Now I raise my hands in defense. Daisy has been trying to find the “right one” for a while. But she’s always all over the place: picking up scuba diving, parkour, skateboarding, etc. On occasion when the topic surrounds guys, she always shares the same, unsatisfactory story.
“It’s a logical guess,” I whisper-hiss. “She’s trying to…you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Ryke stares at me like I’m talking in another language. I know I’m speaking English here.
I whisper really, really softly. “She’s trying to have…an O.”
Lo covers his face with his hand. “This is more than I ever wanted to hear.”
Ryke crosses his arms over his chest. “In Cancun, she said that she had an orgasm during sex, remember?”
How can he say all of that without flinching? I’m in awe. “Rose doesn’t think she did,” I whisper. I see Lo out of my peripheral, and a naughty image flashes in my head: my lips around his cock. It’s like a memory and a prospective future.
“Lily,” Lo says, grabbing my hand.
What’d I do? My heart lurches to my throat. He caught my fingers sneaking to his zipper. Oh my God. Cameras click, click, this time, some of the lenses pointed more towards me than the models.
Lo tries to distract me with more talk and less silence. The quiet lets my mind wander, especially if it’s fueled with upbeat music and fantasy-inducing backdrops （aka Loren Hale）。
“Say she really does have a boyfriend,” Lo whispers between us, “how the hell is he going to feel about the reality show?” He pats Ryke’s back. “You’re in every scene with Daisy, you realize that?” I wonder if her boyfriend already feels threatened by Ryke.
“The asshole couldn’t even show up to her seventeenth birthday party,” Ryke retorts. “You really think he cares about Princesses of Philly? At this point, I don’t even think he fucking cares about her.”
Sadly, I think I agree.
The men’s collection ends with the designer walking halfway and bowing. He clasps his hands together in thanks, his polka-dot bowtie preppy and eccentric like the rest of his clothes. Once he leaves, the whole room softens, the music dying down.
Some women and men flip open notebooks and click pens to jot down their thoughts. Most likely press for magazines or department store owners. My importance as “Daisy’s sister” shrinks, and the intensity of this fashion show dawns on me.
The lights dim on either side of the runway, the audience cloaked in blackness while the long, wide lane glows white. Every lamp and flash is directed to the middle of the modest-sized room. Black fabric rises against the glass windows, encasing us, even darker and more intimate.
Rose has never had a fashion show of this caliber for Calloway Couture.
This is the major leagues.
I recognize the song that starts the show: “Sacrilege” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
The first model starts strutting down the runway in black platform heels. How is she not face planting? She wears a thigh-length khaki dress with a salmon-colored belt. Her brunette hair is perfectly straightened and delicately curled at the ends.
Before the model reaches the end, another girl is sent out onto the runway, keeping pace with the tempo of the music. I count one, two, three, four models before my sister emerges.
Daisy. I smile—the kind of smile that I can’t restrain, that hurts my cheeks a little bit. She’s outfitted in a gray dress with expensive, elegant fabric and a yellow belt, more high fashion than commercial. Her long, long blonde hair hangs to her waist, the ends wavy.
At seventeen, she walks like a mature, powerful woman with poise beyond my capabilities. Her hips sway; each towering high heel steps in front of the other.
Her gaze is dead-locked ahead of her, seduction blazing in her red lips and focused eyes. The flashbulbs don’t cause her to blink or to falter. My young sister moves like the world is being created beneath her feet.
The moment just steals my breath away. I’m filled with pride for her.
She possesses the audience, even as she passes the other model and briefly poses at the edge. On her way back, she’s closer to our seats. I take a peek at Ryke beside me, and his tense muscles never loosen, his hard jaw stays put like usual. But his breathing is heavier than it should be.
He watches her head down the runway, the song near its end.
And the corners of Daisy’s lips just subtly rise, as though she can feel him, right there. When she moves along, I elbow Ryke in the side.
He glares at me. “What?” he whispers defensively.