Wait, come back.
Ryke detaches from Daisy in an instant. “Fuck,” he curses and checks the tray on the stove. His brows pinch. “They look fine to me.” He flips one over, the bottom light brown.
“My bad,” Lo says dryly.
I open my mouth to call him over, but his back suddenly spins, like he’s icing me out. My heart lurches. Turn around. I need to know I didn’t upset him…or offend him. I usually have the best read on Lo, and I have no superpowers of mental persuasion or any magic like Connor. I am too much of a squib to fix this.
Turn around. Nothing.
Lo whispers with Connor, and a pit wedges even further in my lungs.
And then Daisy’s phone rings while Ryke washes his hands.
“Who is it?” Rose asks.
Daisy’s face falls a little. “Mom. She’s trying to convince me to go to a plastic surgeon for the scar again, on top of planning my birthday.” She lets out a tired breath and rubs her eyes. “I’ll be a couple minutes.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Rose says, outstretching her hand to snatch the phone as Daisy passes.
“No.” Daisy hugs the cell to her chest and walks backwards to the basement door. “You don’t need the stress. It’s all cool. I can handle her.” With this, Daisy disappears. The last thing I hear her say is, “Hey, Mom.”
I try not to worry about Daisy or Lo, and instead focus on Ryke who chucks some dirty bowls into the sink. Maybe I can squash this and convince Lo that nothing is happening. I’m repelled by Ryke. We’re so platonic it hurts.
In a nonsexual way.
I cringe. I really need to stop thinking. I ask Ryke, “What are you getting her?”
He rotates to me, his features all dark. All stone to his brother’s ice. “For what?”
Rose lets out a not-so-surprised half-laugh. “Her birthday,” she says flatly. “Tell me you’ve already bought her something.”
“For fuck’s sake, it was just Valentine’s Day.” And he cancelled his plans of camping under the stars with Daisy that day, the paparazzi just too rabid after the small car wreck. Any time we pop up in the tabloids like a newsworthy blip, our photos start selling for more money. So February 14th, Ryke just cooked Daisy dinner and spent the night indoors like Lo and me.
Connor and Rose were the only two who ventured out, and Rose called the evening “hellish” since they were late for their dinner reservations in New York. Even though their whereabouts were tipped to the media, Rose returned home with an uncharacteristically giddy smile and a limo full of red and pink roses.
They were from her fans, who showed up to see her, just to say I love you, Rose Calloway, and give her a present on Valentine’s Day. I love our short-lived reality show for bringing this type of unexpected joy into our lives, and it verifies why these kinds of fans should rule the world.
“So what if it was just Valentine’s Day,” Rose snaps, redirecting my thoughts to the present, “it’s still her birthday on the twentieth, and she’ll expect a gift from her boyfriend.”
“I’m working on it,” Ryke says, nearing the bar counter while Lo and Connor share furtive whispers a few feet away.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, my palms sweaty. I wish I wasn’t on the outs.
“Look,” Ryke continues, “a lot is going on…” He trails off as Rose snatches the nearest utensil—a whisk—and points it at him threateningly.
This would be scarier if it was something sharp. Like a knife or a fork.
“Do not tell me that you forgot her birthday,” Rose says in her icy tone. Oh no.
But I remember that Ryke isn’t Lo. He holds his hands up defensively. “Daisy is not the type of fucking person to remind anyone about her birthday. It’s not my fault.”
“That was directed towards me,” Rose says like she caught an insult midair with a baseball glove.
Ryke frowns in confusion. “What?”
“Because I emailed you my birthday itinerary in advance…” Off Ryke’s scrunched gaze, she adds, “Do you even check your email?”
“To be honest, I don’t even know my password,” Ryke tells her. “And who plans their birthday six months in advance?” Solid points. I look to Lo, wondering if he sees how cordial this conversation is—how unsexy we all are.
My heart just keeps sinking the longer I stare at his back.
Rose drums her fingers on the bar counter. “I’m not ashamed. It’s the one day of the year dedicated to me, so if three-hundred-and-sixty-four days fail to live up to my standards, I still have this one.”