Текст книги "Hothouse Flower"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

< 52 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

California.

We’ve made it. The national park is beautiful, and I’d revel in the atmosphere of Yosemite on any other day, but it’s hard when we’re in the brush, a giant rock looming one hundred feet in front of us. El Capitan is larger than Devils Tower. More ominous. But it does have a kinder name.

The sun isn’t even out yet. It’s 5 a.m. and Ryke plans to start climbing in the dark with a headlamp. He wants to climb three routes in under twenty-four hours. It’s going to take endurance, strength and a dose of luck. It’s that luck part that I’m worried about. Everything else—I know he’ll ace.

Ryke talks to a park ranger at the base of El Capitan, nodding a few times. He ties his bag of chalk around his waist.

I pluck yellow weedy flowers by my feet in the brush, twisting the stems to make a crown. Every time I look up at Ryke, my heart thuds. I’ve never been this anxious for someone else before.

Rose slaps her arm and curses out the mosquitos. She sits on a wooden bench behind me.

“I told you not to wear perfume, darling,” Connor says casually, sitting beside her.

Rose gives him a look. “I’m not going to sacrifice smelling good for stupid flies.” She swats another away.

“You smell good without it.”

She narrows her eyes. “It’s Chanel. If I don’t wear it, I feel like half of myself is missing.”

Lo sits on top of a picnic table beside the bench, Lily’s head on his lap as she sleeps. “That’s because you mask your bitch scent,” he says. “And your soul leaves when it realizes it’s inhabited the wrong host.”

“And I’m sure your brain cells fried coming up with that insult,” she refutes.

Before Lo can retort, other voices shout over him. “Daisy, are you and Ryke together?!”

“Daisy, just one question!”

“Are you scared about Ryke’s climb?!”

“Hey,” Lo snaps at the seven or eight reporters congregated about twenty feet behind us, camera crews in place, lenses pointed at us and Ryke. “Calm down. We have twenty-four hours and I personally don’t want to go deaf by the end of this.”

I stand in front of the wooden benches and picnic tables, so I turn my head to see Lily awakening from all the commotion.

“Did he fall?” she asks in alarm, her eyes snapping open.

“No, love. He’s okay.”

She exhales loudly. “Okay, good.”

A lump lodges in my throat. I’m not the only one concerned today.

The cameramen start flashing pictures at me, catching my face. When we left Nevada, word circulated about Ryke’s solo climb. Apparently he had to register with the state parks, and those documents leaked to the press.

I think Ryke would be more nervous about the media being so close to us today if it wasn’t for our team of security drawing a line between the cameras and our benches. So at least we can pretend to ignore them. Mikey is here, shaking his head at a couple of the guys who shout questions out to me.

It’s still early in the morning, so we expect a lot more people to show up, probably some fans too.

My father also sent a note with Mikey:

We need to talk about Ryke.

Love, Dad

Having my parents find out about the relationship from a tabloid was not ideal, but it was the risk we both chose to take.

And I only received one text from my mom, not even a phone call.

I’m interviewing the best plastic surgeons in the city. You’ll be okay. – Mom

I asked Connor to send out a tweet (he’s the only one with a Twitter account) to tell people what happened. The rumors from the leaked photograph were horrendous. They ranged from a knife fight to rape. And then both.

Connor’s tweet set everyone straight.

@ConnorCobalt: Daisy is fine. Her scar is from the Paris Rugby riot. Thanks for all the well wishes.

And of course he had to add a second tweet.

@ConnorCobalt: Apparently, I need to clarify for some of you. No. She was not raped afterwards.

He told me that the second tweet was for the media sites that love to stir stories out of nothing. I appreciated it, especially since it meant that I didn’t have to go on any talk shows or phone into a radio to explain the situation.

When the park ranger leaves, Ryke glances back at us, and he actually walks over. My heart rises to my throat, but his eyes meet mine for a brief second or two before they pin on everyone behind me. And then he just treks right on past.

Okay…

“You realize how stupid this is, right?” Lo asks him, forearms on his knees, hands clasped. He has his feet on the picnic table bench like Lily.

Ryke just smiles. “I love you too.”

And then surprisingly Lo rises off the table and hops down. He hugs Ryke and pats his back. “Don’t die on me, okay?”

