“She has a boyfriend.” My sister deserves romance, the red roses kind with chocolates and epic orgasms. Ryke will give her the best one-night stand of her life and leave her with a broken heart. It’s one thing that Lo and I mutually fear.
We’re around Ryke more than Connor and Rose. We know his habits better, and screwing in the bathroom of the Lincoln Field isn’t that romantic. I’ve done it four times, I should know.
“Lily,” he whispers, “she’s seventeen.”
We shouldn’t be talking, not during this particular show. Everyone pays attention to the clothes the models wear, and I should too. I just nod and let it go.
Only fifteen minutes later, the girls disappear off the runway, gearing up for the final walk. And then the first body emerges.
Daisy leads the models, a coveted position. Her pale pink baby doll dress blows with each sway of her hips, practically gliding in her silver gladiator heels. About twenty women behind Daisy wear the same garment in a different hue.
The audience begins to clap. I happily join in, but even as we do, I start to see this normally-contained sadness eke out of Daisy’s eyes. A numbness that padlocks her bright, erratic personality.
Lo whispers in my ear, “She seems upset.”
Clapping should cheer someone up. It’s basically like shouting I do believe in fairies! but it does the opposite for Daisy, her light flickering out like a withering Tinker Bell.
When she turns, heading back down the runway and looping the models to create two lanes of bodies, she passes us again.
This time, Ryke speaks.
“Just run, Calloway,” he tells her as she walks past.
She almost falters, nearly stopping dead in her tracks. I swear it was like Ryke chiseled at something deep in her core, something hurting her. I can’t make sense of it, and the fact that he can…everything just becomes more complicated.
Ryke clenches the side of the chair like he’s restraining himself from not standing up and storming the runway. I imagine him walking backwards as he talks to her, desperately trying to convince my sister to do something she loves and not what our mom tells her to.
Modeling has never been her passion.
Even if she’s great at it.
Instead, Daisy keeps her course, staying as professional as she can.
“You can’t force her to quit,” I remind him in a soft whisper. “Her job means something to our mom.”
“She hates it,” Ryke says back to me. “Can’t you fucking see that?”
“We’re supposed to do things we don’t like sometimes,” I say, thinking about the reality show, my impending June wedding.
“What for?” Ryke asks.
“Our family.”
Maybe one day he’ll realize how far we’re all willing to go. For the people we love most.
{ 22 }
0 years : 07 months
March
LOREN HALE
“I’m not asking you to help me.” Snow falls on the back patio of my dad’s mansion. In a wealthy Philadelphia suburb. I brace the cold with him, heaters blazing from silver machines. We both drink coffee. Only difference: his has Irish liqueur.
“You don’t have to ask,” he reminds me, sitting back on an Adirondack chair. “I’m your father—it’s in my job description to help you.” Before I refute with I’m not struggling or where were you when I was drowning in alcohol and needed rehab, he adds, “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
I clench my teeth. No matter how many times I tell him that I won’t ever have children, he just doesn’t hear it. “I guess I won’t ever understand then,” I snap.
He sips his coffee, watching me closely while I stare out at the frozen duck pond. The grass is blanketed in snow, all white. “Ryke says that I shouldn’t go after Scott.”
“Is Scott attacking Ryke?”
“Not really.”
“Then he has no fucking say in it.” He scowls, his face unshaven. He looks more like Ryke right now, but I won’t tell him that. Their relationship is still fractured, maybe even beyond repair.
“Yesterday,” I say, “Scott handed Lily a script that told her to hump a pillow.” It hurts to breathe fully, emotions barreling into me.
“Who does that?”
“Men will do anything for money, Loren. He’s just trying to profit off the two of you, and so far, he’s doing well.” Right, the show is a success.
My stomach tightens. “Yeah?” I lean forward, my arms on my legs, cupping the mug between my hands. I’m scared of Scott Van Wright.