“I don’t know…maybe,” I say softly.
He abruptly reaches out and draws me to his chest. He’s hugging me. Willingly. But this feels more like a goodbye than anything else. A pain ripples through my body.
And then that cracked door to my bedroom—it whips open.
I turn my head with Ryke, and we both see my mother standing at the threshold of the doorway with her phone in hand. Her eyes grow to saucers, horrified at the sight of my embrace with a guy she finds unworthy of my time and affection.
Ryke and I slowly break apart, but he doesn’t look guilty, only angry at her appearance.
“What is this?” my mom asks sharply.
“Ryke came over to say goodbye,” I tell her, trying to shrug off the tension that builds with her presence. “I’m all packed, so Mikey should be here in a bit.” I didn’t think she’d stop by. I hugged my mom and dad yesterday at their house.
My mom scrutinizes Ryke’s bare chest. “Why is your shirt off?” she snaps.
“Because I took it off,” he says with narrowed eyes. He finds his T-shirt on my comforter and he pulls it over his head. But he makes no attempt to leave me alone with my mom, too worried about me to do so.
My mom walks over to my bed in her high heels. She fingers the pearls at her neck as she inspects the sheets, twisted like two people possibly fucked beneath them.
“I’m a bad sleeper,” I tell her truthfully, but it sounds like such a lie. “I’ve been tossing and turning at night.”
She ignores me, and her eyes set right on Ryke again. “If I ever find out that you’re with my daughter, I will personally look into your past history, and if you’ve had sex with her when she was underage, you’ll be in court so fast. Do you know what statutory rape is?”
Ryke has an irritated expression like no, I’m a fucking idiot.
“Mom,” I interject. “He didn’t do anything.”
Ryke doesn’t break my mother’s gaze. “You want to act like it’s a fucking age thing, that’s fine, Samantha. Go ahead and do that. I don’t give a fuck what you think of me.”
She inhales drastically, the bones in her neck protruding. “I’ve never been around someone so disrespectful in my life.” She purses her lips. “What did your mother teach you?”
“How to hate my father,” he says without missing a beat. “How to hate my half-brother. Those didn’t really come in handy, did they?”
My mom falters at that response.
“You think I’m the very fucking extension of my mom,” he continues, “but I haven’t spoken to Sara in over a year.” And still, he can’t shake the association. It’s genetically written all over him.
“What about your father?” she retorts. “Jonathan would love to talk to you, but you’ve ignored every phone call, every text—”
“He really told you that?”
She touches her pearls again. “He told my husband, and my husband told me.” I can see that happening. My dad is best friends with Jonathan after all.
“I’m not on speaking terms with my fucking father either. Let’s leave it at that.”
My mom lets out a vexed half-laugh. “He’s going through the hardest time in his life with these accusations against him. Do you know what your word would mean to the press?” Jonathan was accused of abusing Lo, and Ryke hasn’t brought it up to me at all. I’m not even sure if it’s true or not. Out of our group of six, I’m the last to receive any info, the little dot on the outside of the inner circle.
“You need to fucking stop,” Ryke says, truly getting pissed now. “Stay out of it.”
“All you have to do is tell the press that it’s a lie,” she says. “Jonathan’s name will be cleared—”
“You want me to protect that son of a bitch?” Ryke curses, his eyes blazing. “I’m done trying to wipe his reputation clean. He fucked it a long time ago, and it’s not my job to make sure he comes across as a fucking angel to the press.”
“What about Lo?” my mom asks. “He’s hurting from this lie just as much as Jonathan.” She lets out another hysteric laugh. “You’re just like your mother, willing to take down everyone in your wake just to hurt Jonathan. When are you going to stop?”
Ryke looks like he’s been slapped. It takes him a moment to collect himself. When he speaks, his voice is leveled and colder than usual. “I’m not actively trying to destroy my father. I’m trying to move on, and I want my brother to do the same. You want me to go defend Jonathan, but I fucking can’t. I won’t defend someone who may be guilty.”
“He’s not guilty.”
“I don’t fucking know that!” Ryke yells.
