From upstairs, feet patter but then they stop and go quiet, hesitating to join the land of people and real, adult things. Lo and Lily keep to themselves, living in their own hazy, addicted world. Here, it’s a bit scary.
“Loren fucking Hale!” Ryke calls.
Nothing.
Daisy rises to her knees and grips the back of the couch. She peers up at the staircase behind me. “Lo! Lily! A comic book came in the mail for you!” She pulls off the motorcycle helmet.
Enticing Lo with something that’s not here will put him in a worse mood.
But it works.
Lo and Lily stampede down the stairs. “It’s mine!” Lily shouts at him. “I ordered the new X-Men comic.” She tries to shove him into the wall, and they block each other mid-stair.
“And I ordered the last issue of New Mutants.” He steps forward and she jumps in front of him, gaping.
“You’ve already read that! Mine is more important.” She spins to race to the door.
Daisy crouches behind the couch.
Before Lily reaches the bottom stair, Lo snatches her by the waist and throws her across his shoulder.
“Not fair!” she retorts, trying to squirm from his strong grasp.
He carries her to the door without so much as glancing at us in the living room. When it comes to comics, sex and booze, they have a one-track mind.
Ben creeps down the stairs, the camera positioned under his arm. He looks slightly petrified from being alone with them, his eyes bugged and his legs shaking.
They must have been in the study room and not a bedroom, or else he wouldn’t have been able to film them. And I’m sure they were making out with more heat than a horny cat—just to say fuck you to the cameras. They’ve been at it all week. It’s only getting worse the longer Lo has to put up with Scott.
Lily said she’s been purposefully trying to distance Lo from the producer and finding ways to keep them apart for as long as possible. I think it’s a brilliant idea.
Ben almost drops his camera.
“Steady hands,” Savannah says to him.
Brett rolls his eyes. （I’m not a big Brett fan.）
Ben lets out a nervous laugh. Documenting Lily and Loren is like being an extreme voyeur, peeping in on their intimate affairs. I bet he feels a bit gross and wrong afterwards. Even reading about Lily’s sex life online leaves me feeling violated. I imagine it’s ten times worse for Lily.
“Wait…” Lily says from the door. “There’s nothing here.”
I grab the shopping bag and head over to the two of them. “This is for you,” I tell Lily. She brightens when she thinks it’s the comic. But as she sifts through the bag’s contents, her face falls for the second time. “Pepper spray?”
“For protection.”
“No, she thought it was for greasing pans,” Loren retorts.
I glare.
“You’re going to treat us like idiots,” he says, “you’re going to get an idiot response back.”
Touché. “I’ll be leaving.”
“Look at that, Lil. The queen has announced her departure. Should we bow?”
“Lo,” Lily warns and gives him a sharp look, and for Lily, those don’t come often.
He shuts his mouth, which must take a great, great deal of effort.
“Go sit with your jackass brother on the couch,” I tell him. “And just so you know, I like that jackass better than you, and I’ve known him fifteen years less.” I flash Loren a dry smile. “See you tomorrow.”
Loren usually has the last word, but I slam the door behind me before he gets it. Bickering with Lo solidifies my day as a normal one. The bad days are the ones where everything is a little off. So far, so good.
*
I jinxed myself.
I know Connor does not believe in such things, but I know I fucking did something wrong. I said, so far, so good. And OF COURSE something decided to blow back in my face.
Scott is here.
At my office.
He just showed up while I was in the middle of rearranging my inventory into plastic tubs. I was separating them according to seasons, trying to unearth the spring and summer collections that we’ll need to wear soon for the show. I’ve been letting my sisters wear their own clothes at certain times, just because I don’t have enough pieces for six full months, even if we wear an outfit twice. Hopefully Scott airs the footage where we’re all dressed in Calloway Couture and not Old Navy, which Lily gravitates towards.
“You work too hard,” Scott tells me, setting down a plastic bag on my white desk. Boxes and tubs line the large loft space. Besides that and my desk and a pig, there’s not much else in here. Oh, wait, there is Brett who films us.
Scott’s kindness must be a result of the camera in his face, trying to capture some footage of him being nice. Must be painful for him.
“I don’t,” I say. “The people who work hard are the ones dedicated to protecting our country, who do better by it. I just design clothes.” I snap the lid onto one of the tubs and wipe my hands on my black pleated dress, the seam touching my thighs （not good） and my collarbones （thank God）。 At least I have on sheer black tights.
“I brought you dinner.”
I watch him pull out two Styrofoam to-go containers, vaguely interested. I ignore my stomach that threatens to grumble on spot.
He opens the containers, and I see the lines of sushi, the little dab of wasabi and bundle of ginger. I barely hear him say the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in New York. I’m too slack-jawed that he got something right. Maybe I’ve been too harsh, too bitchy and judgmental just because he’s from California and says a few sleazy things.
I grimace as I try to come to terms with being nice too. I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I only have one chair.” I near my desk and peer into the plastic bag, taking out chopsticks and soy sauce.
“That’s okay. You can sit on my lap.”
I glare.
“Just kidding,” he laughs. “I’ll sit on your desk.”
Fine. I settle in my rolling chair and pick the to-go box with the rainbow roll, also my favorite. Connor usually brings me dinner in the city, and the fact that he’s been replaced by Scott agitates me. “So who told you I liked sushi?” I ask him.
As promised, he sits on half of my desk, his legs hanging close to me. “I’ve always known it’s your favorite, babe.”
I pause, my chopsticks frozen above the ginger. So he’s definitely playing into our fake old relationship. Two can play this game. “I never ate sushi with you,” I retort. “You said you hated it, and you always made me eat alone.”
His lips twitch in a cringe, which he hides very well. He sets his to-go box on his lap. “Things have changed.”
“You like sushi now?”
He eats a piece, chews and swallows. “I love sushi now.” He smiles, and I absorb his features, the dishwater blond hair that’s styled in a messy, dysfunctional way. And the light layer of scruff along his jaw that makes him look a little older than his age.
I hate that he’s not ugly. I wish he had a thousand warts and a hairy nose. Instead, he could be an actor on a daytime soap, not a producer.
“You miss me,” he suddenly says.