Emilia comes out and gives me a smile.
“Yeah,” I tell her. I point to the door, and Emilia heads out first. I lock it, and then we enter the elevator. Emilia looks from me to the phone that hasn’t left my ear. It won’t either. My friend, I mouth to Emilia.
She nods and then tries to concentrate on the elevator as it descends. I hit the fucking button a couple times, even though it’s already lit, hoping it’ll go faster to save me from this awkward tension.
< 16 >
RYKE MEADOWS
“I talked to my therapist yesterday,” Daisy tells me over the phone, the elevator still dropping. “She wanted me to describe what happened at Lucky’s again. She said it would help stop the nightmares.”
“Did it?” I ask briefly, feeling Emilia’s body stiffen the longer I ignore her. But Daisy, a lonely, frightened girl in Paris, is going to trump Emilia. Every fucking time. Especially when it involves the past and the multiple events that have fucked her over psychologically.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It hasn’t helped before. I can say the words just fine.” She recites with an even tone, “Some angry guy outside of Lucky’s called me a cunt and destroyed my bike. I’ve moved past it.”
I cringe at the sound of cunt. Ironic that I fucking hate a swear word—I know. But it’s grating, like someone’s scratching my fucking eardrums. In the back of my head, I hear my father calling my mom it, over and over. It makes me sick to my stomach.
“You’re leaving out a big fucking part,” I tell her, “and it’s not something you can get over in a day.”
“It hasn’t been a day,” she snaps back. “It’s been over a year.” For that one incident, yeah it has been that long. But it’s not the only thing that she’s gone through after the media attention. Some people were bound to hate the Calloway girls because they’re socialites, wealthy, entitled. The media likes to show them as privileged snobs, so that’s what people think. But it didn’t give this fucking guy the right to beat the shit out of her Ducati. And as she tried to stop him from wrecking her bike, he turned around and assaulted her in broad fucking daylight. I wish I had been there.
I would have fucking killed him.
I ended up taking her to the hospital because she wouldn’t tell anyone else about it. She didn’t want to worry her family.
They found out anyway, but they never learned about her broken rib. Or the fact that the trauma of the event has stayed with her past that single moment. They think it was no more than a few bruises.
I don’t fucking blame her sisters or my brother for not noticing the change in Daisy from that point on. She likes to make it seem like she’s okay, even when she’s not. She hates whining, crying and throwing tantrums because she thinks she’ll come across as immature. When she’s hanging out with all of us, people in their twenties, she’d do anything to avoid that label. God fucking forbid she act her age.
And fuck that, when a guy assaults you, you’re allowed to have every moment to scream. You’re allowed to talk it out and ruin everyone’s week by burdening them with your emotions.
“Don’t try convincing me of anything else,” I tell her. “I’m going to be fucking stubborn on this subject.”
The elevator doors slide open. I slip into the hallway, Emilia following close behind.
“Okay,” Daisy says, “what about you? Have you been training?”
“I beat my time the day you left,” I tell her, stopping by Daisy’s apartment door. 437 in gold iron on the dark wood. I fit the key inside and glance at Emilia who stares at the number.
“By how much?” Daisy asks. “Was it the same mountain you took me to?”
“Yeah, can you give me a minute? Don’t hang up.”
“Okay.”
I pocket my phone so I have use of both hands. I push open the door, and Emilia slips inside with me. She scans the apartment quickly. It’s the same layout as mine, but Daisy has a yellow couch, green pillows and multicolored lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
“This friend is a girl,” she says, eyeing the clothes that are scattered on the hardwood floors.
“Didn’t I say that?” I’m almost fucking positive I did.
“I must not have heard.”
I lead her across the living room, bypassing the small kitchen where dishes are stacked in the sink. I should wash those for Daisy. I’m pretty sure half of them are mine. I step over a skateboard. “Watch your feet.”