Ricochet (3 page)

Daisy is in a discussion with a guy who seems to be around
her age. It’s hard to tell in this group. He has black hair and European
features, skinny like he could front an indie rock band. She’s unaware that
I’ve ditched her handsy friend.

Next to me sits a half-conscious, drug-induced boy, staring
up at the ceiling. I follow his gaze, not finding what looks so damn
interesting besides white plaster.

I take an impulsive glance at the oak table by the
wall—decorated with a spread of cheap liquor. People serve themselves, and I
subconsciously look for Lo behind a curly brunette. After she plops a couple
ice cubes in her drink and passes to the kitchen, I see him.

Leaning against the beige wall, cupping
a Reidel glass with amber liquid.

His cheeks cut sharply, and his expression flickers between
slightly annoyed and amused. He takes a small sip and meets my gaze,
knowing
I’m watching—as though we share
a secret beyond every person here. The corner of his lip rises as he takes
another swig, and I pin to my seat.

He brings the glass down and puts his head to the wall, his
chin raised a little. He stares. I stare back. And my whole chest inflates with
helium.

I want him.

I need him.

To hold me.
 
To wrap my arms around
his body.
For him to whisper in my ear that everything will be okay.
That we’ll be better for each other.
Will we? Will we still
love each other if he’s sober and I’m wading through the things that torment
me? Will he fit into my life if I’m struggling with my addiction while he’s healthy
and absolved from his?

I want to fit into his life. I just hope when he returns,
he’ll want me too.

And I blink. He’s gone.
Somewhere.
No one will tell me what rehab he checked into, and so I’m left with these
distressing fantasies, wishing for him to return. At least I managed to claw a
few answers from Ryke. He said that for the first month of rehab, Lo isn’t
supposed to have any sort of outside communication. I’m not sure if that
pertains to
only
me, but I have a
feeling Ryke has been in touch with Lo since he dropped him off.

So maybe I’m the only one who’s being shunned and kicked out
of Lo’s life like dirty garbage.

Still, I wait in anticipation for February. Email privileges
will be restored. And then March, he’ll upgrade to the telephone. If I can just
make it through January, I’ll be okay. Or at least, that’s what I keep
reminding myself.

My phone buzzes, and I retrieve it from my pocket, wiping my
eyes with my wrist while I read the text.

I
left my wallet at your place. I need you to open the gates
– Ryke

I freeze and reread the text four more times.
Open the gates.
As in the gated house
I’m supposed to be at right now—the one Rose bought in a secluded little town.
Can I pretend that I didn’t read it?

Lily,
I know you’re there.

What? How?!

I
won’t fuck you. Just let me in. I’m supposed to be in Time Square right now.

My fingers hover over the button. If I refuse to answer, I
can act like I never received the texts.
Simple.
And
then I can just lie tomorrow about losing my phone. It’d be better than dealing
with Ryke now.

We
both have iPhones. I can tell when you’ve read my texts, so stop ignoring me
and open the fucking gates.

Uhh…

My phone rings, and I jump. RYKE MEADOWS fills the screen.

I’m in trouble. We haven’t established a talking-on-the-phone
type of relationship yet. As of late, we’re strictly text-only. Even if he is
Lo’s half-brother, he has
just
entered our lives. And while Lo may forgive all of Ryke’s past
transgressions—like spending seven years with the knowledge of his little
brother’s whereabouts and not doing anything about it (like saying ‘hi’ at
least)—I have kept Ryke at a lengthy distance. It has nothing to do with his
boy-parts and sex but more to do with his annoying qualities.
Like inserting himself into other people’s business.
Like
being an alpha male when the situation does not call for one.

My finger continues to float above the big green button, and
I make a rash decision and bolt for the patio to avoid music and loud chatter.
Even outside, the wild streets make up for the lack of pumping bass as people
gather down below for tonight’s festivities. My phone vibrates angrily in my
hand. Quickly, I press the speaker to my ear and wait for Ryke to speak first.
I’m so not about to initiate
this
conversation.

“Open the fucking gate,” he snaps.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Get your ass off your bed and
come down here.” I hear him jiggle the iron entry, as though trying to
physically open it by pure brute force.

“Are you trying to break in?”

“I’m considering it.” He sighs, agitated. “It’s been seven
days since he left, not
five
fucking
years. You’re acting pathetic.”

I purse my lips.
This
is
why I dislike him. His blunt honesty is so rude sometimes. Ryke takes the
meaning “tough love” to a whole new level. “I realize that. And I’ll have you
know, I changed out of sweats on day four, and on day five, I washed my hair.”
I am not
pathetic.
I’m trying to live
without my best friend. It’s hard. My whole reason for waking up in the morning
and putting on a smile was taken from me.

“Congratulations. Now open the gate.”

And then, my luck goes in the crapper. “HAPPY NEW YEAR
MOTHERFUCKERS!” a guy screams five stories below. I am one-hundred percent
positive that Ryke heard the drunken exclamation through the receiver.

“Before you say anything,” I speak rapidly, feeling the
heated fury brew from Ryke through the phone. “Daisy
begged
me to come to this house party. She gave me these big green
doe eyes. You have not been inflicted by Daisy’s doe eyes, so you can’t judge.
And then I thought—hey it can’t be that big of a deal. She’s fifteen. It has to
be some small girly slumber party in the city.
Nothing to
fret about.”
I moronically point at my chest even though he’s nowhere
near me. “It’s not my fault that my little sister has friends twice her age. I
didn’t even know she drank outside of our family until tonight! So
this
is not my fault. You hear me, Ryke?
Not. My.
Fault.”
I finish my rant with a heavy breath.

