“What if I had taken those opportunities?” she asks seriously.
I set her foot on the floor. “I’d love you the same, but I’m selfishly happy you didn’t.”
“Because now you can have all of me,” she states. I’ve never been deceitful about my narcissism. It’s not a front or a mirage. I truly feel entitled to most things, and when I have them, I take good care of them until I grow bored. Then I find something new to play with.
However, I would never grow bored with Rose. So I married her, and in that sense, I am moral. I’m committed to the person I truly love rather than someone I momentarily like.
“Yes, I have all of you,” I reply, “but Rose, I’m married to you. I never weigh my experience against your lack of experience and think you’re less than me. You’re always, and will always, be my equal.”
She nods. “I believe you.”
I tuck a damp piece of hair behind her ear. She shivers, the strands wet on her shoulders. By training her mind back on her hair, she’s more aware that it’s dyed. Her eyes are right on mine, gauging my reaction to her new color before she looks.
I’m completely impassive, her hair actually more copper than rust.
“Just tell me,” she says, swallowing hard.
I lift her chin with my fingers and whisper, “‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”
She smacks my arm with the heel of her palm, recognizing the quote from Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet.
I can’t restrain a grin. “It’s a famous euphemism, Rose.” I draw her closer to my body, peeking into her opened shirt for a millisecond. She tugs the fabric closed with two hands. I’m hugging her with her arms tucked to her chest, which is normal for us.
“It’s an annoying, famous euphemism, Richard,” she says, her lips almost twitching upward.
“Is that a smile?”
“No,” she says. “It’s a hateful frown.”
“If we’re going to rename all of societies constructs, then I’ll be sure to call that sink a table and the ceiling the floor.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
She actually smiles fully, and I hold her cheek, my thumb brushing her red lips.
“Shall we go on?” I whisper deeply. We don’t have enough time, unfortunately. I want more with her. Always.
She shakes her head and inhales, more confident. “I can dye it back next week, right?”
“Sooner,” I say. “Anytime after the picture, you can go to the salon.”
“But Celebrity Crush said—”
“Rose,” I breathe. “They just want the picture.” Andrea suggested one week, a timeframe for Rose’s altered appearance. She should be satisfied enough with the world’s reaction after one day. It’ll be exponentially greater than her sisters’ shock.
After one more silent moment, Rose rotates to the mirror, and I keep her in my arms, watching her eyes morph into pinpoints. Her shoulders tighten and her nose flares.
“It’s fucking orange,” she curses, about to grab the directions. I let her peruse them this time.
“I did everything correctly except wait longer to let it set,” I explain. “We didn’t have time, and it was burning your scalp.”
“I was fine.” She huffs though, knowing she wasn’t. She tosses the instructions in the wastebasket and thumbs a strand of her hair. “Stop smiling.”
“I’m not smiling,” I say easily.
“And I have to wear sneakers. And I have to rock climb.” She presses her hand to her forehead. I kiss that hand and then I kiss her temple.
“Ensemble,” I murmur. Together. “My time will come.”
This may be hard on her, but it won’t be long before one of these scenarios boomerangs back to me.
7
ROSE COBALT
Philly Rocks! is a poorly titled gym that contains vertical multicolored inclines with ropes and harnesses and more or less peril and doom. The apt name would be Philly Die! or Philly Misery & Ungodly Things Since I Can’t Wear My Five-Inch Heels!
What’s worse: I have two sisters stretching beside me, gazes plastered on my orange hair that I’ve tied in a high pony. No one has slung an insult my way yet, and I realize my murderous, I will run over you and then go in reverse for good measure glare has shut their lips. Lo just asked that I wear a hat, quickly attaching his explanation: the paparazzi will tail us if they see your hair, and we all want to do this in private today.
If only he knew.
I complied, stuffing my hair beneath one of Connor’s baseball hats, but as soon as we entered the gym, I had to remove it. We rented out Philly Rocks!—no kid’s birthday party or hovering instructors in sight. Ryke has permission from management to teach us.
Connor already tipped Walter our whereabouts, so the plan is set and in motion. Subconsciously, I check over my shoulder, at the floor-length gym windows, slightly tinted from the outside. I wonder if he’ll have to wait until we leave to snap a photo.
As long as there’s not an entire brigade of cameramen outside, Walter will have his exclusive photograph. Rumors about Moffy will stay out of the press. Everything will be fine.
“Earth to Rose.” Daisy waves her hand in front of my face.
I wake from my stupor, lounging with my hands behind me. Fuck stretching. “I was just picturing the wall violently swallowed by flames. Who has a match?” I look to Lily.
Lily tries to look stern, her back straightening. “This is about Ryke. We can’t burn his place of love.”
I snort. “His place of love is between our sister’s legs.”
Daisy waves her hand again. “I’m sitting right here.”
“I know, I fully intended for you to hear that,” I say curtly, checking my matte black nails, remembering their beauty, since they’ll be chipped by tonight’s end.
Daisy ties her brown hair in a messy high bun. “Lily is right, though.”
“I am?” Lily beams.
“Most definitely.” Daisy nudges her arm with a bigger, brighter smile. “The weather has been horrible these past few weeks, and he’s been really antsy.” Ryke hasn’t been able to climb outside, she means.
I sigh. “Fine,” I concede. “Maybe this will make up for our awful Christmas presents for him.” We spent four hours in the mall, flocked by our bodyguards and tailed by elated fans and cameramen. It was an ordeal, largely from our indecisiveness. We usually buy Ryke rock climbing gear that he requests for both Christmas and his birthday, but that seemed insensitive this year, considering his surgery is in January.
I bought him a nice electric razor, but I’m sure he already has one, his unshaven jaw clean and never a gnarly beard. I asked Connor what he bought him and he simply said, I’ve had his Christmas gift for a year.
A year.
He refused to clarify that irritating answer.
My phone pings, and as I grab my cell off the carpeted floor, I notice the three guys by the gym wall, talking amongst themselves. I skim the screen.
Tweet notifications:
@callowayforever: Was that really Connor going down on you? @RoseCCobalt
Yes. We do have sex, even if some people believe we’re cold and unfeeling, and like Lo said—make out annually. I refrain from replying back, especially to negative comments. Our publicist basically said: being defensive is the worst opinion you can have. Standing up for yourself with your back arched and claws bared is not allowed on social media, at least not from my end.