He shakes his head, and his reddened eyes meet mine. “Don’t be. I felt betrayed and hurt because I couldn’t face the reality.” He gives me a saddened smile, and I’m more aware of the gray strands that salt his brown hair. “I spent over half my life working for my daughters, to provide you with a better life than I had, and it’s a very hard realization to admit—that what I worked so hard for ended up doing the inverse of what I dreamed.”
I shake my head. He blames himself. For my addiction. Tears threaten to fall, and I try desperately to suppress them.
He takes my hand in his and says, “You’ve been my shy little girl for so long, and I should’ve recognized that you weren’t all there. As an adult, as a parent and as your father, I am so sorry.”
Hot liquid rolls down my cheeks. Why here? Why now? I ache to ask these questions, but I see the answers in his watery gaze. And as he wipes my tears. No one can really pinpoint a reason why and when someone grows courage.
It happens over time, and my father has cemented this painful, raw reality—the one I have always been living in. And what’s funnier, it’s more peaceful with him here. It doesn’t hurt as badly.
“Thank you,” I whisper, sniffing and blinking back more tears. I have to ask… “Would you want to…maybe come to therapy one day with me? If you don’t want to, I completely understand—”
“I’d like that, Lily.” And then he hugs me, my heart bursting. A moment passes and he asks, “Now how do you like Ziff? Be honest.”
Oh no. I rub my nose with my arm, very unladylike, but my father doesn’t care. “Uh…” I wince like I can’t exactly say my thoughts aloud.
“That bad?” he asks, his brows shooting up his forehead in worry. He steals my bottle and inspects the label. “The recipe did well with kids your age.” I remember Sam saying as much about the multiple test groups.
“Maybe it’s just me.” I shrug.
He gives me a tight squeeze. “With Ryke as the face, it has a good chance to succeed. That’s what I’m hoping.” He never intended for Ryke to fail. All this time, he was hoping Ryke could help Fizzle, a company that my dad considers a fifth child. It’s nice to know that he’s had good intentions, even if we all predict a Mountain Berry Fizz 2.0, with a short shelf-life.
After another brief second, I focus on the cliff with my father. The tension is nearly gone, and he keeps his arm around my shoulders. The waterworks almost start up again.
In a matter of minutes, Ryke scales the rock with speed and precision. Twenty feet high. Then fifty. He’s to the top faster than those bottled pyramids probably took to build. With a sweaty chest and slicked back hair, he chugs another entire bottle of Ziff again.
The crowds roar in enthusiasm. It’s a picture-perfect moment, a brilliant ad for a magazine or a commercial. Everyone claps and cheers. Even my father. With a prideful smile, his palms smack together.
He likes Ryke. He may not want him with Daisy. But it’s hard not to admire Ryke’s bravery. He defies the impossible every time he climbs.
I try to let out a breath, but it tightens the moment Ryke begins to put on a harness, preparing to repel to the base. Ryke once mentioned that the most dangerous part of rock climbing isn’t the ascent but rather the descent. So my stomach flip-flops all over again.
And then he repels.
Down.
And down. And down.
When a big gust of wind blows through, the crowds seem to shush at the exact same moment. But it’s nothing to Ryke. Within seconds, he safely touches the grass. Then he stumbles over his own feet and reaches out for the rock face as a support.
I don’t understand what’s wrong.
Daisy sprints over to him, and when Ryke raises his head, I notice the color lost in his skin.
I find myself walking quickly towards him with my father, and I sense Lo, Connor, Rose, Sam and Poppy in tow.
If Lo didn’t have Moffy, he’d most likely run over to his brother, but we all end up surrounding Ryke around the same time. He’s hunched over with his hands braced on his thighs.
“Give me…a fucking…minute.” He breathes heavily through his nose.
“You’re really pale,” Lo says, worry spreading across his face. “Was it that hard of a climb?”
Ryke shakes his head repeatedly. And then it hits me. He chugged two bottles of Ziff: disgusting, putrid, Blood Squall, Ziff.
The nausea surfaces in his features and he gags.
“Alright, let’s back up.” My father waves all of us to move away from Ryke. “Give him some room—”