And today, I can say “I don’t care” and mean it.
I’m twenty-four-years-old. I always thought I was done growing up. But being with Rose has made me grow into the version of myself that I love the most.
My fears are no longer so selfish and so pretentiously vain.
Rose tells me, “If I’m being attacked, I’m taking out my pepper spray and Taser. I won’t use my fists first. That’s a last resort.”
“What if you don’t have time for all of that?” I ask her. I can’t help but smile every time I eye her clothes. No tennis shoes. No yoga pants or T-shirt. She chose wedges, leather shorts and a white cotton top, tucked in like she’s about to attend a lunch meeting. Loren told her to go change, and she looked like she wanted to rip off his face.
I know better.
“Not all paparazzi are despicable,” she says. “I’m sure someone would have a moral bone and help me against angry hecklers.”
“What if the paparazzi aren’t around?”
She holds up her finger. “One time,” she tells me. “Only one time in the past four months have I been alone in public. And that was when Lily drove down five wrong streets in a row.”
“Hey!” Lily speaks up. She’s on the ground in proper workout clothes like Daisy. Only she wears her furry white cap that’s more suited for the snow than warm, mid-May weather. It has tusks and apparently it’s something called a Wampa from Star Wars. The only reason I can see her wearing it is Loren. Every time he glances her way, his breathing deepens and his amber eyes glaze in desire, looking ready to mount her.
Lily stands to her feet, abandoning whatever move Loren was trying to show her. “I only drove down the wrong streets because the GPS was in French.”
Rose gives her a look. “You were the one who put it in French.”
“Only because I’m trying to learn the language,” Lily explains, “so that I can know what the hell you two talk about behind our backs.”
Last episode was the first time they aired us speaking French to each other. Production included subtitles.
Our conversation revolved around Lily and went something like this on TV.
ROSE: She’s losing weight. I can see her ribs.
ME: That’s a shadow.
ROSE: It’s not a shadow. It’s her skeleton.
ME: I have a physics book upstairs. I’m sure it talks about light and shadows. Do you want it?
ROSE: Why would you have a physics book? You’re a business student.
ME: For moments like these.
It was one of our more calm exchanges in French, but Lily wasn’t amused by the fact that we were discussing her weight—right in front of her.
Apparently they all thought that we just argue about “smart people” things （Lily’s words） and that we have a rule to not talk about them in French.
I do have a rule.
If you want to understand me, learn my language.
Ryke and Daisy don’t seem to care that we could have talked about them, but Lily and Loren are aggravated.
“And just so you know,” Lily says, “I can say five whole words in French already. So at this rate, I will be fluent in no time.”
Daisy walks over after jumping up and down. “Didn’t you fail Spanish and Latin in prep school?” she asks with a smile.
“That’s a mute point,” Lily defends. “Those aren’t even the same languages.”
Rose gives me another look, but I can’t stop myself. “Moot point,” I correct her.
Lily stares at me, dumbfounded. “What?” Loren wraps his arms around her waist as she explains, “It’s mute. Like it doesn’t make a sound, so it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s moot,” I repeat. “I assure you.”
Rose elbows me, and Lily’s eyebrows bunch in even more confusion.
“No one likes the fucking grammar police,” Ryke tells me.
“That’s scary coming from a guy who used to write for the city’s newspaper in college,” I say. “Did your editor hate you?”
He flips me off.
“Wait.” Lily holds up her hands. “What’s a moot then? That’s not a word.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rose says quickly and waves me off.
“It does,” I refute. “I want to educate your sister.”
Rose punches me in the arm and then points. “That’s for your indirect insult. She’s not stupid.” I open my mouth to speak and she punches my arm again. “And apparently you need self-defense lessons. You don’t seem to be doing a lot of defending.”
She goes to punch me again and I grab her fist in my hand.
Her lips purse. “Fine.”
I just notice Ben, Brett, and Savannah circling us when they start to flock Ryke. I look around for Scott, but I realize he must be locked in his room. Working. He’s shifted his tactics once again. No longer annoying the Calloway girls as much as he used to. He’s been almost absent for the past two weeks. I don’t know if this house is making me more paranoid, but I keep thinking he’s up to something. I just haven’t determined what he could possibly do to me without physically taking Rose. He’s already failed at that. So what’s left in his arsenal?
Rose and I look over as Ryke tosses his shirt to his side. He has better lean and defined muscles than both Lo and me. We’ll both admit that because we’re not the ones ascending mountains with our bare hands every other day.
“I didn’t know this was naked self-defense class,” I quip.
Lo laughs. “Damn, you beat me to that one.”
Ryke glares. “No one fucking hit my right shoulder. It’s off-limits.” That’s all he says in reply. But we know what he’s talking about. He’s spent over a month getting an intricate tattoo. One of the most popular episodes was when Daisy went with him for company. It was one of her few free days, and Rose and I both noticed she chose to spend it with Ryke of all people.
Princesses of Philly aired about fifteen minutes of “did Daisy get a tattoo with Ryke or didn’t she?” until they revealed the answer at the end.
She’s tattoo-free.
Her mother would have killed her if she marked her body, which is pivotal in furthering her modeling career. And Samantha would have also found a way to destroy Ryke, probably by throwing him in jail for some ridiculous charge. I have no doubt about this, which is why I’ve been cautioning Ryke to stay away from Daisy until she’s older.
But he’s a masochist; I swear he does things he knows will hurt him in the end.
We all stare at his finished tattoo. A phoenix with wings in shades of red, orange and yellow engulfs his right shoulder and chest, the feet near his abs. A gray and black chain is wrapped around the ankles of the bird, and it descends down his side, an anchor inked at his hip.
Lo shakes his head. “At least you didn’t get a tribal tattoo.”
“Fuck off,” Ryke says. He stretches an arm behind his head and ignores our stares and the three cameras.
I tilt my head. “You did make sure the needle was wrapped and sterile?”
“I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“Well, when you say it like that, I believe you more,” I deadpan.