After a short pause, all he says is, “Where the fuck
are
you?”

“I’ll probably head home after the ball drops.” I dodge the
answer in case he intends to find me.

“Do you trust yourself?”

I go quiet and glance at a well-built model
who
leans over the railing to grab the attention of a girl
on the street.

He’s shirtless.

And hot. But I guess that’s self-explanatory considering his
job.

Do I trust myself?
Not
completely.
But I can’t stay reclusive forever and wallow in my sheets like
a dying hyena. I have to be brave. I have to try
to be normal.
Even if my mind screams
no.

Ryke takes my silence as an answer. “If you can’t even say
yes, then you shouldn’t be at any parties. Find Daisy and stay with her until I
get there.”

What?
No, no, no.
“You don’t need to babysit me, Ryke.”

He exhales loudly. “Look, I promised Lo that I’d make sure
you didn’t jump off a cliff when he left. If helping you helps him, then I’ll
do whatever it takes. I’ll see you.” He hangs up and I realize I never told him
the address of the apartment. Maybe he’s bluffing and trying to instill fear so
I’ll avoid doing something rash and stupid.
Like hooking up
with a male model.
Like kissing a random guy.
I’m frightened by the place in my mind that says
go
—the trigger that forgets about the love of my life for a brief,
horrifying moment. And then when it’s over, I’ll be filled with shame and
disgust so deep that I won’t know how to crawl back out.

I breathe in and shake off my trembling hands. I shuffle
into the apartment and spot Daisy by the silver refrigerator with a dizzying
array of letter magnets attached. Someone spelled
cum with me.
Clever.

Daisy sips from a red Solo, now filled with punch, and chats
with a tall Italian model, his chocolate hair thick and his smile insanely
bright. As I approach, she says a quick goodbye and hesitantly flips her phone
over in her palm.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Something weird just happened. I don’t know…” She takes
another swig of punch and licks her lips.
“Ryke texted me.”

Oh
shit.

“I mean, I didn’t even think he noticed me.”

As far as I remember, Ryke has met Daisy once at my family
house in Villanova, a ritzy suburb outside of Philly, and it was more of a wave
from afar than a true greeting. “What’d he want?”

“To know what party I was at. I gave him the address.” She
shrugs. “You think he likes me or something?”

“…I don’t know, Dais. He’s twenty-two, and he’s not the kind
of guy that would hit on a fifteen-year-old.”
Because those
guys are perverts.

Her lips downturn into a deep frown.
“Yeah, I guess. But why would he ask me where I was? I mean, I do look older,
Lily. And I make my own money…”

“You’re still fifteen,” I tell her. “He’s still twenty-two.”
This needs to be squashed right now before he gets here. I cannot have her
thinking she has a chance with him. No, no, no. I
itch
my neck. Maybe I am getting chicken pox.

She groans. “It’s so fucking frustrating. I feel older than
I am half the time. Some people treat me like I’m in my twenties, and then I go
back to school, and I’m babied again. I’m given respect, and then it’s taken
away from me.
Over and over and over.”
She downs the
rest of her drink.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing what else to tell her to
make her feel any better. “You’re close to being sixteen, and then you’ll only
have two more years.” I lamely shake my hands like faux pompoms.

She lets out a weak laugh. “You’re so corny.”

I shrug. “It made you laugh.”

“It did,” she nods.

“How did Ryke get your number anyway?”

“I didn’t give it to him. Maybe he called Rose and asked her
for it.” She pauses. “So…why do you think he’s coming over?”

I inhale a strained breath, my muscles tightening. “I’m not
sure,” I lie.

“I guess we’ll see.” She stares at her empty cup. “I’m going
to get a refill. How about you go hang out with Bret?” She tilts her head to
the scarily pretty blond guy that I dodged.

“Getting rid of me?” I joke. “Am I not that fun?”

She smiles. “I just don’t want to leave you here alone. I’m
the one who asked you to come, after all. And it may take me awhile to escape
the punch bowl.” She nods to the big tub full of red liquid and sliced
pineapples. “See Jack over there.” I spot the black-haired, European guy that I
noticed before.

“Yeah?”

“He’s a talker. I can’t ever get away from him, and I feel
guilty when I try. It’ll take me probably ten minutes.”

“I can come save you,” I suggest.

She shakes her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. “No,
no. I have it handled. Have fun.
Mingle
,”
she tells me again. As if mingling is the solution. It is not.

My palms sweat and my nerves jostle as she disappears. I
really want to go follow her, but she basically said
do not follow me, Lily.
Didn’t she? I swallow down my anxiety and
accidentally lock eyes with a dark-skinned model, his biceps bulging as he sets
two palms on the alcohol table.

I bite my fingernails, losing control. Maybe I should try to
calm myself. Go off and do my own thing. Find someone…Bret…

No.

My body thrums with the usual cravings that I’ve denied
myself for seven whole days. The only thing that will satiate the nerves, the
fear, and everything that balloons my dizzy head is sex.

Sex is the solution.

But instead of picking a male model to throw myself at, I
focus on the bathroom.
Go there and
you’ll feel better
, I think.
Over and over.
I
don’t need a boy. I can help myself.

So I head to the bathroom in the little hallway. After
waiting in a semi-long line, I lock the door and settle on the toilet seat. I
try to remind myself that I accomplished this ritual in far grosser places. I
wiggle my shorts and panties to my ankles.

I take a small breath and relax and find the throbbing spot
with my fingers. Closing my eyes, I drift into my mind, transporting myself
from this party to other steamier places.