between us. We’re not together. Physically.
That rarely happens nowadays.
It would be fine, but everyone knows why I’m separating myself from him. I can feel their judgy thoughts in my own head. I can’t believe she wants to have sex right now.
Ryke’s glare says it enough.
Before Connor switches on the film, the front door opens. I crane my head over the couch to see Daisy strutting in with a can of Fizz Life in hand, head down, texting on her cell.
When she steps into the room, she looks up and freezes. “Um…” She frowns. “Was there a meeting or something?” Her face suddenly falls, thinking she wasn’t invited to our group gathering.
“Or something,” Ryke replies first.
Daisy scans the area. Her eyes ping from Lo to me, noticing how we’re not sitting together. “Did you two…” She motions between us.
Shit. She thinks we spilled our secret.
“I f**ked up,” I explain swiftly. “I replied to a reporter without going through the publicist.”
Her green eyes turn into saucers. “Mom has to be pissed.”
“She’s venting,” Rose corrects her. “She just needs to cool off.”
Daisy sets her soda can on the end table and plops down on the other side of me. “What are we watching?”
Connor starts listing off names of movies, and I tune him out. I appreciate that they’re all trying to avoid the Celebrity Crush topic, but it still weighs on me.
The point of having a publicized wedding is to appease my parents. But if I do something small and anger them anyway, how much will the marriage even matter?
My eyes flit to Lo, and I realize that he’s watching me. I want to touch him—not for sex. Just to let him comfort me without needing anything else. How do I know if I’m strong enough for that?
He slowly pulls his gaze away and forces his eyes to the TV screen. My heart tears apart in a million different ways, conflicted beyond terms.
I follow his moves and redirect my attention to the movie. But my head revolves around him, and I find myself trying to watch him through my peripheral vision. Maybe I can catch him looking at me. I notice everything. How rigid he sits. When he squirms or adjusts himself on the chair. How he keeps his hand on his mouth, resting it there and hiding the definition in his jaw. I notice the way he glances at me every few seconds, the same clandestine looks I give him.