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“Thanks,” I say, “for everything. Especially Daisy and Lo.”
He collects most of his emotion, bottling it all away. “We’re a better team than you think.” The next words must sit on his tongue but he doesn’t say them again: I need you.
I nod. “Next time—or hopefully there’s not a fucking next time but…”
“I understand.” He opens the door, inspecting the cup in his hand. “Actually, I’ll send in the nurse to fill your water bowl. You’d probably like that more.”
I flip him off twice, and he turns around, just to see my middle fingers. His grin rises and he nods at me and says more sincerely, “I’m glad you’re alive, Ryke.”
As he leaves, I exhale an even larger breath, my head thumping now. I notice a set of crutches against the wall, but I don’t care about them.
I don’t even care about trying to fucking stand.
Apathy is not my strong suit, but I sense it crawling into a vital part of me. I have no energy to push it out. So I just shut my eyes and lean back.
DAISY MEADOWS
One week back in Philadelphia, the end of July upon us, and I’m still under strict orders to “take it easy” after the tiny hemorrhage. My sisters devised a plan to keep me busy and indoors, making a day out of scrapbooking my wedding and their babies “firsts” with our photos.
Rose had to take leave from work when we arrived in Philly and she was told stay off her feet for almost every day. Meaning, no shopping and no high heels.
Expelling her hostility by cutting things also seems like a good idea.
We need extra supplies, so I volunteered to search the basement’s entertainment room for more scissors and glue.
As soon as I creep down the stairs, I hear a thwack thwack thwack from a hammer meeting wood. In the big open space, Ryke sits on the carpet, brown wooden boards, nails, screws, and a toolbox open beside him. His casted leg is stretched out with curse words scrawled in black Sharpie. He didn’t care what we wrote, so I suggested our Favorite Sayings from Ryke Meadows.
My favorite: I fucking love you.
Willow’s: I don’t fucking understand Tumblr.
Lo’s: Fuck you, you fucking fuck.
Lily’s: Fucking fantastic.
Rose’s: No means no. Better yet, fuck no.
Connor’s: Connor Cobalt is a fucking narcissist.
Connor’s won the night, but no one wanted to tell him that.
Ryke is currently engrossed in his own project. He was also told to “take it easy” and keep off his right leg for eight weeks. Afterwards his physical therapy begins.
“Hey, sexy,” I openly flirt. My strut is more of a skip-walk, and his gaze follows me to the entertainment hutch.
Then his attention returns to the wooden board and packet of screws. He exchanges his hammer for a screwdriver. I like his intense focus, but last time a doctor told Ryke to take it easy, he was doing push-ups in the hospital room, hell-bent on shaving off recovery time. So he could run faster.
Climb sooner.
Now he’s barely mentioned rock climbing or physical therapy or asked about his recovery.
His lack of response and his dedication to building a baby crib that shouldn’t be constructed for another seven months has my stomach all twisted.
I squat and dig through one of the hutch’s drawers, overflowing with miscellaneous items like tennis balls and batteries. “If you need any help,” I tell him, “I heard that I’m particularly good at screwing things.”
He pauses, mid-flip in the crib’s directions. “Yeah? And who’d you fucking hear this from?”
“My husband.” I meet his darkened eyes. “Maybe you’ve met him? He gives no fucks and has the sexiest vocabulary.”
His lips almost rise.
So close.
I collect a tiny pair of scissors that barely fit my fingers and close the drawer. Then I kneel beside his toolbox, his crib assembly only three percent complete.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey.” He screws two pieces of wood together, concentrating with a growing scowl.
I understand being sad in ways that don’t necessarily make sense. To wake up feeling a little dimmer than the day before, a little emptier, and his grief has manifested into this leeching sorrow. I see it in his eyes. It hurts to watch someone like Ryke, stubborn and committed, suddenly slow down and sink beneath quicksand.
I can’t pull him out. I want to so badly, but I can’t rouse his spirits by going for a run or playing bad cop. I have to go easy because of the baby, and he needs someone who’s going hard.
In the tense silence, Ryke lifts his brooding gaze to me. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his concern tightening his features.
