He nods in agreement. “Has she been to a doctor?”
“Before she left for Paris, she was seeing a therapist regularly, and she’s been through her fair share of sleep studies.” I list out all the information I know he’ll ask. No one has given her much of a solution to resolve her insomnia besides medication and therapy. She just has to cross her fucking fingers that one day she’ll grow out of this.
Connor takes out his phone and starts typing. “I need the names of all her doctors and her therapist.”
“You sound like Rose.”
“I’m serious. I want to make sure you took her to the best—”
“Connor,” I cut him off, “she’s my fucking girlfriend. I’ve triple fucking checked every person she’s been seeing. I don’t need you to do my job for me. I’m more than capable of taking care of her.”
He hesitates before pocketing his phone, and then he stares at me with more respect than when this conversation started. “So you put a label on your relationship?”
I nod. “Yeah, we did.” My nose flares as I hold back emotion. She’s in a fucking hospital room, maybe fighting for her life. What wrong decisions did I make to put her there? Where did I fuck up?
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I chose to never meet my brother. If I chose to keep my head buried in the sand.
My mom would have never known about Lily’s sex addiction.
She would have never shouted it to the fucking world.
No media.
Daisy would sleep peacefully.
Lily wouldn’t feel so fucking ashamed.
Connor and Rose wouldn’t have their sex life distributed online.
And my brother—I think he’d still be drinking.
I take a deep breath, the night saddling me with more regret than I’m used to bearing. “I haven’t always done the right thing, Connor,” I say. “I’m not perfect. But I’m trying so hard to look after my brother and her. But if I’m hurting them, then you need to tell me right now.” I meet his gaze—no pretenses. No jokes. The severity in our postures makes it hard to breathe. And I tell him something from my fucking soul. “I don’t want to ruin anyone’s life by being in it. That was never my intention.”
Connor lets out an exhausted laugh, and tears actually brim his eyes. “Ryke…” He shakes his head and rubs his lips. He drops his hand. “You ran with her in your arms for over three miles. Your brother’s existence caused your parent’s divorce, and yet, you gave up most of your time and energy to help him through his sobriety. How can you possibly think you’re a pain in their life? What you’ve done for them, it’s nothing short of heroic, and if you can’t see that, then you’re blind, my friend.”
A hot tear rolls down my cheek.
I’m so fucking tired of being alone. I was scared that he’d tell me to fucking leave. Because that means going back to a life I can’t see for myself anymore. Daisy has changed that for me. She made me comfortable to share my life with someone else, to live for happiness in the company of others. My solitary future looks bleak. But my future filled with my brother, my friends, her—there’s nothing fucking brighter.
She’s the sun. I’m the dark.
If she’s gone, I can kiss that fucking light away.
Without her, I know I’ll never see it again.
< 27 >
DAISY CALLOWAY
I open my eyes, disoriented. My vision blurs, everything out of focus. I blink sluggishly, my arms and legs heavy. My mind hasn’t processed anything beyond my physical abnormalities—the lightness of my head, the numbness along my face, the tingling in my fingers.
I make out shadows, dark and light, first. A figure rises from a chair, standing closer to me.
I’m not waking up after a night terror.
This feels so different.
I try to recall my last memory, the last picture I had before this—before lying down.
It’s not coming as quickly as I’d hoped. It’s just fuzzy.
Thankfully my ears are working. “Daisy,” the deep familiar voice says, still rough but full of unbridled concern. “Can you hear me?”
I try to nod. I think I’m nodding. I blink two more times, and then my vision clears. Ryke towers beside a hospital bed. My hospital bed. But I focus on his features, the scratches along his cheeks, the bruises that blemish his eyes and jaw. The stitches on his eyebrow.
“Ryke,” I whisper, raspy.
Tears build in my eyes. I’ve never seen Ryke so battered before. My hand instinctively goes to my mouth to hide my emotions, but the movement tugs an IV stand. I glance down to inspect the source. Tubes are stuck in the top of my hand, running across my lap.