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I wait for him to add, Yeah, because I find you magically delicious.
He’s not taking the bait, even sterner.
“It’s hard being serious,” I tell him honestly, “because I know where you’re headed, and I don’t like it.”
“I have to tell you straight out.” He’s an expert at communication in our relationship, always making sure nothing is lost in translation between us. So that I understand where he’s at mentally. Even when it sucks to hear it so bluntly.
I nod for him to continue.
“For as long as we’ve been together, you’ve never been in the mood to have sex for seven successive days, let alone months on fucking end.” I admittedly have always had a low sex drive, and I thought I just hadn’t found the right person yet. Then I met Ryke, and while I’m more aroused with him than anyone else, there are some days it’s extremely hard for Ryke to even get me off once.
I’ve never wanted to sit, to stay still, and add these little pieces of me together: the days where I ache to feel alive, to switch a light on inside of myself that’s burnt out. The days where it feels impossible to do just that. The days where I can stand on the precipice of life and death and not bat an eye if I just…jumped.
There is a war inside me, where storm clouds roll over the sun and no matter how far I run, no matter how far I leap, it just grows colder and more numb. I hate feeling empty, but worse than that is the emptiness that can’t be filled.
It’s strange that I now I have a name for this monster. I’ve given depression more life when I wish it would just go away.
“I don’t have to be in a good mood to have sex,” I say to Ryke.
“Don’t fucking tell me that.”
I thumb his zipper. “Ryke, you have to realize that even if we calculate when I’m ovulating, I may not be in the mood during that span of time, but we still have to have sex.” Before he interjects, I add, “I don’t want it to be a requirement anymore than you do, but I think it’ll be fun if it happens more frequently.”
“It sounds great in theory, Dais, but I’m just not sure how it’s going to actually work out.” He pauses. “Have you ever even had that much sex in your fucking life?” He has this whole I’m now twenty-seven and a whole hell of a lot older than you and more experienced posture about him.
“I guess I’m going to start. For the sake of our family.” I smile. “What hard work, making love to you is.” I want to draw him closer, but he does so instinctively, stepping near until his arms wrap around my shoulders.
He kisses my head but doesn’t agree yet.
So I say one last thing in my heart. “I like the idea of being close to you every day during this process, not just for a short week every month.” I look up at him. “Is that so bad?”
He shakes his head. “But it doesn’t have to be every day. We can have sex every two days if you need a break.”
I begin to smile. “Did you research this?”
Quietly, he says, “I’m trying to get you fucking pregnant, of course I looked it up.”
I’m trying to get you fucking pregnant. My heart swells. “Say that again.”
His brows rise, and his strong hand fits in the back pocket of my shorts. “If you’re ever in pain, we skip that day, week, whatever you need. If you want to fight me on this, we need to do it back at our house because I’m not backing down.”
It’s tempting—only because our short, heated bursts end with epic sex. Our arguments never really surpass the thirty-minute mark. I’m not always the one who forfeits either. Most of the time, Ryke caves to what I want first, but topics that are this serious, he rarely concedes.
I remember that I’m on my period, and my excitement wanes. “I like these terms…” I trail off as I catch Mikey looking at his watch. “What’s the time?” I ask Ryke.
He checks his own watch. “Fuck,” he curses and immediately scans the items in our cart, seeing what we’ve forgotten. “We have five minutes before the store opens.”
I climb into the cart, standing up and peering over the nearby shelf. I have a view of the entire store. “I see Rose.”
My older sister stands with Connor by the checkout, their groceries yet to be placed on the belt and bagged. They square off towards one another, Rose setting a piercing glare on Connor.
He’s grinning in return. When they zone in on one another, they seem to have tunnel vision, less aware of time and place.
Jane plays with Rose’s statement necklace, in a pale blue dress like a brunette Alice in Wonderland and held in the arms of her protective mom.
Rose has adapted to motherhood like she does everything she loves. With determination, passion and poise. I hope I’m able to do the same. Adapt and conquer.
“We’re going without orange juice,” Ryke says before pushing the cart. I sway a little but keep my balance.
“Maybe Lo and Lily put some in their cart.” I whip my head back and forth, trying to spot them. “Did they already leave?”