“I don’t plan on it,” Ryke says.

That one fight in Utah—with the red rock and dirt swirling—has cleared the air between them. Whatever bad blood they had between each other was left in that state, and I hope it won’t ever return.

They split apart, and Ryke faces Lily now. She jumps off the picnic table quickly and flings her arms around him. Then she pulls away and presses a sticker on his shirt. “It’s Spider-Man. For good luck.”

“Thanks, Lily.” I can’t see his smile this time, just his back. But I’m sure he’s smiling because Lily’s eyes are flooded with emotion.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, just watching him go down the line.

Rose and Connor stay seated. My sister has on designer sunglasses even though the sun has yet to rise, and Connor is wearing an expensive suit. They do not fit in. But they don’t care much.

Ryke holds out his hands. “Please, don’t stand up for me.”

“I’ll hug you when you come back down,” Rose tells him in her clipped voice. “It’ll give you something to look forward to.” She swats another invisible fly out of her face.

Ryke nods and looks to Connor. “And you?”

“You don’t need my luck.” His words are velvety smooth, like he’s telling Ryke he has all the confidence in the world in him.

Ryke nods again. “Thanks guys. For being here. See you on the other side.” He starts walking back, and I think he’s going to stop in front of me, for a private moment. But he just keeps on hiking towards the rock face.

I don’t think twice. I sprint after him, taking off. No one calls me back to the tables.

No one reprimands me for following a boy much older than me.

No one says to stop.

I go with freedom in my chest, freedom in my heart. And I block his path with my body, holding my hands out.

Ryke’s dark features brighten as soon as he sees me. His lips rise far beyond an almost-smile. He notices the flower crown still in my clutch, and he steals it from my hand. I watch as he sets it atop my blonde locks, some strands painted with color.

“I was waiting for the sun to chase me,” he breathes, drawing me to his chest. In one swift movement, my lips are on his. The world is spinning. He kisses me like this is the moment he’s envisioned all his life. Like this is heaven on Earth.

For me, it is. A blissful moment before something that could be the end. The rush before the fear. He whispers, “I fucking love you.”

I smile, my lips tingling. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I love you more than chocolate cake.”

He kisses my head, and his mouth returns to mine, his tongue sliding sensually, lasting and perfect. Then he flips off the cameras, the click click click in the background like buzzing insects.

When our lips break away, he just stares at me, his eyes grazing over my face, spending an extra moment on my hair and the crown of flowers. I can tell he’s engraining this image in his head. In case he falls.

“Don’t miss me too much, Calloway,” he says. And then he starts to drift back towards the rock, his hand leaving mine.

This is it.

I watch Ryke Meadows climb.

< 53 >

RYKE MEADOWS

Connor may hate Confucius but there’s something he said that I never challenge. “It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.”

El Capitan looms before me. All those fears loom behind.

It’s just me and the ascent.

Years of hard work and labor coming full circle to this one day. And I’m fucking ready.

I take a deep breath, blink one last time.

And I ascend towards the summit.

< 54 >

RYKE MEADOWS

“Man, I wish I could’ve been there,” Sully says, my cell pressed to my ear while I walk into the private airport with my brother, Lily, Connor, Rose, and of course Daisy. “The pictures online are insane. Those photographers caught some awesome shots of you on the Northwest Face of Half Dome.”

“I haven’t seen them yet,” I admit.

“Not like you need to. You lived it, man,” Sully says.

I lived it. I didn’t beat any fucking records. I just set my own, and I completed a challenge that seemed impossible in my teens. I can’t adequately express what this feels like. When I dropped on the ground, I was so fucking exhausted but so fucking overwhelmed with joy.

I did it. I free-solo climbed the Yosemite Triple Crown. 19 hours. A goal for me. Not for anyone else.

“How’s Venezuela?” I ask him.

“Hot and humid,” he says. “But the routes on Mount Roraima are incredible, and the whole place feels spiritual—hard to explain in words. You’d love it here though. I’d ask you to come join me, but…you know.” I hear him smiling on the other end.

“Sorry, Sul. Can’t read your fucking mind.” But I have a feeling he’s talking about Daisy. I hold her hand as we walk through the quiet airport, heading to our gate where our private plane is supposed to be waiting to fly us to Philly.

