Hothouse Flower

< 69 >

RYKE MEADOWS

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I walk down the carpeted staircase. I simultaneously check my text and follow Lo out of the heavy double doors. Our new house sits in this rich neighborhood in Philly, not the same one our parents live in—but fucking close. At least it’s gated.

At least we can fucking run down the street without fearing a swarm of paparazzi.

I open my phone.

I love you. Maybe we can meet up, if that’s alright. Anywhere you want. – Mom

I stop on the stone steps outside, the birds singing. 6 a.m. My favorite time of day. The sun hasn’t risen, but the sky is lighter and the air is fucking cooler.

My mom.

She hurt me more than my father ever could have. Because I loved her unconditionally. Because I sided with her against Jonathan out of blind loyalty. Because she destroyed Lily and her family, and there’s no going back from that.

But she’s still my mom.

She’s still the same woman who went to my track meets, hugged me tight Christmas morning and signed me up for any hobby that I asked, for any sport that caught my eye. She gave me the fucking world—I was just a little fucking lost inside of it.

I’ll always have those good memories. I just need to hold onto them.

“You coming?!” Lo calls, already at our mailbox, stretching his legs.

“Yeah! Hang on.” My fingers move quickly across the screen.

I’d like that.

I press send and slip the phone back in my pocket. It’s the first text in two years that I’ve replied to, the first hand I’ve extended. Time to start over.

I walk to Lo, and I stretch beside him in the yard, not saying anything at first. But then he speaks up. “So…I watched the interview.”

I don’t look at him. I just sit on the fucking grass and reach out to my shoe, my muscles pulling in taut strands. “Yeah?”

“Was it hard?” he asks.

I stare off, my gaze on the dewy blades of grass, the ground cold in the December morning. A couple weeks ago, I sat down with a reporter.

I tell Lo the honest truth, no lies. “It was one of the hardest days of my fucking life.”

It had been more difficult than climbing three rock faces back to back. More difficult than sitting in a jail cell. More difficult than having a civil lunch with my father.

“You didn’t stutter or anything during it,” Lo says. “Connor was worried you were going to forget your name.”

I laugh lightly. “Yeah…” It’s all I can really say. The reporter, a woman in a sleek gray suit, a microphone attached to her blouse, asked me pointblank what the nation has always wanted to know.

“Did Jonathan Hale ever inappropriately touch Loren?”

I denied every allegation, every claim that painted my dad in a bad light and caused my brother pain.

Lo’s Nike sole knocks into mine as he stretches on the ground too. “You said the hardest things are usually the right things, right?” His brows furrow. I think he’s worried that I’ll regret making a statement to the press.

I don’t.

Not all. The allegations weren’t true. There was no reason to keep quiet other than to punish my father, and I needed to unhook that fucking chain from my ankles. “It was definitely the fucking right thing,” I say with all my confidence.

His shoulders relax. “Thanks,” he says. “I mean it. Not just for this but for taking care of Daisy, for being here for me during these rough months. I take you for granted sometimes, but I never fucking forget that you’re the reason I’m sober.”

I actually smile. I think my face says it all. Sometimes it’s hard to tell that he cares, and when moments like this come, the tough parts don’t seem so fucking bad. It’s worth everything.

We stand at the same time and head to the mailbox again, letting go of the heavy shit before we run.

“Five miles,” Lo says jumping up and down to warm his blood. “You’re not beating me this time, big brother. Watch yourself.”

I stumble on his use of “big brother”—said with endearment. Somewhere along the way, I’ve earned the title. That feels fucking good.

“Hey you, staring off into space, did you hear me?” Lo asks, waving his palm at me.

I smack his hand away. “You have a lacrosse stick lying around? I like my fucking legs, so don’t break them.”

Lo spreads his arms out. “No cheating. Fair race. I expect a fucking trophy when I beat your ass at your own sport.”

“Fat fucking chance.”

And then we both look at each other, no countdown. We just take off at the same time.

Our paces are mimicked. Stride for stride. Leg for leg. Step for fucking step. He runs right beside me, our rhythm exactly the same. He pumps faster, and I push harder. Matched.

My breathing steadies and my head feels light. When I look beside me, for the first time, I don’t see that weight on my brother’s chest. I don’t see anything tugging him backwards.

He’s fucking smiling.

The sun streams through the trees, our distance shortening with each step. Pride, for him, consumes me.

And it’s at four miles in—when he leaves my side and takes five lengthy strides ahead—that I know.

He’s going to outrun me.