Текст книги "Hothouse Flower"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

< 18 >

RYKE MEADOWS

I take off my helmet in the parking lot, switching off the ignition on my bike, and I notice Sully’s forest-green Jeep parked by the Information Center. I dial his number, quickly putting on my climbing shoes and tying my chalk bag around my waist.

The wind blows hard today, the trees rustling together in Bellefonte Quarry. It’s not so fucking bad that I can’t climb. The sky is clear, and that’s more important.

An incoming storm can fucking kill me.

The moment the line clicks I say, “You flirting with the receptionist again, Sul?” Last week, I had to drag him out of the Information Center before dark clouds rolled through. He was leaning over the desk with his mop of wavy red hair, throwing out the cheesiest fucking pickup lines to Heidi, a blonde twenty-something girl at a community college nearby.

“Now look who’s slow,” he says. “Mission accepted and completed an hour ago, man. Late, late, late should be your first, middle and last name.”

“Did she reject you again?” I ask, heading towards the sheer side of the cliff.

“Not this time. I have a date on Saturday, so every naysayer can suck my balls.”

I smile as I pick up my pace into a run. I don’t want to be that fucking late. He’s going to solo climb beside me, placing gear up the rock face as he ascends, and then he’ll have to repel back down to clear all of it. Free-soloing doesn’t have any of those luxuries. I have powder chalk and my fucking shoes.

That’s it.

A gust of wind ripples the brown water that runs through the quarry. I’ve climbed most of the traditional routes you can in Bellefonte. But before I leave for California, Sully wants me to climb the first route I’ve ever free-soloed before. As some sort of last fucking hoorah in case I die.

So I rode three hours out here. It’s not far away considering the places I’ll travel to for this sport. If I’m not hanging out with my brother or with Daisy, I’m climbing. Finding really good rock faces is hard in Pennsylvania. There aren’t many routes higher than 200 feet.

And one of the three I plan to climb in Yosemite is 2,900 feet. I’ve been flying out to California the past year to train with Sully, using trad gear—with him always as the lead.

I’ve trusted him with my life too many times to count.

We had to path out my course, and even though it’s all planned out—climbing all three rock faces with a harness and my childhood friend—it’s still fucking terrifying to do it without both. No amount of confidence can extinguish that lingering fear. It’ll always be in the back of my head.

I reach the bottom of the flat rock face within another minute, my breath even. I look around, and I don’t see Sully’s ratted blue shirt he wears with his khaki shorts. His pasty white skin is almost always burnt from the sun. “Where the fuck are you?” I ask him, pressing the phone back to my ear.

“Vanished with magic. I’m a descendant of the Weasley clan. I got powers.”

He was never proud to be a redhead as a fucking kid until Harry Potter. I remember meeting him at six-years-old at Rock Base Summer Camp and he was scrawny and quiet. That fucking changed fast. “You’re fucking cute today,” I tell him.

“Because this is a special moment,” he reminds me. “Look up.”

I crane my neck, my eyes grazing the flat limestone, and then I spot Sully waving at the top of 120 feet of ascension. “You climbed without me?” I frown. “I thought you wanted to do this together?”

“That was the plan until I got here.” His legs hang off the cliff. “I was just going to scope out the face, but I saw weeds and dirt in the cracks. I cleaned the route for you on my way up.” I can almost see him shrug. “I didn’t want you to die in Pennsylvania on a hundred and twenty foot ascent. If Ryke Meadows is gonna go out, he’s gotta go out big.”

“Thanks, man,” I say with as much appreciation as my voice will allow. If I climbed and found loose rocks in the cracks and handholds, it would’ve been a bad time. I’m thankful for a friend like Adam Sully, especially after all my college ones were shit when I became famous.

Sully never really cared. He doesn’t even mention it that much. We met at summer camp, climbed together, and we’ve done it ever since. Some months I don’t see him since he backpacks a lot, skipping college. For cash, he’s a climbing instructor at a gym. When we meet up, it’s like no time has passed. It’s like we’re at summer camp again, picking up right where we left off.

He’s the kind of friend I’ll have for life. Not because we share deep fucking secrets or our heartbreak—we don’t do either—but because we have a passion for the same thing. And even though I know I may die alone while I climb, I’ve been lucky enough to share each accomplishment and triumph with someone else who understands what it means to reach the top.

“I’m timing you,” Sully tells me. “What’s your first record?”

“You fucking know all of my times.” He always told them to kids at camps, gloating about my speed climbs each year. And then when we were instructors, he’d fucking tell the pros. And then when we were considered pros, he’d tell anyone who’d listen.

“Remind me,” he says.

I dip my hand in the chalk and then begin scanning my path upwards, a grid that I see laid out with each crack and divot and precipice in the fucking rock. “The first time I climbed this, it took one brutal fucking hour,” I tell him.

