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The waitress stops by our booth. “Ready to order?”
“Yeah,” Lo says. I vaguely pay attention to his burger order, along with Connor’s salmon. Ryke raises his brows at me like you have to look away sometime, sweetheart.
Fine. I lose. Maybe next time it’ll end with us tangled together. I mull over my food options quickly and then smile at the pretty blonde waitress. “I’ll have the sirloin steak with a baked potato.”
Ryke shakes his head at me, but he doesn’t force me to switch. He looks at the waitress. “I’ll have the same thing.” We pass her our menus and as she walks to the kitchen, Ryke says, “Just so you can see why I’m not sick and you are.”
“My stomach is made of steel,” I repeat.
“That theory hasn’t been fucking proven yet.”
“True.”
Connor types on his phone and then slips it in his pocket. He looks at me. “Now that you’re done modeling, are you going to apply to college?”
I knew this topic was going to surface, and I’m not surprised he’s the first one to bring it up. “Do you want me to go to college?” I ask.
“We all want you to do what you love,” he says. “College is a good place to figure that out, but it’s not for everyone.” He looks at Lo, who lets out a bitter laugh.
“Sure, turn to the guy who dropped out his junior year,” Lo snaps.
Connor shrugs easily. “You’re a good example. Don’t be ashamed. It’s a fact.”
“Fact,” Lo says, “you’re a conceited prick.”
“Fact,” Connor retorts, “you’re a good looking asshole.”
Lo touches his heart mockingly. “A compliment and an insult. Fuck me now, love.”
Ryke rolls his eyes. He balls up my straw paper while I smooth the corners of my napkin, making a rose out of it.
“No college,” I tell them. “I don’t want to sit behind a desk all day and be lectured.”
Connor nods understandingly.
“Maybe down the road I’ll go,” I say. “Just not anytime soon.”
“So what are you going to do then?” Lo asks me.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit, twisting the stem on the paper rose. “I thought this trip could help me decide.” I wish I was like Ryke. His job is his sport. He’s been in so many rock climbing magazines because of successful free-solo climbs he’s done. While he does live off his trust fund, he’s been in three commercials where he’s climbing and they paid him millions because of his celebrity status. He’s the face of some kind of men’s razor—which is pretty funny considering he’s always unshaven. And he did a couple ads for REI and Under Armour.
Basically, he’s balling. And I don’t have a talent to capitalize on.
I guess that’s a lie.
I did have a talent: Modeling.
What happens when the thing you’re good at isn’t the thing you love?
That’s where I am now. Stuck.
Someone’s phone vibrates on the table. I check my cell, thinking it may be my mom. Maybe she’s ready to talk to me. I want to explain, but she’s not giving me much of a chance.
No texts.
I look up, and Ryke’s jaw locks as he stares at the screen of his phone. He presses a button. I know he’s deleted a text from either his mom or dad. I’ve seen him do it before. He slips his phone into his leather jacket pocket.
I can’t help but sympathize with his parents in this moment. I know what it feels like to be ignored, and it hurts. But it’s not really my place to say something, is it? All of that business with his mom and dad and Lo, it’s too messy for me to jump into.
Connor starts asking Lo about Superheroes & Scones, his duel comic book and coffee shop that he owns with Lily. I tune out at the words taxes and profit margin.
Ryke nods to me. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” His eyes fall to the paper rose. He’s watched me make them over the years, but this is the first time he’s asked.
Sometimes I don’t even notice that I’m playing with the napkins. I just do it out of habit. “When I was a debutante, the instructors made us sit at a table for hours. I was really bored.”
“You taught yourself?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I found an article online on how to make cool shapes.” I finish the napkin flower and hold it out to him. “Ryke, do you accept this rose?” I tease. He knows The Bachelor reference. When we were living with everyone, I made him watch taped episodes with me while I tried to fall asleep.
“That implies that you have many fucking guys dating you.”
I mock gasp. “But you’re my number one.” I raise the baseball cap on my head so I can see him better.
“If I’m seriously dating a girl,” he says, “I better be the only fucking one.”
He knows he is. I smile and pinch the stem of the rose. I slip it behind my ear. It’s not long after that our food parades towards us. The plates slide on the table, and the steak looks exactly like the picture.
“Need anything else?” the waitress asks.
“A dessert menu,” I tell her. I’m already anticipating a piece of chocolate cake. And if that doesn’t exist, then I’ll settle for a warm brownie.
“Sure thing, honey.” She leaves, and I cut my steak into large slices, not wanting to waste any time. My brain is screaming eat, eat, eat!
I take my first bite and shut my eyes. Delicious.
Magic.
I love food. After four more bites, I sip my water and say, “Told you, steel stomach.”
He chews, and his brows rise again, not as optimistic as me.
DAISY CALLOWAY
Theory disproven.
One hour after we left John’s and the steak forced its way back up in my throat, knotting my stomach. I even passed on the dessert back at the restaurant, already feeling queasy at that point, but I didn’t want to make a scene. I just mentioned that I was “full” from the sirloin and skipped it.
For Ryke, that must have been the first sign that I was going to be sick. The second, he said was me not moving in the back of the car. I was painfully still.
And then I puked.
On the side of the road thankfully, not in the car.
I’m less upset that Ryke was right, and more bummed that I can’t gorge myself on sweets and savory foods. I hate taking things slow. But my stomach is obviously not made of steel. More like plastic.
Not fun.
Many hours later, my stomach has completely settled, and we’ve crashed at a motel in the mountains, no Hilton or Holiday Inn in sight. Just a quaint little place called Big Cove Motel with yellowed wallpaper, kind of moldy bathroom tiles, but fox-printed quilts that look clean.
We checked into two rooms. One for me and one for them. Lo wanted to be nice by giving me some privacy and alone-time, I guess. I’m not used to being around Lo without Lily, and I think he’s uncomfortable by a lot of things. Me around his brother. Me around three guys and no sisters. Me on the road in a confined space.
But he doesn’t realize how paranoid I get when I’m alone. Even still on pain meds, I was wide awake when Ryke snuck in here at 2 a.m., and his presence just shifted the temperature in the room, lighting me on fire.
And then we kind of went at it.
We’ve been fooling around for the past twenty minutes, all fingers and kisses. He stares down at me, his lips raw. I only wear a shirt, Ryke’s favorite of mine. A baggy one that says: fuck you, you fucking fuck.
My eyes linger on his erection that stirs new feelings in me. It’s hard to wait. Especially since I feel like we’ve been waiting for years, not just a few weeks. If our relationship began normally—not secret from his brother and my sisters and basically everyone—we would have had sex that day in the stairwell. We’re both a little impulsive.
And I wonder if tonight will be the night.
I hope so.
“How big are you?” I already kind of know the answer. His thin pants leave very little to the imagination.
