I swallow a lump and step out of the car. Police sirens blare in the distance, and glass sprinkles the pavement. The Trailblazer isn’t as beat up as our smaller car, but the driver is still inspecting his bumper.
“Daisy,” Ryke says, his voice full of concern.
My head whips to the side, and I spot my little sister leaning against the Audi’s hood. She stares faraway, lost in her mind it seems. Ryke keeps waving a hand at her, but she’s not even responding.
“Daisy, fucking look at me.”
“What…” She blinks in a daze, and her arms tremble. It’s like she’s somewhere else entirely, maybe back in Paris, in the riot, where her face was scarred. The sirens and wreck could’ve triggered the trauma from that night.
Lo emerges from the Audi and immediately places his hands on my hips. “Lily,” he whispers, “an ambulance is coming. I just want to get you checked out. As a precaution, okay?” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.
I bite my gums to keep my watery gaze at bay. “What about the meeting with your dad?”
“I’ve texted him.” He hugs me to his chest. “It’s probably nothing,” he says again.
Yeah. It’s probably nothing.
I feel a hot tear escape. I’m at the mercy of fate. It’s a cruel thing. To be in the hands of the universe.
Forces that are rarely on our side.
{ 9 }
LOREN HALE
“I just wish I could feel him,” Lily says.
She rests on the hospital bed, one of her palms on her lower abdomen. I hold her other hand, standing beside her while we wait for the ER doctor to return and do an ultrasound.
“I mean, I know I haven’t felt him before. But now I just really wish he’d kick or move, just to let me know that he’s…” Tears build in her green eyes, her cheeks splotched with red.
I squeeze her hand. “He’s fine,” I say, my voice more edged than I like. My pulse hasn’t slowed. I don’t want to lose him—it’s a realization that crushes my lungs.
I don’t want to lose this kid that I never even wanted.
He’s a piece of me and Lily, and most people would consider that a tainted, damaged thing. But the more I think about it—and the longer she carries our child—I recognize all of the good parts of us.
They fucking exist.
And there is a hope, a chance, that he could be more than what I am. That he could be better than me.
Lily sniffs, and I wipe beneath her eyes with my thumb. I turn my head to check on my brother.
By the door, Ryke sits hunched over. A cellphone on his lap. His face buried in his hands. He’s apologized about a hundred times.
Once for my totaled car, ninety-nine times for Lily.
“It’s not your fault,” I say for the fiftieth. The car hit us. It was just a freak accident.
“I was speeding,” Ryke says, dropping his hands. His eyes are bloodshot. Mine remain dry and continue to burn, so I’m guessing they mirror his.
“Not by much.” He slowed down by that point.
His phone buzzes, and he quickly picks it up. His face contorts. “She’s getting fucking psych evaluated.” He tried to follow Daisy to her hospital room, but a nurse told him family only and so he was shuffled to ours.
Now we know why they kicked him out. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” I tell him.
Her eyes didn’t look right. The Paris riot—it’s still with me. Ryke’s eyebrow is slit in the corner, a literal scar from that night like Daisy’s cheek. I have no external wounds to show for, but I remember the fear, the complete lack of control, and I never want to experience that again. It’s panic so deep that death feels close. Suffocating.
Inside out.
Today was a very small taste of that, and I think we all know it triggered something in Daisy that we can’t see.
Ryke runs his hands through his hair, distressed, and then he scans Lily on the hospital bed. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lily.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a soft voice. Her chin quakes.
“Shh, love.” I lean closer to her and hold her face between two hands. “He’s okay.” My chest collapses at the pain in her eyes.
“I can’t feel him,” she cries, tears leaking.
My heart is torn to shreds. “You could never feel him,” I remind her. “It doesn’t mean he’s dead.” The moment I say the word, she bursts from a cry to a guttural sob. I can’t explain this hurt that courses through me, it’s like being submerged beneath water. “Shh, Lil,” I choke out her name. I end up stroking her head, wishing I could just crawl on the hospital bed and hold her in my arms.