Ryke says, “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“My dad created Fizzle,” I explain.
“I know, that explains why Connor’s hanging around the two of you, but that has nothing to do with you two being together.” He puts the frame down.
Connor raises his hand. “Just to clarify, I actually kind of like these two. Never a dull moment.”
Ryke shrugs off his leather jacket that’s soaked in alcohol. “So you’re in a serious relationship with Lo?”
“What does it matter to you?”
His face twists in irritation. “Are you always this defensive with people who save your ass?”
Yes.Instead of admitting my faults, I answer his previous question. “He’s a childhood friend. We just started dating, but we’ve lived together since the start of college. Satisfied?”
“That’ll fucking do,” he says, picking up another frame.
Connor asks, “What time do you think Lo is going to be awake? He promised me that we’d go to the gym tomorrow.”
I sigh. “Promises from Lo are like bars at 2 a.m.—empty.” I open the desk drawer and find three bottles of Advil. I toss the bare container in the trash and dump four pills from the second bottle into my palm. Hurriedly, I fill a glass of water from the bathroom and place it beside the bed with the capsules.
“You do this a lot,” Ryke states.
I shut off the lights, not meeting his eyes and usher them into the living room. I wrap my body in a cream cotton blanket, hiding my hands that have begun to shake. While they choose the couch, I curl up in the red suede recliner.
Ryke soaks in the atmosphere from the cushions, inspecting the light fixtures, the unused fireplace and the Warhol-inspired polar bear prints. It’s like he’s constructing a person out of our things. I don’t like it.
“You both should leave. I’m kind of tired,” I say softly.
Connor stands. “Okay, but I’ll be here in the afternoon to pick up Lo for the gym. He may not keep his promises, but I collect on all offered to me.”
Ryke stands just as Connor leaves through the door. He continues to glance around, his eyes flitting over the kitchen, the bar stools, the bookshelves…
“Are you planning on stealing something?” I ask. “We really don’t have that many valuables here. You should try my parents’ house.”
Ryke’s face contorts. “You’re something, you know that?” His eyes narrow. “Just because I’m staring at your fucking lamp, doesn’t mean I’m going to hijack it.”
“If you’re not taking mental pictures to come back later, then what the hellareyou doing?”
He cocks his head to the side and stares at me like I’m truly a moron. “I’m trying to get a sense for who you are.” He points to the fireplace mantel where a crystal vase sits, a house warming present from Poppy. “Rich.” He nods to the liquor bottles that litter the kitchen counters. “Alcoholic.” How can he form that conclusion from a few bottles?
My nose flares. “Get out.”
His eyes continue to narrow. “Does it hurt—hearing the truth? Has anyone told it to you before?”
I rarely ever become this worked up, but my chest rises with something foreign and furious. “You can’t look atthingsand understand us!”
“Yeah? I seem to have struck a chord. And I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m right.”
“What’s your problem?” I spit. “We didn’t ask for your help. If I knew you were going to be such a…” I growl, not able to form complete words at this point.
“A gorilla?” he banters. “A monkey? An ape?” He takes a step closer to me. I could punch him. I haveneverfelt such hostility towards someone before.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, almost whining. Ialsohate the tone of my voice.
“No,” he says adamantly.
I clench my teeth, suppressing the urge to stomp my foot like a weirdo. “Why?”