“You’re probably sore as hell.”

I am. My muscles fucking scream even as I keep stride with Lily and Lo’s leisurely pace. “That’s not what you were about to fucking say.”

“Please, please invite me to the wedding.” I picture his smile reaching the ends of his scraggily red hair.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I just want you to know that I called it. I’m like a relationship whisperer.” He laughs at his own joke, which makes me fucking smile. “Anyway, that picture of you two outside of Devils Tower is seriously becoming iconic. It’s everywhere. Even in a Venezuelan newspaper.”

“Yeah, someone else told me the picture is pretty popular.” A friend from college texted me the photo, which landed on the cover of Time magazine. It’s famous because they’re pairing it with the Paris riot, even though it was taken a while after that. But after the press learned that’s how she got hurt, Daisy’s scar has become a symbol of what happened that night. People like to hold onto the good in the wake of the bad. And in the photo, she’s on my shoulders, kissing me, smiling, my fingers stained with colors. It looks like a fairytale, something setup. But it was completely candid—captured by a hiker’s cellphone who recognized us.

I care less about being an international icon and more that the coverage may help Daisy accept this new, jarring change in her features. She has barely looked in any mirrors since the hospital, and I think confronting the permanent reality of what’s happened may be hard on her. She’s been avoiding those feelings like she usually does.

“Is she around?” Sul asks. “Let me talk to the girl. She probably misses me.”

“She’s right here.” I pass the phone to Daisy. “Sully wants to talk your fucking ear off.”

She brightens, taking my cell.

“Fucking cut him off if he starts any story with when we were twelve.” He loves to talk about how I streaked at night during summer camp and did a backflip into the lake off a rock. I don’t find the story as entertaining because I snuck in a flask of cheap vodka that year. I was wasted. And a fucking idiot.

But I’d still do all of that stuff now, minus the booze.

Daisy puts the phone to her ear. “Hey, Sully.” She smiles wider. “I did massage his ass, thanks for asking.”

I snatch the phone back from her, and Sully is cracking up laughing on the other end. “Please have children,” he tells me, not able to stop cackling. “I have to see if they’d be as fun as her or as moody as you.”

“Fuck off,” I tell him lightly.

“Hugs and kisses from Venezuela. See you in a few months? Keep in touch.”

“Yeah,” I say. We hang up at the same time, and I watch Lo carry Lily on his back. It’s early this morning, so I’m not surprised, but she has been more tired recently. She presses her head on his shoulder, sleeping.

“What happened when you were twelve?” Daisy asks, lacing her fingers with mine.

Rose and Connor lead the pack with a flight attendant, opening the door to our gate. They walk down the stairs to the runway, where the private plane waits for us. Daisy and I let Lo catch up so we’ll be last out.

“I fucking streaked around my summer camp at night,” I tell her.

She laughs. “No way. I did the same thing when I was fourteen.” She gasps. “It’s like we were always meant to be.”

I run my hand through her hair and then kiss her forehead. If we are supposed to be together, then why does going home seem like returning to a black fucking storm?

Lo passes us and whispers, so as not to wake Lily, “Hey, you two, your PDA is scaring the little children.”

“You mean you?” I retort, following him close behind as he heads down the stairs to outside.

“I mean anyone who was once a child,” Lo says like a smartass. He smiles bitterly, and then I almost bump into Connor’s back who’s standing still on the cement.

“What’s the fucking hold up?” I ask. The plane is here, but it’s not Connor’s private jet parked ahead of us, a thick layer of smog clouding the sky.

My face falls.

I recognize the massive white Boeing 787, ostentatious, in your fucking face.

Just like my father.

He emerges down the stairs of the plane, buttoning his black suit jacket, his dark brown hair starting to gray on the sides.

The flight attendant says, “Mr. Hale’s plane arrived an hour ago. Once the gas tanks are filled, we’ll be off.”

Rose is texting like crazy, and Connor has his hand on the small of her back. He gives the flight attendant a genial smile. “Will Mr. Hale be flying to Philadelphia with us then?”

She nods. “They came to pick you up.”

They?

