My dad opens his mouth to protest again, to tell me no. I’m sick of that word.
“I’m doing this,” I say first. “You’re always telling me how you saved my life.” He wanted me when my own mom didn’t. “I want to save yours.”
He blinks a few times. It’s not like he decides all of a sudden. He stands there and stares at me, like it’s a contest to see which one of us backs away first.
I don’t move. I might have a year or two ago. Maybe even five months. Ryke would’ve been the one to rival Jonathan Hale. To stand up to him. To shut him down.
Now it’s my turn.
I never flinch or give him the easy road because I love him. I love him, so I’m going to give him the hard road, the better one. Like Ryke always did with me.
“You look different,” my dad says. Fear flashes in his eyes…the most human thing I’ve ever witnessed from him.
“I’m older,” I remind him.
He shakes his head, just as Lily had done before. “It’s not that, son,” he says in a whisper.
I know. I feel different.
He sniffs loudly, controlling his emotions. Then a minute or two later, my dad finally shuffles to his desk. He crouches behind a drawer, and I hear bottles clink together. He emerges with four handles of whiskey. My alcoholic father, who has spent more days with liquor than without, tosses his whiskey in a nearby trash bin.
And he walks away from them. Heading towards me.
I let out a long breath. When I turn to look for Ryke, I think he’ll be happy about our dad’s choice. But he’s not here. I spin around, casing the area. He’s probably outside. Where he can breathe.
“I’ll talk to Jonathan about our situation,” Connor says, reminding me about why we first showed up. “You should go find him.” Ryke, he means.
I hesitate to leave Connor alone with my father, who already seems aggravated at the idea of conversing with him. I’d rather not push my dad towards the four bottles of booze he just rejected.
But I’m too concerned about Ryke to stay.
My decision is an easy one.
55
LOREN HALE
I find Ryke in the driveway. The rain has stopped. Without Connor’s car keys, he’s left waiting by the Escalade. He sits on the edge of the pavement—where the cement meets the grass. His knees are tucked to his chest, his face buried in his hands.
My pulse quickens. “Hey,” I say softly, approaching my older brother.
He runs his fingers through his hair, but he never looks up. His gaze transfixes on the ground.
“It’s all worked out,” I tell him.
He shakes his head a single time, and his fingers clench his thick brown hair.
I rub the back of my neck. “I know you don’t like him…and you probably don’t want me to be the donor. But I can’t just let him die.”
His eyes redden, and his jaw hardens. I’m saying the wrong things. Christ. What do I say? Ryke’s not me. He doesn’t think like me. He never has. It’s why we’ve had too many fights. Why it took years to build our relationship. We’re always on separate pages. Different chapters of the same story.
I waver uneasily, wondering if I should bend down to comfort him. Or stay upright, towering above his frame. I end up frozen in place. “Ryke…” I choke out his name.
His nose flares, and he lets out a heavy breath. His hands fall to his sides, and he finally raises his head. Tears surface that he couldn’t bury. “He told us that he was dying,” he says, his voice trembling, “and the first thing I felt was relief.”
I watch water roll down his cheeks.
“That’s sick,” he breathes. “Really f**king sick.” He gestures to me. “You’re the one who should be relieved. You’re the one he’s abused. You’re the one who had to live with him.” His throat bobs. “But you didn’t even hesitate to help him, even when he didn’t ask for it.” More than vulnerable, Ryke stares right at me, his chin quaking and his features torn up.
I’ve personally seen him like this maybe twice before. When he learned his mom betrayed him, outing Lily’s sex addiction to the public. And then in Utah. When we fought each other with our fists. Almost a whole year ago.
And then he says, “You always think you’re the bad guy, Lo. But you’re not.” His head hangs. “You’re f**king not.” He buries his face in his bent knees again.
This time, my joints work, and I sit beside my brother. I wrap my arm around his tense shoulder that shudders with his body.
“I know him better than you,” I defend. “That’s why I want to help him.”
Ryke stays quiet for a minute. “What if you can’t, Lo?” he asks in a whisper. “What happens then?”
The bottom of my stomach nearly drops. I don’t want to think about it.
“Because you know there’s only one other option.” Ryke stares at his calloused hands, chalk residue on his palm. “And I don’t know if I can make the same choice as you.”
I pinch my wet eyes and squeeze his shoulder like it’s okay. There’s a good chance he shares the same blood type as me and my father. But I won’t ask Ryke to be our dad’s donor. That’s too much. He’s already done enough.
“It’s okay,” I say the words aloud.
“It won’t be,” Ryke refutes, choking on a sob. “You and I f**king know it won’t be. Because in the back of your mind, every day when you have to f**king look at me, you’ll be thinking the same thing.”
“No,” I tell him, shaking my head adamantly. No, I won’t.
“You’ll think I killed him,” he finishes. He swallows hard again. “And here I thought my relationship with Daisy would ruin you and me.”
“Stop,” I snap, shaking him a bit. My fingers dig into his shoulder. And I feel his tears fall on my hand. “It’s not going to happen, Ryke.” It’s not going to happen.
But somewhere in his mind, he’s doubting everything. “Yeah…we’ll see.”
56
LILY CALLOWAY
For the tenth time Lo checks his cellphone, his mind far, far away from the comics that line his desk. I’ve accompanied him to the Halway Comics office above Superheroes & Scones. He asked me to.
I can tell that he yearns for the quick fix, even if it’s the very thing destroying his dad.
Maximoff sleeps in his carrier on the couch, and I set down an old New Mutants comic and rise from the blue sofa. Careful not to wake him.
“When did they say they’d call?” I ask Lo, resting my butt on his desk.
“Hm?” His brows knot as he stares at the indie comic. He’s been on the same page for ten minutes. Lo is a slow reader but not that slow.
“The hospital,” I clarify, nudging his arm with my finger. “When are they supposed to call?” He was tested this morning. To see if he’d be eligible for the liver donation. The surgery frightens me, but I’d support Lo no matter what. His emotional distress would be harder to watch than any recovery from the transplant.
“Today or tomorrow.” He pushes his rolling chair away from the desk and swivels to me. With one hand, he reaches out and clutches my hip. I smile as he guides me to his lap. I find myself straddling him.
A very good position, indeed.
He brushes my hair from my face, his fingers grazing my skin with lightness and care. “I know you’re nervous about it, Lil,” he breathes. “But it’s all going to be okay.”