“And what’s your latest time?”

I smack my hands together, the chalk pluming. “Six minutes, thirty-eight seconds.”

I know he’s smiling. I don’t even have to see him. “I’ll see you at the top.”

My lips rise.

And I climb.

* * *

I didn’t set my stopwatch since Sully’s timing me, but the ascent feels different from the last time I did it, which was over a year ago. I feel lighter, freer. Stronger.

I’m near the top, clinging to the rock, my hand slipping between the smallest crack in the mountain, a fissure just deep enough for my fingertips to rest. I support my body with this single grip until I reach for the next handhold, a space where two rocks meet.

I move fast and precisely, not stopping to catch my breath or to consider an alternate path. This is where I’m fucking going, and I just go.

My muscles stretch, every inch of my body used with each new position. At one point, I have all of my body supported by two fingers. I find good footing to adjust my weight.

I look down once or twice and grin. I don’t have a problem with heights. I also know if I fall, I’ll die, but people don’t realize how confident I am. If I didn’t think I could do it, I wouldn’t.

“Oh my God, he doesn’t have a rope!” I hear a woman yell the closer I am towards the top. She wears a helmet and stands beside her instructor, coming off a route with bolts.

“I know,” Sully says, still sitting on the cliff. “That’s my friend.” His smile reaches his scraggily hair that covers his ears.

“He’s crazy,” another man says.

“He’s a professional,” the instructor tells them. “We also don’t advise anyone to free-solo.”

And then I reach the last ten feet, the easy part. My muscles barely ache. I have a lot more left in me, and it bolsters my fucking confidence to go after my other goals in Yosemite.

I hike my body onto the ledge beside Sully. The people behind me just stare, and I try not to make eye contact in case they’re into celebrity news, reality television, all that shit. They congregate together, looking like they’ll keep their distance.

I turn to Sully, who wears a squirrely looking smile.

“What?” I ask.

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a store bought cake, all the white icing smashed into the plastic lid from the climb. “It said Climb that bitch.” He pops the lid and sticks his finger in the icing. “I guess we’ll have to settle for limb that itch.” He grins. “That’s even better.”

It’s hard to joke around when you’re overcome with foreign emotion. I squeeze his shoulder.

He pats my back and then nods to the cake. “This half is mine by the way. You can take the itchy piece.” He uses a plastic fork to cut the cake in two.

We eat quietly at first, staring out at the expansive view of the quarry. I can hear a guy scream in terror and excitement as he jumps off one of the jagged cliffs, splashing into the water below.

After the long moment of silence, he says, “You didn’t ask for your time.”

I know it’s shorter. I could feel it the moment I had thirty feet left. “Six minutes flat?” I ask him.

He shakes his head with a smile. “Five forty.”

“Damn.” That’s really fucking good. I look back out at the tree tops. My progress, my journey—from being a curious six-year-old, to a punk teenager, to a determined adult—it just flashed quickly before my eyes. I think that’s what Sully had intended to happen all along.

“So you’re probably wondering why did Sully bring me to the top of this cliff and serve me cake?”

“Not really,” I tell him.

He smiles. “Besides your foul-mouth and that intimidating scowl thing you do, you’re probably the nicest person I’ve ever met. And I’ve been around for twenty-five years.” He laughs. “In climber life span, that’s a long ass time. I’ve already neared my halfway-point.”

I grab his water bottle and take a swig. I wipe my mouth on my shirt sleeve. “I’m only nice to you because you carry my gear when we climb together, and you’re the lead. If I anger you, you can turn around and cut my fucking rope.”

He snorts. “Right. I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Why?” I ask, seriously this time. “You’re always the one protecting me from a fucking fall.”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty positive I’m the only person who has that job when it comes to you, climbing, not climbing, doesn’t matter. I know you’ve been going through some heavy shit with your brother, and you still make time for other people and this sport.” He means I make time to meet up with him.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say, not knowing how else to respond.

“I remember you telling me that you had a brother when we were in Lancaster.” He shakes his head. “That seems like such a long time ago.”

My gaze darkens, recalling that day. I was too angry to climb, and it was one of the few times I opened up to him about my family. I didn’t civilly talk about it. I yelled. And the only person who ever heard the pain in my voice was a summer camp friend. “I called him a fucking bastard.”

Sully gives me a look. “We were fifteen. You were pissed.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s what you do later that matters. Making mistakes and correcting them, that’s life.”

“We make a mistake on a mountain, Sul, and we die.”

“Here I am, being all metaphorical, and you have to go and be all literal.” He shakes his head at me with mock disapproval. He lifts the cake, acting like he may smash it my face. And just like that, we let the heavy shit go. Our friendship is the easiest one I’ve ever had.

“You do that, Sully, and I’ll push you off this fucking mountain.” We’re sitting on the edge, and if we start hitting each other, we could go over quickly.

