Both Lo and Lily look overwhelmed. My brother nods back at me like thanks. And then he whispers to Lily, “We did this together. It’s not your fault, love. We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ve f**ked up,” she says.
“I think I’ve beat you these past few months,” he murmurs. “You’ve been there for me, and I’ve been f**king stupid.”
“No,” she says with tear-filled eyes. “You’ve been really strong.” And then they hug at the same time. Both magnetically drawn to each other, arms wrapped in such soul-deep comfort that I can’t f**king watch.
We give them privacy, but Rose purposefully leaves the door open, so maybe not that much privacy. And my head whirls as we go into the kitchen. “How did she not get pregnant when she was screwing different guys every day?” I ask in disbelief.
“She said she was much more careful. It was her only worry back then,” Rose tells me.
Now that we know Lily didn’t slit her wrists or anything, Rose leans against the kitchen counter like it’s Sunday afternoon.
“So you knew about her pregnancy the whole f**king time,” I assume. “You didn’t think to tell Lo?”
“It wasn’t my place, Ryke,” Rose says.
I look at Connor. “And you? You’ve never been known to butt out of other people’s business.”
“I think you’re confusing me with you,” he says casually, “and if you want my honest answer, no, I didn’t want to tell Lo. I didn’t think he could handle it. Be glad you didn’t have to make that decision because it was a f**king hard one.”
I’m known to lie to my brother’s face if I don’t think he can handle certain things. Like my own f**king identity when I first met him.
I don’t envy the knowledge they had. I wouldn’t have wanted it.
I scan the kitchen, the granite counters, expecting an easily excitable girl to be sitting there, swinging her legs against the cabinet. She’s not around, so I walk through the archway to the nearly empty living room, searching for Daisy, but she’s not here either.
I stop in place, realizing something…she was going to tell her sisters about what happened months ago. She was going to finally spill these harrowing details that have f**ked her over for weeks.
And of course, Lily’s issues came out today, pushing Daisy to the side. I can imagine how she feels—like her problems aren’t significant, like they don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. She’s going to shut down again, to crawl back into her hole where she hides her feelings and covers it with jokes and sarcasm.
My heart lodges in my f**king throat. “Daisy!” I call out, my nerves escalating. Why the f**k was I helping Lily? I don’t ever, ever want to choose Lily over Daisy. Just because Lily cries harder. Just because Lily screams louder. It doesn’t mean that Daisy’s pain isn’t more.
I run back through the kitchen, and Connor and Rose ask me what’s wrong. I shake my head and check the guest bathroom.
I have the worst kind of feeling in my gut.
I sprint to the garage while I take out my phone and call the security at the front of the gate. I grab my bike keys out of my pocket. “Did Daisy leave?” I ask, but I find my answer. My black Ducati sits lonely—without its red match.
“Fifteen minutes ago,” he says.
Fuck. I hang up.
“RYKE!” Rose screams at the top of her lungs to get my attention. “What’s going on?” She stomps into the garage that’s already halfway open, the doors groaning as they rise.
“I’m taking care of it,” I tell her, fitting my helmet over my head. I start the f**king bike, changing gears, and then I ride the hell out of there before she can say another word.
I’m so f**king angry at myself.
But most of all, I just hope she’s okay.
I hope I find her before she does something completely f**king insane.
64
DAISY CALLOWAY
I need air. The kind that bursts your lungs. The kind of jolt that sends your entire body reverberating with energy and electricity.
I want to wake up.
I’m tired of being in a half-sleep. Of seeing the world through a foggy lens.
I park my Ducati on a bridge that overlooks a murky lake. The night air whips around me, reminding me that it’s almost December. The chill awakens my bones, and I peel off my green cargo jacket. Just a thin tank top and jeans left. I easily hoist my body on the old brick ledge, welcoming the cold from up high.
I had to leave the house. When Lily relapses or has some sort of emotional event, I feel in the way. Like a piece of furniture blocking everyone’s path. It’s best just to be gone. And there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.
On a bridge.
Outstretching my arms, the air seems to pinch me, wake me up, fill me with something more.
I love escaping to the roofs of buildings and shouting at the top of my lungs, but my voice dries in my throat tonight, pushed too deeply to retrieve. I just want to fly through the air. I just want to soar.
I peer down at the waters, nearly black in the darkness, the crescent moon casting an eerie glow over the rippling surface. I’ve jumped off this bridge before. It’s not too high, but the tree banks are shallow and muddy tonight, and the water line looks low. Too low? I don’t know.
I can’t explain these feelings.
A pressure on my chest threatens to combust.
Just wake up, Daisy.
Jump.
I look around to make sure I’m alone. No lurking cameramen who followed me here. But headlights beam from the left.
I focus back on the water, bumps dotting my arms as the cold sweeps me in a sharp embrace. Half of my feet stick off the ledge. I brace myself.
“CALLOWAY!”
65
RYKE MEADOWS
She looks over her shoulder, startled by my voice, her face illuminated by the moon. She never anticipated on being found. Drawing attention—that’s not her f**king ploy. Every time she runs off, she does it alone, and I’ve always feared the one time where she won’t return, floating dead on the surface of a lake, an ocean, a river.
Not tonight.
Not f**king ever.
I climb off my bike, anger darkening my features and tensing my muscles. Her father has been paranoid since we arrived back in Philly. He put a GPS locator in her bike. One call to him, and I found out she decided to ride to Carnegie Lake.
“Hey,” she says like she’s window shopping at a mall. She smiles and spins around so her back faces the lake, but she dangerously sticks more of her heels off the ledge. “The question is: backflip or frontflip?” She wags her eyebrows.
“Neither,” I snap. “Get the f**k down.” I rarely tell her no, but I remember when I chaperoned her sixteenth birthday. That cliff in Acapulco. I screamed at her, veins popping in my f**king neck, telling her to stop.
There are some things so dangerous that death looks more probable than life. That’s when I’ll grab her. That’s when I’ll try to force her down.
“I’ve jumped from this before,” she says with a shrug. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I tell her. “The water levels are f**king low.” The only reason I know this is Connor Cobalt—a throwaway comment a few days ago about the Princeton row competition being canceled because of shallow waters.
“The danger,” she says theatrically, her mouth curving upward.