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I rub my face with my forearm as I walk towards the crag. Then I snap my black helmet on. After my routine setup, I pull a necklace out of my crew-neck shirt, the silver end bullet-shaped. Only Daisy knows this, but Sully had a will—this poorly written note found in the fucking glove compartment of his green Jeep.
In it, he wrote: Give Ryke Meadows my ashes. I want to be in the clouds, and no one is going to get there but him.
His parents gave me a small portion of his ashes. The rest, they buried in the ground, so I’m going to do my fucking best to leave him in the sky.
“You’re going to climb one last time with me, Sully.” Then I grip the rock.
With the corners of my mouth lifting, I rise off the dirt.
DAISY MEADOWS
Lo framed a TIME magazine on the kitchen wall. It will always draw me in, time-warping me to one of the most profound moments I’ve ever witnessed. Where Ryke had just reached the top of the red cliff. He positioned his right foot on a higher rock, snapped off his helmet. A flower crown nestled in his tousled hair; sweat from his climb dripped down his temples.
Then he stared up at the sky and tears crested his eyes.
That moment. Right there—where he looked unbelievably happy and overcome—has been immortalized.
Journalists posted the image on dozens of websites. Fans retweeted it millions of times. And it’s been locked inside my soul.
On Desert Shield, Ryke said goodbye to his friend and hello again to a love that has been the foundation of who he is since he was six.
And I know I will dim. I will wane, but seeing Ryke happy touches a place inside of me that won’t darken so quickly. It may be the only part that stays lit when depression crawls my way.
I’m thankful for that love. I hold onto it always.
“How are you feeling, Calloway?” Ryke whispers huskily in my ear. We sit side-by-side on the kitchen counter by the stove. Our three-month-old daughter is asleep in his arms, bundled in a blanket that says chocolate over boys. Which was Loren Hale’s baby present to his niece. It’s only shocking if you forget how much he loves all of us.
I rest my chin on Ryke’s shoulder. How do I feel? Nostalgic. Overwhelmed. Maybe even nervous. As he watches me fixatedly, I begin to smile. “Will you always ask me that?” I wonder.
“Every fucking day,” he promises.
Besides my sisters, I think he’s the only person who really cared how I felt as a teenager, and even as I’ve grown, I see that won’t ever change. Before I can list off reasons why I’m not scared or sad, the kitchen fills with Connor and Rose, baby monitor in hand. Then Lily and Loren. Sam and Poppy. Willow and Garrison.
We have cheese and veggie trays set out along the bar counter, a sort of tiny party since today is the first day of filming the docu-series. Cameras and lighting are already set up in the basement entertainment room, interview-style.
It’s so quiet.
“I didn’t realize this was a fucking funeral,” Lo says as he wraps Lily in his arms. They hang by the toaster.
“It’s not the end,” I say with a mischievous, rising smile.
“Let me guess”—Lo tilts his head at me—“it’s just the beginning?”
“It’s actually the middle,” I banter. “Which is the best part. It’s neither the start nor the finish. It’s all the goodness in between.”
We’re still young. We still have so much life left to live. I’d rather live in the middle of all the glorious things than the teasing start or the bitter end. That’s just today though. Maybe my theory will change tomorrow.
Maybe everything will be new and different again. I smile at the thought.
Oh, the thrill of it all.
Lo shakes his head at me, and then he nods to Ryke. “Congratulations on marrying that one. She makes less sense than Rose’s winter baby collection.”
Rose shoots him a scathing side-eye. “Just because you don’t know what a peplum dress is—”
“I know what a pepu dress is like,” he snaps back.
“Peplum,” she corrects, crossing her arms.
“Do you know what doesn’t make sense? One-year-olds dressed like they’re about to hit up every boring congressional meeting and leadership conference.”
Rose growls. “It’s cute, and I’m sorry the entire male staff refuses to realize that babies can have style beyond zoo animals and comic books superheroes.”
“Hey,” Lily and I say with smiles, knowing Rose’s response to us before she even says it.
“You can dress your baby in whatever—just like I should be able to put Jane in a vintage romper or a well-fitted peplum cut dress. There’s already a market for pandas on jammies, but there’s a gap for what Calloway Couture Babies is offering.”
I smile wider. “Go Rose.” I clap and Lily almost joins in, but Lo pouts down at her like she’s already broken his heart.
Connor soothes the situation by saying, ever so calmly, to Rose and Lo, “Let’s not bring your dysfunctional board room home.”
Rose spins on him. “Dysfunctional?”
“That’s the word that fits Lo’s week-long argument with you. If you want another, I can offer one or two or three. Four might be pushing it. For you, of course. I’d assume you’re intelligent enough to understand by then.” He’s as much a smartass as he is a genius, and I don’t think he’ll ever let anyone forget it.
Rose covers his mouth with her hand. “Your voice is the most hideously, annoying thing in this kitchen. Do not talk if you wish to keep your tongue.”
I can tell he’s grinning.
She drops her hand.
He cocks his head. “Rose.”
“Richard,” she warns.
“It’s still amusing—after all these years,” he grins more, “that you believe you can control what I do.” He leans his side against the counter, closer to her. “I know you love this part the best. When I defy you.”
Rose narrows her gaze. “In your dreams.”
“I don’t have to dream,” he breathes. “I already have you.”
Rose tries not to smile, which causes most of us to smile. At least, Lily, Willow, Poppy, and I do. The other guys are hard to crack.
“I hate you,” Rose points out.
“And I love you.”
Rose’s face breaks, and she almost rocks back. “That’s not how it goes. You say that I’m the one who loves you.”
“That’s true too.”
She touches a tear that threatens to fall and mutters something in French.
I look to Ryke, and he whispers lowly to me, “She said that she hates when love makes her cry.”
Connor replies back in French.
Ryke rolls his eyes and divulges the secrets to me. “He quoted Shakespeare.” He pauses. “My drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.”
Those two will never change, and I think we all love them best in their intellectual, infatuated glory.
I spot Willow and Garrison by the fridge, both staring at his cellphone, cupped in his hand, with laughter on their cheeks. I bet it’s a video clip, something fandom-related.
I’m sad about Willow leaving for London soon, but I know we’ll keep in touch. I know she’ll return in time. Maybe that’s the harder thing for Garrison. Friendships that are like sisterhoods may last forever, but relationships sometimes come and go.
The strings that tie them are a little looser than the ones that tie Willow to me. I only hope their string won’t be cut until they’re both absolutely sure that’s the right thing to do.
Sam and Poppy are on the barstools, talking quietly and eating veggies. I’m glad they decided to be a part of this, especially when they’ve said no to publicity in the past, like Princesses of Philly. It feels right having them here.
“You. Me,” Lo says to Lily, her back to his chest, his arms draped over her shoulders and lips by her ear. “Pantry. Now.”
Lily spins around to him, suspicion in her eyes. “Is this about the Ho Hos?”
I whip my head to Ryke. “There are Ho Hos in the pantry?” I gasp. “How could you eat them without me?”
He raises his brows at me, trying not to laugh. “You’ve eaten a h—fuck it. I can’t say it.”
Ryke Meadows can’t say the word hoe.
“My older brother, ladies and gentleman,” Lo says loudly, “the most decent fucking guy you’ll ever meet.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes.
Ryke flips him off.
Lo motions to his brother. “Classic Ryke Meadows.”
“You give him a compliment,” Connor chimes in, “and he says fuck you.”
