Rose gestures to me. “Keep going. She’s hormonal.”
“I am,” Lily nods and accepts the tissues that Rose throws on her lap. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I just think I know where this is going. But yeah, keep going. Please.” She nods again and lets out a slow breath.
First I explain how my sleep has been terrible for almost a year. How I’ve had to see a therapist, and how all the doctors and sleep studies concluded that I’m an insomniac. How I was prescribed Ambien with night terrors attached. I skip over the whys and save those for last. They’re the most difficult to even admit.
Rose is quick to fill the silence when words escape me. “You’ve been going through this alone, this whole time?” Her expression transforms into regret and guilt. I try not to focus on the pain in her eyes, or in Lily’s. I’ve only ever wanted to make people smile, not cry. But there’s no avoiding this.
“I had Ryke,” I say. “He’s been there for me.”
“But you didn’t have us, your family,” Rose says, clasping the box of tissues with an iron grip. “You know you can come to us with anything, Daisy, right? We love you.”
Lily nods in agreement. “Whatever it is, we’re here.”
I believe it, but they haven’t heard the whys yet. They just have part of the story, but I know I have to paint a clearer picture. I describe the easiest moments first. The ones that I’ve recounted to my therapist and Ryke a million times over.
The cameraman who broke into my bedroom.
The pissed off pedestrian that attacked my motorcycle and then attacked me.
But the story that hurts the most is after all of those. It’s the one begging to be released, pleading to be shared and let go. It’s just a matter of starting.
Beginnings are the hardest because they’re the parts that pull people in, that make them want the ends. And endings are the most painful, the parts that can leave you bleeding out.
I don’t have any more time. I just have to begin.
I stare at my hands, unable to look them in the face. “I was sixteen when your sex addiction became public, Lily.” I pause and take a deep breath before continuing. “I remember the day I went back to school. My friends asked all these questions.” At first I hesitate on repeating them, but I look up and Lily actually nods at me, encouraging me to continuing.
She says, “It’s okay.”
My sister’s strength floods into me, and it propels me to continue, like a gust of wind blowing me in the right direction.
Even if it hurts, I say it.
“My friends would ask: Does your sister just sit in a room and fuck all day? Does she bang girls?” I cringe as I remember more. “How bad does she want it? Would she fuck me? Would she fuck a homeless man?” I swallow. “And I didn’t have any answers for them. And I didn’t know if it was true, but I defended you anyway.” I’d still defend her today. I’d do it all over again. I can’t ever regret that. “The questions started to change though.”
“To what?” Rose asks with a frown.
I shrug. “They started asking me things. Like, do you do it all the time too? Do you like it in the ass, Daisy? Would you fuck me? Would you blow me?”
“God,” Rose says, whipping out her cellphone. “Who are they?”
Lily reaches for Rose’s hands and whispers in a small voice, “Let her finish, Rose.”
My fiercest sister reluctantly turns off her phone and waits for me to continue.
I rub my eyes and keep my gaze on the hardwood as the seriously deranged part takes ahold of me. Please say it, Daisy. Please don’t be a coward. I breathe deeply. “The entire time…I thought my friends, Cleo and Harper, were still my friends. I mean…” I let out a weak, tearful laugh. “I grew up with them. I knew Cleo since she was six, and I thought childhood friends were the ones that last…like you and Lo,” I say to Lily. My eyes drop to my fingers. I scrape the yellow paint off of my nail.
I see the rest play out in my head. I see the scene like it was yesterday. A flash bulb, a memory that surfaces to haunt me and to release me from this hell.
Cleo and Harper had called me to go shopping with them, but their breath stunk of booze. They’d been at a “brunch” party with a handful of other kids from school. Hunch punch was served apparently. And they said that I was talked about a lot, but they never said what. They just giggled and laughed, in a drunken stupor.
I should have left, but I was worried they’d do something stupid, like shoplift. So I stayed with them, and I rode with them up the elevator to Cleo’s penthouse apartment—where she lived with her parents and this pretty black cat named Shadow.