My mom scoffs. “You think that lowly of him? That he could do something that heinous to your own brother?”
“I’ve seen him grab Lo’s fucking neck with pure malice,” Ryke retorts. “He used to call me a pussy, and I won national track competitions, so can you even imagine what he called Lo, a kid who had nothing going for him?”
My mom’s lips tighten even more, like she sucked a lemon. Her cheeks have reddened. “He’s a better man than you realize. We’re not all perfect.” Before Ryke can say something more, she spins to me and says, “I came here to talk to you, not to have an argument with Sara’s son.”
Sara’s son. That’s what she thinks of him first and foremost. It’s so stupid.
“Is it important?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve talked to your agency, and they’ve booked multiple go-sees for you after Fashion Week, as well as a couple campaigns and ads while you’re in Paris.”
My heart beats crazily, and her words jumble together. It takes me a minute to sort through them. “Wait, I’m working after Fashion Week? But I thought…”
Her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen. “It’s foolish to waste three extra weeks in France.” She types a message. “You need to capitalize on the time you have there.”
My free time.
I feel it slipping between my fingers. I feel the exhaustion pummeling me tenfold. I needed a break. I haven’t had one in months. I dreamed of that leisure time in a beautiful country. This was supposed to be it. Glorified independence with a cherry on top.
I feel like she stuck my ice cream sundae under hot water.
But maybe I didn’t deserve the sundae in the first place. I’m going to Paris, staying in a gorgeous hotel. Does it matter that I have to work? I’m being paid more a day than most people make in a year, and all I do is walk down a runway and pose.
Be grateful. I’m trying. I really am. But this sadness just pours into me no matter how much I want to smile and say okay, thank you for the opportunity.
“Daisy,” Ryke says, coming to my side. He gives me a look like speak the fuck up.
“Mom,” I call.
She’s busy texting.
“Can we reschedule the go-sees? I’ll meet with designers some other time. I just want a couple weeks to myself in Paris.”
“You’ve already been booked. If you cancel, it’ll look badly on you, and then other designers will hear about it.” She pockets her phone in her clutch. “The month will go by before you know it, and then you’ll be back home to do more American spreads.” She kisses my cheeks. “Have a safe flight. Text me when you land.” She checks her watch. “I’m late for a brunch with Olivia Barnes.” She glares at Ryke as if he’s the cause of her tardiness.
She leaves.
I don’t stop her.
When the door shuts, my heart beats so fast, my lungs constricting, this pressure just mounting and mounting. I need to release it. I need to breathe. I look around my room, trying to find an escape.
“Daisy. Daisy, fucking stop for a second,” Ryke says.
I grab my motorcycle keys out of a jacket pocket. “I’m going to go for a quick ride.” Just as I pass him, he grips my wrist and pries the keys out of my palm. “Ryke—”
“You can’t drive when you’re like this. The last fucking time you did that, you almost highsided on the freeway.”
/> I remember. I was really, really close to flying over the handlebars of my bike. I applied too much throttle around a curve. I’ve never seen Ryke so scared before, but when we met in a parking lot, he looked like he wanted to simultaneously hug me for being alive and kill me for almost making a fatal mistake.
I blow out a deep breath from my lips. “I really need some air.”
“Run with me for half an hour,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”
“How so?”
He draws me closer, my feet touching the sides of his. “You’ll be able to fucking breathe.” He studies my face quickly. “Or you could just cry and let it out for once.”
My whole body hurts, and those words somehow pain me more. “What?”
“Let it out.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Why the fuck not? Stop trying to suppress your emotions, Dais. It’s okay to be upset right now. What your mom just did was shit.”
I shake my head again. Who am I to complain? I don’t want to be that immature, selfish girl. I don’t want to be what people probably think of me, the heiress of a billion-dollar fortune. Bitching over not going to Paris for fun anymore. How does that look?
“You have gone through hell since Lily’s sex addiction went public, and you’ve told fucking no one about it but me. Stop trying to be strong. Just fucking cry, Daisy. Scream. Yell. Be fucking angry.”