“What?” Ryke frowns, worried about his little brother almost instantly. He pushes the cart with one hand and takes out his phone.
“No, wait.” I finally spot Lily and Lo by the milk and eggs. They emerge from the bathroom together, a diaper bag on Lily’s shoulder. Both are concentrated on the little boy that walks between them, his smile out-of-this-world extraordinary and his green eyes lit up with excitement.
Maximoff Hale tries to run towards their half-filled cart, but his tiny legs don’t keep up with his momentum. He skips ahead and then begins to fall. Lo scoops him up in his arms before his son face-plants.
I want that.
“Dais?” Ryke asks.
“They were changing Moffy’s diaper.” I cup my hands around my mouth and shout to my sister, “Lily Calloway to aisle ten!”
Lily swings her head, finding me in a quick second. I wave to her, and she squints, gawking in confusion. I must look strange, my head floating above the shelf.
Lo’s brows scrunch with an added what the fuck glare. I’m so used to them.
I tap my wrist like time’s up and then shout, “Do you have orange juice?!”
Lily’s mouth keeps falling, not hearing me that well since we’re far away. I mime chugging a carton of orange juice. I think it’s important to note that I’ve never been good at charades. Lily’s cheeks turn red, and she whispers in Lo’s ear.
He pulls out his phone.
“Hey.” Ryke tugs on my shirt, and I drop to my butt in the cart, squashing the wheat bread. I squat so I’m not destroying the rest of our groceries. “Lo said that Garth will grab a carton on the way out.”
Lily’s bodyguard is the burliest, tallest, and baldest of them all. He’s also super vigilant and has seniority over the rest, so when we go out in a group, he’s like the admiral of the bodyguard fleet.
Ryke is about to pocket his phone, but I ask, “Why was Lily blushing?”
“It’d be easier to ask why she’s not fucking blushing.” Ryke hesitates to text his brother since Lily does turn red a lot.
“You didn’t see her,” I say. “I just want to know what I did that made her uncomfortable.” I pause. “We’ve been good about less PDA in front of her, right?” Sometimes I forget that the act of watching relates to sex addiction as much as the act of doing, and I don’t want to cause her to regress.
“Yeah, I think so.” He texts Lo, and I wonder if we’re both guilty of spacing out when we start intensely flirting. Lily always says not to change for her, especially since she’s fond of PDA with Lo and it’d be hypocritical of her to tell us no.
While we’re roommates, I still want to be respectful and mindful of her addiction.
Ryke rolls his eyes with a brief smile before pocketing the phone.
“What?”
He starts pushing the cart towards the checkout. “She thought you were making a hand-job motion.”
I laugh. “Classic Calloway.”
“Classic Lily fucking Calloway.”
I gasp
. “That was my hand-job motion. All of us should get credit.”
“Cute.” He messes my hair with his hand. Right when he pushes the cart down the aisle again, I grab two boxes of his favorite granola cereal, knowing he’ll want them later.
We’re not far from the checkout when the commotion from outside barrels into the entrance, exclamations tangled together that I think is I love you, Loren Hale!! Or marry me, Ryke Meadows!!
The most frequent shouts. As soon as the glass entry and exit doors come into view, my stomach nosedives.
I couldn’t be more wrong.
“DIE, CALLOWAY SISTERS, DIE!” multiple people chant, a poster in blood red paint to match. A chill snakes down my spine, and the hairs rise on my arms. About thirty or maybe even fifty angry fans congregate outside, the entrance barred with closed signs.
Their hostility pummels me like a sharp kick to the ribs. I eye each volatile face, full of malice that sweeps me back. “What did we do?” I murmur, so confused.
And maybe even a little scared too.
RYKE MEADOWS
“Hey, stay with me.” I tap Daisy’s cheek, not softly.
She still squats in our shopping cart and stares dazedly at the mob of people outside. I’ve seen her space out when settings match the pandemonium from Paris, transporting her to the riot. Truth is, I’ve been back to that place a few fucking times too, but only when I picture Dais…lifeless in my arms, screaming her name over and ov—stop. Fucking stop.
I don’t need to be pushed there either.
“Daisy.” I snap my fingers in her face.