“I was just going to tell you to take this back to Daisy.” He dips his finger back in the icing and licks it off. “I’ve never seen a girl melt over cake like she did.”

I took her to the gym to teach her how to rock climb, and Sully was there, instructing two ten-year-olds. I could never do his job full-time. I have a harsh way of speaking when people aren’t giving a hundred fucking percent, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise. He went with us to a café after his shift, and she ate three pieces of cake, all chocolate.

“She’s not in Philly,” I tell him. He doesn’t keep up with the gossip, so he wouldn’t know that she’s left for Fashion Week. “And she hasn’t eaten sweets in practically a month. She’d probably fucking drool if you put cake in her face.”

“Aww,” he says. “Poor girl. Where is she?”

“Modeling in Paris.”

He whistles. “She’s always all over the place, isn’t she?” He gives me another look, this time with a growing smile.

“What?” I snap.

He shrugs. “You two have a little thing. Not as cute as what Heidi and I have, but you know, you’ll get there.”

“We don’t have a thing,” I tell him.

He ignores me. “Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding, okay? I don’t have to be a groomsman or anything, but I do expect to be in the wedding pictures. I’m not against photo-bombing either.”

“Fuck off,” I say.

He touches his heart. “I love you too.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and check the caller ID.

DAISY CALLOWAY.

Sully looks over my shoulder. “Think she heard us talking about her?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Your voice is louder than mine,” he refutes, knowing where I was going with that.

“I have to take this.”

“Don’t take her too hard. She’s young and impressionable.”

I flip him off, standing to answer the call while he laughs.

I press the green button and walk further onto the peak of the rock. It’s flat, and up here, people gather to repel back down, the chatter echoing from one side to the other. I check my watch.

8 a.m. here. 2 a.m. there.

The line clicks and then dies. I frown. I look at my phone. She fucking hung up on me? Maybe it was a misdial. I call her back.

Her answering machine cuts on this time. “Hi, it’s Daisy. Not Duck and not Duke. Definitely not Buchanan. I’m a Calloway. If you haven’t misdialed then leave your name after the beep, and I’ll call you when I return from the moon. Don’t wait around. It may take a while.” BEEP.

“Call me back or text me that you’re okay,” I say tersely before I hang up.

I’m about to return to Sully, but my phone rings again. She’s being fucking weird. “Hey, what’s going on?”

She sniffs and tries to speak, but her voice falters.

She’s been crying.

My chest tightens. “Fuck. Daisy, what’s wrong?”

She lets out a breath that shakes the sound from her lips, and then she inhales sharply and chokes like she’s unable to exhale.

Fuck. Fuck. I rest my hand on my head. “Dais…”

“I…I can’t…”

She cannot have a fucking panic attack while I’m here and she’s there.

“Shh, shh,” I tell her in the gentlest voice I can. Calming someone—that’s not a skill I possess. I jump after girls who dive off of cliffs. I accompany crazy chicks on their illogical adventures. I teach them how to stand back up. I hold them while they fucking cry.

But I’m not there to do any of these things. I’m thousands of miles away with no room for error.

“Take deep fucking breaths. Relax,” I say roughly, dropping my hand and clenching and unclenching my fist.

“I…feel sick…” She coughs, dry heaving until I hear her really fucking vomit.

Fuck.

Sully is by my side with concern. He looks at me like what’s going on?

I just shake my head at him. “Daisy,” I say, running my hand through my damp hair. “Hey, you need to talk to me right fucking now. Take deep breaths. You’re not dying, so stop acting like it.” Being a jackass is the only way I can think to get her to calm down. It’s the only fucking tool I have to work with.

She pukes, but it turns back into a violent cough. Then she begins to breathe somewhat fucking normally.

“Good girl,” I say.

She exhales shortly. “They took pictures…of me…and no one cared…”

What the fuck is she talking about? She’s a model; of course they take photographs. “You’re not making any fucking sense.” I can’t just stand on top of this fucking cliff. I can’t just fucking talk. I head over to Sully’s backpack, and he keeps up with my hurried stride.

“I was naked,” she says, a tremor in her voice. “The designer…she threw me out of her show, and she stripped me…”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I freeze, gripping my hair with one hand. “And no one did anything?”

She chokes on another cry.

I almost kick the fucking cake off the edge. I almost lose my shit. I bend down to a crouch to stop myself from screaming. I fucking hate people. I hate that the ones I care about most are the ones that get shit on.

“Hey, fucking talk to me,” I say, realizing she’s completely silent now. “Daisy?” Nothing. “Daisy?!” I check my phone. Signal lost. The call dropped. I try again, but I have no more range. I look to Sully with panic.

“No signal,” he says, tapping at his iPhone screen.

