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I bounce on my feet, and I hold Lily’s hand, the closest to me. She squeezes, just as the sidewalk fills with more people, shoving in tight for a closer view of the ball drop. It’s not even visible from where we are, but a nearby city screen televises GBA’s Ballin’ New Year’s Eve.
Lily bites her lip, looking a little scared. I squeeze her hand and say over the cacophony, “At least there aren’t any cars!”
She nods a couple times.
“LILY CALLOWAY! OH MY GOD! IT’S LILY CALLOWAY!!” someone shrieks in excitement, causing interest to veer onto us.
“Let’s go!” Rose raises her head, shoulders arched, ready for battle. We follow her into the crowds, her bodyguard actually leading the way, but Rose is the first one of us to enter the unknown.
That delighted shout—well, that was the only nice one.
“You guys suck!” a man screams in my ear. His closeness puncturing me more than his words, swarmed by people. Even Price can’t clear out groups as thick as a concert festival.
“Spoiled brats!”
“Go fuck a cock!”
Rose shouts something icy and pointed back before staying her course.
“Excuse me,” Lily mumbles as we weave between people.
“Sorry,” I apologize to someone else, but pretty much stop when roaming hands slide down my hips and ass. My lungs shrink, and my pulse pounds so fast.
I can’t even tell who’s touching me since the sly grabs happen many times. Like they can go home and say, I touched a Calloway sister!
It’s not okay.
An elbow plows into my side, and I wince—suddenly fearful for Rose. Who’s pregnant. What if you’re pregnant, Daisy? I don’t know…
“WE HATE YOU!”
“GO BACK TO PHILLY!”
“DAISY, YOU’RE SUCH A BITCH!”
Garth, the veteran bodyguard, grabs Lily and pulls her away from me, and I notice Rose far, far ahead with her own bodyguard. Poppy is out of sight, and Price flanks my right side, putting a barrier between some bodies and me.
“It’s getting crazy!” I shout to him.
“Which side is worse?!” he asks.
“Left!”
He shifts to my left, just as someone spits at me, but it splats on his cheek. He’s steadfast in his duty to protect me, not even grimacing or wavering for a second.
“DAISY!” someone shouts. “DAISY!”
I instinctively glance at my right, to follow the source of the voice, and the minute I turn my head, a puff of white explodes against my face. My eyes burn, my throat raw and tongue thick with…flour. Oh my God.
I can’t see.
I can’t see.
I cough repeatedly, having trouble breathing.
I can’t see.
I blink and blink. Hands are on me. On my shoulders. My hips. My ass. I panic. I’m panicking. I run, shoving blindly through people, stumbling.
Someone touches my hair.
Stop.
I cough. Stop.
I can’t make sense of my surroundings. I inhale flour. I run and stumble, shoving people aside. Hands on my back. On my chest. On my breast.
“Stop,” I choke out into a rough cough.
I can’t breathe.
My hands shake, and in the midst of my eyes searing, I distinguish a sliver of bright light. Flashing. Cameras. I can’t breathe. I can’t see.
“DAISY!!” Ryke screams, the sound distant like a memory. “DAISY!!”
I tighten my eyes closed. I wait for a two-by-four to slam and rip through my cheek. Fear paralyzes me. I can’t…
“DAISY!” Ryke shouts, hands on my cheeks, fabric wiping roughly at my eyes and face. “It’s me.”
Tears slip out as I start to truly see what’s in front of me. Where…I cough again, my throat thickened with flour. I tremble, just noticing my heels on the sidewalk and Price’s hands protectively on my shoulders.
And I’m certain that he was guiding me to Ryke the entire time.
I motion to my throat, struggling for a real breath, hot from a serious panic attack. Ryke lifts me in his arms, cradling me, and I choke a couple times. He sprints into the nearest diner, the bells dinging as the door flies open.
“Bathrooms for paying customers only!” a hostess shouts.
“Then we’ll fucking order something,” Ryke growls before entering the women’s bathroom, Price close behind.
He sets me on the checkered black and white tiles, foam green stalls lined up behind me. I rest my forearms on the sink counter, and Ryke quickly turns on the faucet. I rinse out my mouth, spitting globs of congealed flour into the basin.
I gag a few times and end up puking. Ryke pulls my hair out of my face, and I mutter an I’m sorry, realizing I just vomited in a sink, not a toilet, and someone will have to clean it if I don’t.
“Hey, I’ll fucking deal with it. Just take a couple breaths, Dais. Your heart is racing.”
I clutch the counter with weakened arms and look at the mirror, eyes bloodshot and blots of flour still on my tear-streaked cheeks. My scar visible from the Paris riot.
From the two-by-four years ago.
I take a deeper breath and say, “I need you to call Frederick.” I turn to Ryke, his suit jacket dusted with white flour from me. His tie already undone and his hair a ratted, hot mess. He keeps a hand on my back. Here for me. And alive.
The chaos is all in my head, and then again it’s not.
Without questioning, he dials my therapist’s number. Price has some flour in his hair, and he mostly stands close to a couple occupied stalls.
People are in here. I didn’t notice, but I’m glad he did.
I rub my eyes with the side of my hand, and suddenly see Ryke’s reddened knuckles, his lip also split. My stomach drops. “What happened?” I reach out to touch his lip, but he pushes my hand down.
“It doesn’t fucking matter.”
I frown. “You can’t tell me?”
His jaw hardens, and he rakes a ha
nd through his hair, trying not to crack in front of me, at least not right now. “Daisy, I know what just fucking happened to you.” He gestures to the door, referring to the city streets, to something more.
Tears well, eyeballs past burnt. I’m surprised they haven’t fallen out yet. I can’t even make the joke out loud. “You do?” I whisper, emotions building because he was there at Paris with me. If anyone knows the pain of that night, it’s Ryke.
“Yeah,” he nods strongly. “I fucking do.” His hand finds mine, and he draws me to his chest while my phone rings. He passes it to me.
The toilet flushes.
Another follows suit.
Two girls exit in cocktail dresses, and their eyes widen at the males in the bathroom—then at me. Price observes them while they wash their hands.
I think they’re going to call me names, but the blonde girl dries her hand and asks, “Are you okay, Daisy?”
I nod.
“Do you need anything?” the other girl wonders.
“I’m alright,” I assure them with a weak smile. “Thanks for asking.”
They both shuffle out, and Frederick finally picks up. I put the phone to my ear. “Something happened,” I tell him, pain in my chest. I try to exhale better. “Paris…and…”
“Is someone around you?” Frederick asks first. I hear GBA’s telecast in the background, and then it shuts off.
“Ryke is here.”
“Okay good,” he says. “I’m glad you called me. Take two big breaths.”
I do, tightness releasing on my chest. I’ve expressed to Frederick how badly I want to let go of these moments that keep terrorizing me. Cleo and Harper harassing me in an elevator. Paparazzi breaking into my bedroom. A pedestrian destroying my bike and then hitting me. The riot in Paris. Neighbor kids playing pranks. Scott Van Wright filming me.
The combination of every foul deed.
Frederick told me the mind is fragile. For as quickly as it can be broken, it can take a lifetime to be repaired. I may never truly let go, but instead of being crippled each time I’m swept back, I’ve found a way to grow stronger.
I talk about it. I explain to Frederick what happened, and his soothing voice relays every safety net around me. How I’m not alone. How I can persevere. How no one is going to hurt me.