And right behind Jonathan, another man descends the stairs, tall and confident and entitled. It’s my father’s best friend, his hair lighter brown, in his fifties, a less hard and severe face than my dad’s.

It’s Daisy’s father. My stomach sinks. Fuck me. I’ve never seen Greg Calloway do anything other than smile and shake hands, but worry blankets his face, looking more paternal and more protective than I’ve known him to be. It’s the look that Connor says he wears frequently. I just haven’t been around him long enough to see it.

Greg’s gaze lands on Daisy immediately, but he stays beside the plane, waiting for us to approach like my dad.

I didn’t think it could get worse, but one more fucking person appears through the doorway, heading down the stairs in heels, a strand of pearls around her neck, her brown hair in a bun.

Samantha Calloway.

Her eyes are tight with concern like Greg’s, and her gaze fixes to her youngest daughter. Samantha places one palm to her chest, as though swept up in emotion upon seeing Daisy. Knowing she’s safe. But then her eyes focus on me.

And she glares.

“Shit,” Lo says under his breath.

We’re about to be stuck on a plane for five hours with our father and the girls’ parents.

With no way to escape.

This is going to be a fucking nightmare.

< 55 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

My mom holds my hands while I sit with her on the long cream couch that spans the back cabin, another leather couch on the other wall, a glass coffee table in between. It’s like we’re in a compact presidential living room, not flying above the clouds.

“You should have called me the moment you woke up in the hospital,” she says, throttling my hands for the fourth time with worry. And then her eyes pin to Rose on the other couch, who looks irritable. “And don’t get me started on you.”

“Mother, I—”

“You knew Daisy was in the riot, and you didn’t tell me.”

“There was a lot going on,” Rose says. She hasn’t announced the pregnancy to our parents yet, and I know Connor wants to do it soon. “She was in good hands.”

“I’m her mother. When you have kids, you’ll realize what it feels like—hearing that one of your children is hurt weeks after it happens…” She shakes her head.

Rose purses her lips. “That must be why you were so concerned about Lily when you heard she was sick.”

Our mom inhales, and I think she’s going to say: Lily brought that upon herself. An addiction isn’t a disease. But instead she goes with, “Let’s not get into that, Rose.”

Lily is sleeping in one of the bedrooms. I think she’s hiding from our mom, who likes to ignore Lily when she’s in close vicinity. Lo is with her, so it’s not like she’s all alone in there.

I glance back at the door to the front cabin. It’s the cigar club area with chairs and a flat-screen television. I smelled the cigar smoke the moment I walked into the plane, embedded in the cream leather.

Ryke is in there.

Right through those doors.

With my father. And his father. And Connor. Though I’m not sure Connor can be much of a peacemaker in that situation.

It sounds fairly awkward and uncomfortable. I want to go save him from my dad, but something tells me that he’d find a way to talk to Ryke no matter what.

 My mom rotates back to me, and her eyes fall to my graphic T-shirt that says: Sorry, I only date boys with tattoos. I’m not sorry about the shirt. I like it. And so I’m wearing it, regardless if she finds it distasteful or not.

Her fingers circle her pearls unconsciously, but she doesn’t ask me about Ryke. “I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you when we arrive home. The plastic surgeon is going to take a look at your cheek.” Her fingers fall from her pearls, and she rubs my hand again. “What pain medication are you on?”

I shake my head. “I’m out.”

“We’ll get you more.”

“No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.” If I touch my cheek, I can feel the raised wound, slightly puffy, descending from my temple, across my cheek, to my jaw. Everyone sees it but me. So it’s hard to confront the issue head-on when I’m not staring at it.

“You were so lucky,” my mom says. “You could have lost your eye. It could have cut through your lip.” She shakes her head at those brutal images. “The doctor will smooth out the scar, and then I’ll talk to your agency—”

“What?” I cut her off. I was willing to go to a doctor and get the scar looked at, but I can’t stomach going back to modeling. No one will hire me anyway.

“You’re beautiful, Daisy,” she says, squeezing my hands. “They’ll take you back.”

“No they won’t, Mom.” I need her to accept this failure and move on, so I can too.

“How is this any different than having a uni-brow or gap-teeth?”

