Hothouse Flower (34 page)

< 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.