Ryke stays seated on the edge of my bed, his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped together as he hunches a little. His eyes fix on the ground in thought. “Can we talk?”
This isn’t good. Can we talk never leads to righteous places. Before he speaks, I blurt out, “You don’t have to do the whole awkward goodbye thing. We’ll see each other again.” I’ll only be in Paris for a month. I’m not losing him as a friend. Right?
“I think we should both start dating again,” he suddenly says.
I move a little faster, collecting a pile of clothes and trying to shove them into a drawer at the same time. I think we should both start dating again. What did I expect to happen? This wasn’t going to end with us holding hands. He’s just here to help me get on my feet. Still, we haven’t expressed an interest in dating other people for four months. It’s been just us, criticizing our previous relationships, no matter how brief or how long.
“Stop fucking moving for a second,” he says roughly.
I slow down and concentrate on folding a sweater with block letters that reads: Forever Young. “If that’s what you want.” I shrug. “I can start dating again, I guess.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “You can be single. I’m not saying that you have to get a boyfriend. I just…” he trails off in thought, and his jaw locks tight.
“No, I get it,” I say with a nod. “We both used to date a lot, and you’ve stopped because of me. It’s not fair to you.” All because I’ve been an emotional train wreck at night. Now that he has a month apart from me—no longer sleeping in my bed—it makes sense that he’d want to have sex. He finally has the chance to do it.
“I’m going to be fucking honest with you,” he says. I lean against the dresser and meet his dark gaze. “I’m not used to abstaining from sex for this long, and I think it’s in both of our best interests if we start opening ourselves up to other people again.”
His words shouldn’t hurt me that much, but they feel like sharp knives sliding into my belly. “So I should find a number seven then?” I ask him. “Maybe he’ll last longer than five minutes.” I try to put on a smile, but it disappears pretty quickly.
I can’t tell what Ryke is thinking. His features are hard as a rock. Brooding like normal. He stands up and takes a couple steps towards me.
I eye the ridges in his abs and the complex tattoo on his shoulder. I shouldn’t suggest it—I shouldn’t say it, but it leaves my lips before I can take back the words, “You could be my number seven.”
“Daisy…” He shoots me a look.
My stomach twists. “You’re really okay with me fucking another guy?” I imagine him with someone else, and it makes me physically ill. I don’t want him to date another girl, and I know it’s wrong of me to feel that way, but how do I change these emotions? How do I let them go? Maybe he’s right. Maybe we do have to date other people to get over this.
“It doesn’t matter what I fucking feel,” he says. “I’m seven years older than you.”
“You just turned twenty-five a week and a half ago.” He has literally only been seven years older for four months. But once my birthday arrives in February, he’s going to be all, I’m six years older than you with the same I’m a fucking man and you’re a little girl tone that he likes to put on when he’s making a point.
“I’m still seven fucking years older than you right now.”
“Really? I should file a complaint to the woman who made me seven years younger than you. What a horrible, horrible thing.”
He almost smiles.
“You know,” I tell him, more serious, “I started modeling when I was fourteen, and right when I entered the industry, no one ever treated me like I was a teenager. I was doing things that people in their twenties would do.”
I feel like I’ve already been to college, partying, drinking too much, experimenting, and I’m only eighteen. It’s one reason why I don’t want to go to a university. I had my fill when I was fifteen, sixteen and seventeen. And I can’t picture myself sitting behind a desk all day either.
“I hear you,” he says. “I do, but disregard our ages completely—you’re still my brother’s girlfriend’s little sister. And there’s no changing that.”
I set the sweater on top of the dresser. When I look up, he’s beside me. “So what happens when we’re both back in Philly a month from now?” I ask. “Do we just pick up where we left off or are we going our separate ways from here on out?”
He rests an elbow on the dresser. “I don’t want to lead you on, Dais. We can’t fucking happen. I’m just here to help you until you can sleep better.”
Maybe I should stop torturing myself then and just try to move on too. “I can find someone in Paris, and if not, I’ll just fly solo. I’ve done that a lot. Maybe I’ll make a lasting friend from New York,” I say. “I can move out there when I come back, and I’ll start over—”
“You would move out to New York?” He frowns.
“I don’t know…maybe,” I say softly.
He abruptly reaches out and draws me to his chest. He’s hugging me. Willingly. But this feels more like a goodbye than anything else. A pain ripples through my body.
And then that cracked door to my bedroom—it whips open.
I turn my head with Ryke, and we both see my mother standing at the threshold of the doorway with her phone in hand. Her eyes grow to saucers, horrified at the sight of my embrace with a guy she finds unworthy of my time and affection.
Ryke and I slowly break apart, but he doesn’t look guilty, only angry at her appearance.
“What is this?” my mom asks sharply.
“Ryke came over to say goodbye,” I tell her, trying to shrug off the tension that builds with her presence. “I’m all packed, so Mikey should be here in a bit.” I didn’t think she’d stop by. I hugged my mom and dad yesterday at their house.
My mom scrutinizes Ryke’s bare chest. “Why is your shirt off?” she snaps.
“Because I took it off,” he says with narrowed eyes. He finds his T-shirt on my comforter and he pulls it over his head. But he makes no attempt to leave me alone with my mom, too worried about me to do so.
My mom walks over to my bed in her high heels. She fingers the pearls at her neck as she inspects the sheets, twisted like two people possibly fucked beneath them.
“I’m a bad sleeper,” I tell her truthfully, but it sounds like such a lie. “I’ve been tossing and turning at night.”
She ignores me, and her eyes set right on Ryke again. “If I ever find out that you’re with my daughter, I will personally look into your past history, and if you’ve had sex with her when she was underage, you’ll be in court so fast. Do you know what statutory rape is?”
Ryke has an irritated expression like no, I’m a fucking idiot.
“Mom,” I interject. “He didn’t do anything.”
Ryke doesn’t break my mother’s gaze. “You want to act like it’s a fucking age thing, that’s fine, Samantha. Go ahead and do that. I don’t give a fuck what you think of me.”
She inhales drastically, the bones in her neck protruding. “I’ve never been around someone so disrespectful in my life.” She purses her lips. “What did your mother teach you?”
“How to hate my father,” he says without missing a beat. “How to hate my half-brother. Those didn’t really come in handy, did they?”
My mom falters at that response.
“You think I’m the very fucking extension of my mom,” he continues, “but I haven’t spoken to Sara in over a year.” And still, he can’t shake the association. It’s genetically written all over him.