“It just is. I already told you. I don’t want to model, and it has nothing to do with my face.” I tried to explain my decision on the phone, right after I left the hospital. And she hung up on me. Now she has no phone to cut me off with. She has nowhere to go.

I am so resolute and adamant about my choices. I’m no longer scared to express myself. She can’t stifle my voice or take my opinions away. I matter.

My mom just keeps shaking her head. “We’ll talk about this later. You’ve been through a lot.” She pats my leg.

“I’ve thought about it for years,” I tell her.

She actually stays quiet and just listens.

I let out a breath. “I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy, but in doing so, I’ve become so, so depressed, Mom.” I shake my head as tears brim. “I’ve spent so long pleasing you that I haven’t even found my own dreams.”

My mom swallows hard and says, “Why haven’t you told me this sooner? We could have found something else for you to do.”

“I tried a couple times,” I say. “You wouldn’t listen.”

My mom processes this. She doesn’t handle change well, but these facts glass her eyes. “I guess it makes this easier.” Her gaze lands on my scar. “You need to start looking at colleges then. You’ll be a semester behind…”

“I’m not going to college,” I say, adamant. “I have a lot of money saved from modeling, and I know this is going to hurt you…” I take another deep breath. “…but I don’t need your input on what I should do in the future. I have to discover that myself.”

My mom looks pissed. “You’re only eighteen, Daisy.”

“Mom,” I say. “You have to let me go. I promise, I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t understand. I let you get your own apartment. You’re off on your own—”

“I’m not saying goodbye to you,” I cut her off like she’s done to me so many times in my life. As shitty as it seems—it feels damn good. “I just need to be the one to decide the direction of my life. That’s all.” I don’t know what I want to do, but I do know that I have years to figure it out. And that freedom builds my confidence and gives me the wings that I use to fly right on out of this nest.

She inhales. “And you won’t go to college?”

“No.”

She stares at me for a while and says, “You’ve always been the most scatterbrained of the girls. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Her eyes narrow a little though. I guess that’s the best I’m going to get. It’s good enough for me.

And then she scrutinizes my hair, combing her fingers through the shorter, badly hacked strands with a crinkled nose. “We can get you some extensions and take out this color… Did you cut this yourself? It’s god-awful.” She takes out her phone and makes a note to call the salon. Just like that, she acts like I didn’t make a pledge, but I won’t ever back away from it. Even if she chooses to forget or feign confusion. I’ll remind her.

“I love it,” I say.

“Funny,” she says, typing on her phone.

“No, I do,” I tell her seriously. “I love that it’s not perfect, and I like the highlights. I’m not changing it.” I glance at Rose, and she wears a proud smile.

“You can’t like this,” she says. “It’s ugly.”

Rose butts in. “It’s her taste.”

“Well she has bad taste,” she snaps. “And I’m trying to help her see that.”

Rose groans. “Mother, why do you have to be so—”

“Because I want what’s best for my girls,” she retorts. Her eyes land on me. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You always liked your hair before.”

“I never did,” I say.

She glares. “It’s Ryke, isn’t it? You’re changing because of a boy.”

“Ryke never told me how to cut my hair or what color to make it. He’s only ever told me to think for myself.”

I catch her eyes flickering to the door of the front cabin, where Ryke lies. She glares at it like it accosted her somehow. She blames him for my thoughts and feelings and probably my sudden career change.

“Is he telling you to push me out of your life?” she asks.

“Mom, no. He’s never been like that.”

“He doesn’t like me,” she says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s telling you all of these things—”

“Listen to me,” I plead. “He’s not saying a word about you. I love you, Mom, and he respects that.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. She doesn’t even need to add the next line for me to sense it, but she does anyway. “You would have never gotten hurt if Ryke didn’t follow you to Paris.” She shakes her head again and again.

The sad thing, there is some truth to that.

I would have never gone to the pub to retrieve Lo if Ryke didn’t show up.

We would have never been stuck in that riot.

But without that violent wake-up call, I would have never realized how much I needed to voice my opinions. Even if it hurt my mom. Even if it pissed her off. All of this had to be said.

For me.

No one else.

You are your own anchor. Do you want to keep burning or are you going to let yourself rise?

No more dragging myself down.

I’m finally ready to rise.