I glance back at the door to the front cabin. It’s the cigar club area with chairs and a flat-screen television. I smelled the cigar smoke the moment I walked into the plane, embedded in the cream leather.
Ryke is in there.
Right through those doors.
With my father. And his father. And Connor. Though I’m not sure Connor can be much of a peacemaker in that situation.
It sounds fairly awkward and uncomfortable. I want to go save him from my dad, but something tells me that he’d find a way to talk to Ryke no matter what.
My mom rotates back to me, and her eyes fall to my graphic T-shirt that says: Sorry, I only date boys with tattoos. I’m not sorry about the shirt. I like it. And so I’m wearing it, regardless if she finds it distasteful or not.
Her fingers circle her pearls unconsciously, but she doesn’t ask me about Ryke. “I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you when we arrive home. The plastic surgeon is going to take a look at your cheek.” Her fingers fall from her pearls, and she rubs my hand again. “What pain medication are you on?”
I shake my head. “I’m out.”
“We’ll get you more.”
“No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.” If I touch my cheek, I can feel the raised wound, slightly puffy, descending from my temple, across my cheek, to my jaw. Everyone sees it but me. So it’s hard to confront the issue head-on when I’m not staring at it.
“You were so lucky,” my mom says. “You could have lost your eye. It could have cut through your lip.” She shakes her head at those brutal images. “The doctor will smooth out the scar, and then I’ll talk to your agency—”
“What?” I cut her off. I was willing to go to a doctor and get the scar looked at, but I can’t stomach going back to modeling. No one will hire me anyway.
“You’re beautiful, Daisy,” she says, squeezing my hands. “They’ll take you back.”
“No they won’t, Mom.” I need her to accept this failure and move on, so I can too.
“How is this any different than having a uni-brow or gap-teeth?”
“It just is. I already told you. I don’t want to model, and it has nothing to do with my face.” I tried to explain my decision on the phone, right after I left the hospital. And she hung up on me. Now she has no phone to cut me off with. She has nowhere to go.
I am so resolute and adamant about my choices. I’m no longer scared to express myself. She can’t stifle my voice or take my opinions away. I matter.
My mom just keeps shaking her head. “We’ll talk about this later. You’ve been through a lot.” She pats my leg.
“I’ve thought about it for years,” I tell her.
She actually stays quiet and just listens.
I let out a breath. “I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy, but in doing so, I’ve become so, so depressed, Mom.” I shake my head as tears brim. “I’ve spent so long pleasing you that I haven’t even found my own dreams.”
My mom swallows hard and says, “Why haven’t you told me this sooner? We could have found something else for you to do.”
“I tried a couple times,” I say. “You wouldn’t listen.”
My mom processes this. She doesn’t handle change well, but these facts glass her eyes. “I guess it makes this easier.” Her gaze lands on my scar. “You need to start looking at colleges then. You’ll be a semester behind…”
“I’m not going to college,” I say, adamant. “I have a lot of money saved from modeling, and I know this is going to hurt you…” I take another deep breath. “…but I don’t need your input on what I should do in the future. I have to discover that myself.”
My mom looks pissed. “You’re only eighteen, Daisy.”
“Mom,” I say. “You have to let me go. I promise, I’ll be okay.”
“I don’t understand. I let you get your own apartment. You’re off on your own—”
“I’m not saying goodbye to you,” I cut her off like she’s done to me so many times in my life. As shitty as it seems—it feels damn good. “I just need to be the one to decide the direction of my life. That’s all.” I don’t know what I want to do, but I do know that I have years to figure it out. And that freedom builds my confidence and gives me the wings that I use to fly right on out of this nest.
She inhales. “And you won’t go to college?”