“Better. How about you?”
“About the fucking same.” He scratches his unshaven jaw, his gaze falling to his assembly. “I called your dad this morning about Desert Shield.”
I straighten almost immediately, his first mention of climbing since Peru. My dad had that whole Utah, Ziff commercial planned, but I have no idea what the prognosis is now. “Is he postponing it?” I wonder.
“No.” Ryke picks up the crib’s directions. “I asked him to cancel the fucking thing.”
I try to restrain my emotion, doing my best to ignore the arrow that he’s shooting in his own heart. Since he touched the subject first, I poke at it a little. “The doctors said it’d be a hard road to climb again, but they never said it was impossible.”
His jaw muscles tic and he points to his toolbox that I block. “Pass me a flat head.”
I do, thinking about how the stubborn Ryke Meadows would’ve stretched, revolting against his own inability to move, and grabbed the thing on his own.
Saying a big fuck you to his leg.
He freezes up as he grips the board, staring far away. “I can’t, Daisy.” Another arrow into the man we both love.
“Can’t what?” I breathe.
He says the words slowly, like he’s thought about them a lot, but now they’re final and real, “I don’t think I can ever fucking climb again.”
I edge closer and set my knees on either side of his lap, not putting any weight on him. Then I clutch either side of his face, staring directly into his eyes.
He holds me, wraps his arms around me.
“Wherever you go, I’ll go,” I whisper. “I’ll be here no matter what, but I have to warn you.” I layer on my best ominous voice.
“Yeah?” His lips begin to rise, something so familiar stirring inside of him. Almost, Ryke, almost.
“Be warned,” I say, “my pickup lines aren’t going anywhere. You can reject them or accept them, but they’re here to stay.”
He raises his brows. “As long as these pickup lines are only used on your fucking husband. I heard he can be a jealous jackass.”
My smile widens, and his eyes flit all around my lips, as though feeling my smile rush through him. “My husband is also an alpha wolf, so you shouldn’t mess with him. He’s been known to chew up those who’ve wronged me.” Julian at the top of the list. My lawyer has been in contact with my ex-boyfriend, and thankfully I haven’t heard a peep from him since New Year’s Eve.
Ryke pulls me closer to his chest, and he nuzzles his nose against my cheek. My lips stretch so far, my body airy, and I sense his aura mimicking mine. Just for this moment at least. He holds the back of my head and kisses me in that aggressive, feverish way that we both love.
“Craisins!” Lo yells and knocks on the wall.
We reluctantly part. Loren Hale stands on the fourth stair, Connor by his side. Ryke sends a dark glower their way.
“What?” Lo says. “You’re both Crazy and you’re both Raisins.”
It’s not exactly why Ryke is glowering. “No,” he tells him. “No fucking no, I said no. The end.”
“You’ve been stuck in this house for the whole week. The least you can do is hobble around a toy store for thirty minutes. And really, bro, have you even ta
ken a shower?”
He definitely has, but he won’t use it as a defense. This is the fortieth instance where Lo has asked Ryke to go out with them. This time, they’re taking Moffy and Jane to the toy store. The rampant paparazzi, after the death-scare, have only just cooled down, enough to bring the kids somewhere fun.
“Just leave me the fuck alone.” Ryke concentrates on the directions.
I stand off him, avoiding Lo’s murderous glare that drills into his older brother. As I make my way out of the room, I pass both guys on the stairs.
Lo catches my arm. “How is he?” he asks lowly, so Ryke can’t hear.
“The same.” Even quieter, I say, “He needs you, Lo.”
“I’m trying.” His cheekbones sharpen and then he pulls me up a few more stairs so Ryke is out of the picture.
Connor follows suit, his brow arched like this is all silly, but I do wonder what he thinks right now. If he has all the answers that we just can’t see.
Very faintly, Lo says, “He’s not the easiest person to make happy. I cook Lily Darth Vader pancakes and she acts like I lit up her fucking world. For Christ’s sake, Rose came over and put a Pop-Tart in the toaster for her and that made her happy. I can’t see that working for my brother right now.”
