I hesitate, wondering if he’s right. Will she be resistant if he interferes? “She’s not used to letting someone else help her.”
“I don’t think any of you Calloway girls are,” he says. I take this in and realize he might be right about that. But I’m learning to relinquish my control to other people. I’m learning to accept help that’s been offered. I hope Rose will do the same, even if she feels like she has everything taken care of.
“Promise me that you won’t run away from her,” I say in a sharp breath. “Even if she pushes you away—”
“I won’t let her go,” Connor says. “But is there something you’re not telling me, Lily? Has something already happened?” I catch the strain in his voice, so subtle and brief but present.
She’s drinking more than usual, I should say. But what if I’m just projecting my insecurities about alcohol onto her? With Lo in rehab, this is totally plausible. Still, I’m learning to say how I feel. I inhale a deep breath and let it out. “I’m afraid by the time you get here, she’ll be drunk. And I’ve never seen Rose drunk, so I’m not entirely sure what she’ll do or how she’ll be…she just keeps glaring at my mother from across the room…”
“Okay,” Connor says. “Okay, don’t provoke Rose. Try not to set her off.”
I internally laugh. Yeah, that’s going to be a little hard. Most topics ignite fire in her eyes when she’s in a mood. And I know, without a doubt, that our mother has put her in one. “When will you be here?” I shift anxiously and rub my arm.
“Soon. Will you be okay or do you need to stay on the phone with me?”
“I’ll be fine. Ryke is here…” I trail off, knowing that Connor and Ryke have never really been friendly after Lo left for rehab. I think the only reason they endured each other’s company was because of their mutual like for Lo, and when he’s not here it becomes painfully obvious they’d rather be on separate continents.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll fuck tonight up somehow,” Connor says. I remember Connor describing Ryke as a “Rottweiler you keep on a chain in the yard, guarding your house, but something you’d rather not let inside.”
I hesitate to agree. Ryke has helped more than hindered thus far, but that could always change. “I’ll see you,” I tell Connor. He says bye and we both hang up.
I sneak back into the ballroom, the lights still dim, but no one stands on the stage. Everyone is lively with chatter, and I smell chocolate ganache cake, my father’s favorite. When I approach my table, I see Rose sitting on the edge of her seat, her nails rapping against her champagne glass. Her poor date looks like a wilted flower, beaten to death by Rose’s intelligence. I’m sure she schooled him on another subject, and he has nothing left to do but pick at his dessert.
Speaking of dessert. I sit and find a beautiful slice of cake in front of me. Actually two beautiful slices. They almost make up for the fact that Aaron creepily stares at me on the other end. I ignore him. That seems like the best solution right now.
I glance at Daisy who teeters back on two legs of her chair again. “You don’t want your cake?” I ask her. Of course I noticed that she was the one to push her plate into my area, offering me a second slice when I haven’t even touched my first.
She shrugs. “I would eat it, but you know…” She rolls her eyes and glances at Ryke, as though they’ve already had this same conversation. I shouldn’t have asked. I know she’s not allowed to gain an obscene amount of weight because of modeling. So she watches what she eats, lest our mother criticize her waistline even more.
Ryke has his plate in his hand, and he leans back in his chair like Daisy. Her date hunches forward, now playing a game on his phone. Jeez, he really doesn’t want to be here. Ryke has a good view of Daisy and vice versa. He scoops a large bite of gooey chocolate fudge on his spoon. “This looks so fucking good,” he teases her. “So moist.” Okay, I know he says that I always think sexual thoughts. But that was sexual. Moist is a gross word, and I’m a sex addict. He’s definitely trying to ruffle her.
I don’t approve of his methods.
But at least she refuses to glance at him.
I can tell he’s trying to get her to eat, and I think he enjoys pushing people’s buttons. The only problem: I think my youngest sister is made of armor—kind of like him.
He licks the rim of the spoon and then sucks the cake off it, letting out a deep, masculine moan.