“He f**king assaulted you, Daisy. He’s not getting away with this sh*t.”
“I don’t want to cause more trouble, really. Let’s just forget about it.”
“You want me to f**king forget about it?” His eyes fall to her waist where he saw the bruise. And then he stands and tries to pull her shirt up.
Connor chokes on his wine. I rub his back with a mechanical hand. I really want to smack Ryke’s head, but I’m restraining myself—something Ryke clearly cannot do.
“I gave you way too much credit,” Connor tells him. “I thought you were smart enough not to do that on camera.”
“On camera?” Lo interjects. “How about not at all.”
Daisy waves her hand from the ground, still texting. “Right here, guys.”
Ryke extends his arms. “What do you want from me? She just told me she got mauled by some fucking angry idiot on the street, and she wouldn’t tell me how bad it was.”
“For the record, it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was fucking bad.” Ryke glares at her. “Your whole side was fucked up.”
“What is fucked up?” I say in worry. “Do you need to go to the doctor, Daisy?”
“I already went,” she says. “I’m fine. No internal bleeding—”
“I’m going to strangle you,” I tell Ryke. I step towards him, and Connor clutches my arm, pulling me back to his chest. My sister was that hurt and no one thought to inform me?!
“Why are you fucking yelling at me?” Ryke shouts. “I’m not the one who tossed her to the ground.”
“You should have told me!”
“Daisy didn’t want you to know,” Ryke retorts. “Is it that hard of a concept? You freak the fuck out, Rose. You’re about to hyperventilate right now.”
I’m not.
And then I realize that my chest rises and falls in a strange, uneven rhythm. Okay, maybe I’m not all there. But I hate that Daisy was hurt and I was purposefully left out of the secret. I should have remembered they were keeping something from me. I should have been by her side while she was at the doctor’s. This is my fault. If we didn’t have the reality show, she wouldn’t have met such a hostile pedestrian without a bodyguard.
“Were you alone at the doctor’s?” I ask Daisy.
“Ryke went with me.”
At least she wasn’t alone. But Lo glares at him, hardly thinking he’s a good replacement. He’s better than no one.
I glance back at the big screen. Ryke and Daisy stop fighting each other. He holds her arms while she stares up into his brown eyes.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“The more you keep saying that, Calloway, the less I believe you. What’d he do, body slam a hundred-twenty-pound girl on the f**king ground?”
“No, we wrestled. In the mud. There were cheerleaders in attendance too.”
“Shut the f**k up.”
She grins. “It’s funny.”
“You being hurt is the least funny thing in the entire f**king world.”
“And that’s the biggest exaggeration I’ve heard all day.”
They just stare at each other for three long seconds. Ryke tries to cut the tension by looking away first. He says, “I’ll take your bike to the shop. You can ride mine if you need to go to a modeling gig.”
People mutter again, and my mother’s bony collar juts out as she inhales, her frame too skinny. With the scandal, she’s eaten less and less. And it’s not long before her hateful gaze finds her target, landing on Ryke. Direct hit.
“Momma Calloway is going to ream your ass,” Lo tells him. He slaps his back and squeezes his shoulder hard. “Good luck, bro.” He smiles.
“You’re enjoying my distress way too fucking much.”
“It keeps my life bright.”
The commercial break airs, and I’m surprised my mother has the balls to stay here. She could cave in embarrassment at her daughters’ impropriety and bluntness and their boyfriends’ habit to tell it like it is. But she smiles and waves at her stereotypical WASP friends without carrying a morsel of shame. Either she’s a terrific actress or she’s grown to look past our unbecoming natures.
I’d love to think better of my mother, but people don’t change that quickly, especially not stubborn middle-aged women who’ve been rooted in their beliefs for so long.
But maybe this reality show could help her forgive and accept rather than hate.
By the time the show starts again, my head spins with a decent buzz. I grab another glass of champagne, and Connor stands behind me, his hands on my waist. He gathers my hair onto one shoulder, and the cold nips my bare neck.
We’re both suddenly distracted by the montage that plays—moments at the house when only Lily was home.
Lily squirms on the leather couch. She adjusts her feet underneath, her forehead wrinkled in distress. Her hand starts to descend towards her jeans. She retracts almost instantly, her cheeks heating. She looks around the room to see if anyone saw. And when her eyes hit the camera, looking directly at us, the viewers, she presses a pillow to her face in humiliation.
It doesn’t end there. Her internet privileges have been restored only because she’s taking online classes. And we’ve all trusted her to stay off dirty sites.
She lies on the couch, her laptop on her legs. She glances over her shoulder and then she immediately shuts her computer, fighting a dangerous compulsion. Her hand descends towards her jeans, but she stays above the fabric and touches the spot between her legs.
“How can they air this?” I ask angrily.
“The PTC will bitch tomorrow,” Connor says calmly. “Just let it play out.” The Parent’s Television Council—I’m sure they’ll wave pitchforks at the network and producers, but it’ll be all over entertainment news and blogs, just stoking the fire and causing more people to watch the footage.
Lily covers her eyes with her hands, and Lo has his lips to her ear, whispering to her rapidly while silent tears start to fall.
The clips keep coming in quick succession.
Lily rubs against a kitchen chair, unconsciously. When she catches herself, she reddens.
Lily rubs against the corner of the kitchen counter.
Lily’s hand descends—three different times. But she always stops before she gets too far.
I don’t get embarrassed about many things, but I sense the judgment, the weird stares pinning on Lily in the party room. I can practically feel my sister crumpling before I even look at her.
Lily turns into Lo’s chest and she grabs at his black crew-neck. She stuffs her head underneath, literally hiding inside his shirt while he’s still wearing it. “I’m not coming out,” she says. “Don’t make me come out, Lo.”
Loren touches her head. “Stay there as long as you want, love.” When he looks up, he sends shriveling glares to anyone who so much as glances at him. His glares aren’t necessarily like mine or like Ryke’s. They’re the kind that make you feel like he’s about to go get a chainsaw and murder your whole fucking family. It’s a sadistic, I have nothing to lose, type of look that his father taught him well.
And it’s enough to cause everyone to face the big screens again.