The “too old” bit will come later because even though Ryke is seven years older than me, it’s not an end-all for her. She’s actually tried to pair me with a thirty-year-old before. He was loaded from holding the copyrights to some popular song. A month after I turned eighteen, I almost went on a date with him, per my mother’s arrangement. My father was the one who put his foot down.
He cares about age difference.
“I called Hilda to come here last week to clean,” she says with an upturned nose. “Did she not make it?”
“I turned her away,” I announce. “I’m trying to be more independent.” And that means not hiring a cleaning lady to fold my clothes. “Lily and Loren didn’t have Hilda stopping by their apartment.” Now they both live in Princeton, New Jersey with Rose and her husband. Not too far away to visit.
My mom scoffs. “They could clean up after themselves.” True. Her gaze drops to my stomach, and she pinches my waist. “You’re not gaining weight before Fashion Week, are you?” she criticizes.
Have I?
Before I look, she appraises me and says, “Never mind. You should be okay.” She fixes my hair that must still be tangled, running her fingers through it like it’s precious gold. “Are you sure you don’t want me in Paris with you? I can keep you company while you’re getting your makeup done.”
“I just want to see what it’s like on my own,” I say, trying not to hurt her feelings.
She gives me a weak smile, pretending to be happy for me. “I love you,” she tells me, and then she kisses my cheek. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. Noon. I’ll have Nola pick you up.”
“Okay.”
And just when I think all is clear, as she travels back towards the door, the shower turns on.
He knows she hasn’t left yet.
My mom frowns, and her neck elongates like a prairie dog. She zeroes in on the bathroom door. “Did someone spend the night with you?”
I’m not embarrassed or mad. I almost want to laugh at the situation. God, what kind of life do I live? “It’s Lily,” I lie. “Do you want to talk to her?”
I know she’ll say no. Lily’s sex addiction is what put my father’s soda company, Fizzle, in a state of distress. The negative press affected our family in so many different ways, and most of them, my mom disapproved of. I don’t hate Lily for it, not after seeing how guilty and ashamed she was. But my mom can’t really see past the negative. She hasn’t forgiven my sister yet.
“I won’t bother her,” she says. “Keep your phone on. And don’t lock your door anymore.” She always tells me that before she leaves. After she heads out of my bedroom, I listen for the shut of my apartment door. When it comes, I enter the bathroom.
Steam coats the mirrors and fogs the air. I can’t see beyond my daisy-floral shower curtain that sticks out from the tub. I hear the splash of the water on the porcelain and spot his drawstring pants on my shaggy green rug. He’s naked in there. Well, no duh, Daisy.
“My mom almost caught you,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “Then she can call me a ‘disrespectful degenerate’ to my face.” Yeah, she said that the last time she was here. Ryke was hiding in the bathroom then too, and he heard every insult.
“Hey, I stuck up for you then and before that, and before that.”
“No offense,” he says, “but your mom really doesn’t fucking care about your opinions on anything.”
I can’t really take offense to his words. I know it’s true. Only two times have I ever confronted my mother with the truth. That I’d rather be doing something—anything—other than modeling. And she told me that I was being childish and ungrateful, so I shut up on the spot. If I bailed on a photo shoot at the last minute, her face would morph with an expression like that’s my daughter? That rude little snob?
Disappointing my mother is like stabbing her in the womb—the very place I used to be. There’s a metaphor in there, I think.
Ryke suddenly shuts off the shower and yanks the yellow towel from a hook. I’ve been around too many half-dressed, nearly-naked male models to be that alarmed. But it’s different when you know the person. It’s different when you have a crush on a guy beyond just his body, when you like all of him.
And I like all of Ryke Meadows.
The shower curtain whips to the side, and Ryke steps out with the towel tied low around his waist, beads of water still dripping down his toned chest and abs. I’m about to leave, to give him privacy, but he says, “Come here.”