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“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ryke yells at the guy, who huffs with deep-seated rage.
“I’m okay,” Lo tells me, clenching his teeth and favoring his right hand. Three of his knuckles are clearly crushed, and I suspect his other bones fair about the same.
“No one here wants to see that!” The man gestures between Lo and me with disgust.
I’ve stood on Lo’s feet for sit-ups in this exact gym before. We’ve joked without anyone complaining. It’s still all changed based on what I’ve admitted, and I won’t ever take it back. But I would’ve rather the man thrown the fucking weight at me than hurt my friend.
“Speak for yourself!” This doesn’t come from Ryke. Or from me. Or Loren. It’s a random guy on a weight bench.
“Yeah!” someone else across the room pipes in.
“We don’t want you here, man!” The exclamation is directed at the dumbbell guy. Gym employees in red-collared shirts begin to make their way towards us.
“Are you serious?” the guy sneers. “They were flirting!”
“Booooo!” The noise comes from the treadmills.
Ryke cools down at the support from over half the gym, and he squats in front of his little brother, inspecting his quickly swelling hand. Lo looks up at me like, can you believe this? He’s not talking about his injury. There is more surprise and awe in his eyes than pain.
I think I share some of that awe—proud that intolerance can be met with reactions like these. The gym employees speak quietly to the man.
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m leaving,” he sneers. “And I’m telling everyone I fucking know not to come to this faggot gym.”
As soon as he heads to the door, almost everyone stops their workout and starts clapping at his departure, happy to see him go as much as we all are.
“I’d join, but…” Lo winces as he tries to close his hand.
“You need a fucking cast.”
“I need a drink.”
Ryke shoots him a glare.
Lo’s brows rise. “Joking.” He adds, “I promise.”
Ryke nods, believing him, and I reach out for Lo’s left hand and help him to his feet.
Lo winces again. “I want to go home first and ice it—”
“This isn’t a fucking sprain,” Ryke retorts.
I frown at Lo. “Usually it’s your brother avoiding hospitals, not you.”
“It’ll be on the news the minute we park near the ER, and I’d rather go home, ice my hand for an hour and tell Lily. That way, she’ll find out from me.”
If I had to choose who has the highest pain tolerance of all of us, it’d be Loren Hale, without question.
* * *
“Please, Lil. I’m okay. It’s okay…” Lo tries to calm his wife with a hug, and she wipes her tears repeatedly, trying to be composed for him. He favors his right hand, all of us joined together in the kitchen.
“I know—I just…I can tell it’s hurting you.” She rubs her splotchy cheeks, guilt-ridden that she’s crying in the face of his injury.
I search the kitchen cabinets for any painkillers with Rose. And Daisy zips a plastic baggie with ice, passing it to Lily, who hands it to Lo.
I knock shoulders with Ryke as he heads to the fridge, and we both exchange a look that says you were in my way first before returning to our natural course.
“My hand barely hurts,” Lo tells her and he tries to close his fingers into a fist, but he struggles to move his joints.
“Don’t do that!” Lily holds his arm still, her eyes big and wide. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Lo.”
Lo nods once.
I really want to drive him to the hospital now. The logical part of me—which is almost all of me—combats with his decision to linger at the house.
Rose and I end up at the same lower cabinet, crouched and digging through plastic containers for anything that’ll help him.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your movie for this long,” Lo exclaims. He turns to Willow who sits contemplatively on the bar stool, observing everything with respectful, shy glances. “You’re having a shit day.”
Willow pushes up her black-rimmed glasses. “Being dumped the day of prom isn’t as bad as breaking your hand.”
Lo’s cheekbones sharpen, gritting his teeth. “It all just depends.” For Lo, emotional hurt will always outweigh physical pain.
Rose passes me a new basket, and I quickly thumb through seasonal allergy medicine and decongestants, finding nothing stronger than Advil. Rose growls under her breath, and she glances back over her shoulder at Lo.
I do too.
“I’m driving him in twenty minutes,” she says beneath her breath.
I’d comment that I’d drive him in ten, but the way Lily has her hand on his waist, silently guiding him towards the garage door—I think it’ll be more like five minutes until he’s heading to the hospital.
Rose and I stand up together with nothing more than an Advil bottle. I dole out a few pills and pass them to him. Daisy is quick to retrieve a glass of water.
“Can you all seriously stop freaking out?”
“I haven’t said a word,” I mention.
“Exactly,” he retorts.
Ryke is busy making a turkey sandwich, putting lettuce on top of the meat, and I can’t believe for a second this is a selfish act to feed his own hunger.
Daisy hops up on the counter next to him, swinging her legs. “Have you all watched The Young Victoria before?” she asks Ryke, Lo, and me, an easy distraction to alleviate tension.
“That’s what you’re watching?” Lo asks with a cringe. He looks to Willow. “You let Rose talk you into a boring period film?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“I don’t know…comics made me think of Declan, so Rose suggested something different. I like it so far.”
Lo’s face sharpens, all severe lines. “Don’t let him ruin comics for you, Willow. That’s shit on his part. Okay?”
Willow nods but stares solemnly at the counter, and I can’t ignore my phone any longer. I check the message.
You free? Come over in 5 min. Two of my friends from L.A. are here, and we’re going to hang out – Scott
I have to say yes.
I look up and life is still moving at the same pace. Ryke cuts half of his sandwich with a butter knife, and he walks across the kitchen to give it to Lo.
“Thanks, bro.” Lo accepts the food with his left hand.
As Ryke returns, he cuts half of the sandwich once more and passes a quarter to Daisy. He climbs on the counter beside her, eating what remains. They often share food, but this gesture today reminds me how close they’ve become and how similar they are.
“Your phone,” Rose tells me.
It buzzes again, and she sees the next text blink on the screen.
We’re going to start without you – Scott
I’m not sure what “start” implies, but I know I have to be there. I may own the sex tapes, but I’m missing a certain overwhelming victory that sends Scott out of our lives, ensuring that we’ll never have to see him again.
It’s a delicate process that I think may come to a head today of all days. If his friends from L.A. are here, he may be willing to do something illegal to entertain them, and of course I’m invited.
I’m his best friend.
“I have to go,” I whisper to her.
She nods, her shoulders pulled back and eyes flaming as though to combat Scott, who sits across the street, in a house so close to ours. I have to go, I think.
And I don’t want to detach from her. I’d rather stay here and be set ablaze, but based on facts—based on his friends’ arrival—I sense that this is it. The last time I have to stomach his presence.
“I’ll be here for you,” she says, telling me she’ll be in this house.
She’ll be so much closer than that. I have no doubt that she’ll be in my head, right there with me, even when it hurts. It’s what I need.
I walk through the foyer and then open the door. On my way down the street, I spot a familiar face hurrying this way. As he approaches, I notice the formal black slacks, the white button-down and a bouquet of spring flowers.
Garrison Abbey.
When we returned to Philadelphia after the lake house, we dropped Garrison off at his parent’s, so he had to confront flunking out of Faust. Willow said that he’s going to enroll in Maybelwood Preparatory next year, an hour from this neighborhood and ironically the same school Ryke attended.