I stand up quickly and switch into a new gear called Get the fuck off this rock. “We need to go down now.” I pick up his backpack and find the extra harness that I use when I descend with him. I put each leg through the fucking straps while Sully collects rope, repel devices and locking carabineers, his hands moving in a flash.

“Is she hurt?” he asks, his eyes flickering to me.

I tighten the straps on my legs. It’s not a physical hurt. It’s not like she crashed her motorcycle, but it fucking feels like she got into a head-on collision. “I don’t know,” I tell him. Truth is, I think she’s always been hurting. It’s just different when I’m not there to take care of her. “I need to get her back on the fucking phone.”

“Double your rope so you can get down faster.” He tosses me extra rope for my descent, and I tie two together with a Double Figure-8 Fisherman’s knot. Then I tie an extra knot at the end of the rope in case I fucking fall. It’s the last safety I have to catch me.

“Ready,” Sully says. “I only have one anchor. You take it. I’ll go after you since I have to pick up my gear.”

I nod and hook into the anchor. I take a breath to relieve the pressure that bears down on my chest. As I stare at the 200 foot drop, everything fucking clicks.

I am so emotionally involved with that girl. If someone told me she was crying two years ago, I would have called Lily or Rose to deal with it. But I want to be the one to protect Daisy. I want to be the one to hold her in my arms. I want to comfort her until she reanimates in pure fucking happiness.

I don’t want to miss a day with her. I don’t want to be here while she’s there.

And I can’t take back these feelings.

I can’t go in reverse.

I just drive forward at a hundred and fifty miles per hour. I’m racing towards her when I should be slamming on the fucking brakes.

I know how to stop.

But I’m not going to.

I don’t want to.

That’s the fucking truth.

< 19 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

The paparazzi found my hotel.

I peek out of the balcony door once, just to confirm that the SUVs lined on the curb are in fact cameramen and not kickass secret service. The flashes blind me. Click, click, click in a wave. I shut the door instantly, my heart beating wildly.

I tried to lose them every time I exited my hotel for work, but with Mikey riding a moped next to me at a leisurely pace, we couldn’t exactly dodge all of them. Now he’s back in his hotel room, and I’m in mine.

It’s been one day after being thrown out of the runway—which has made headlines—which is why I’ve now become bigger news than before. One day after Ryke talked to me—calming me down by recounting his time at the quarry.

It almost felt like he was here.

But he’s not.

And now I have my mom rapidly texting me: You need to go talk to the designer right now and make it up to her. Apologize. Buy her something… And she goes on and on. As though I can march to the designer and bribe my way back into her good graces, demanding her to like me. That’s not how this works.

The rejection is harder to accept when my mom won’t let it go.

And I can’t even think about the pictures of me undressed backstage. If they surface…they haven’t so far, but it makes me sick. The thought caused me to cling to the porcelain toilet yesterday night.

 I twist my hair into a high bun, pacing anxiously in my room, peeking through the curtains again. My stomach tosses, and a layer of sweat gathers across my forehead. It’s midnight, and I can’t do anything. I can’t go outside without being swarmed, but I can’t stay here and be a prisoner in this hotel room, suffocating in my extreme paranoia.

I have to get out. I have to breathe.

I pocket my wallet in my jean shorts, change my tank top into a long-sleeve sweater that says keep it surreal and hightail it out of the room on impulse. I can ride my moped as fast as it’ll go without Mikey and lose the paparazzi. I can go somewhere. A lake, a river, whatever, and take a freezing cold dip. Something. Anything.

I settle with this spontaneous plan, and I open the door to the stairwell. I dislike riding in elevators without someone I trust beside me. Like Ryke or Mikey. Without them, I’ll rock back and forth on my heels, staring with bugged eyes at the lit numbers, praying that the elevator doesn’t stop to let anyone on.

Stairs are better. It’s more private, less chance of running into someone I know, like an old friend. In Paris, that possibility is slim to none, but the fear still propels me towards the staircase.

My heart never slows from its quick panicked pace. Because even though stairs are better—it’s not by much. I haven’t been attacked in a stairwell, but in movies, it’s the first place villains go, right? It’s the place where the bad guy chases the hero.

But the hero usually escapes up the stairs. I think I could too.

I’m on the fifth floor, so I hop skip some steps as I head down to the lobby, fluorescent lights blinding in some corners and dim in others. The levels are painted on the walls.

4.

I pause for a second, listening. A door bangs above me. Oh God. Someone followed me here? From my floor. They sound close.

I sprint.

3.

The extra footsteps echo loudly, and they start to quicken, matching my stride. My breathing is so off-kilter. I exhale deeply just to ensure that I’m not holding it in.

2.

My hand glides along the railing, my feet moving in a blur.

“Daisy!”

I freeze. I go cold. It can’t be…

I turn around and my mouth falls. I’m losing my mind.

“You can’t be real.” I pause. “You’re in Philadelphia.”