Becca Ritchie - Hothouse Flower

“We didn’t have sex,” she says.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Thank fucking God. “Was he a part of your weird fucking night?”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I just don’t understand why I meet people and they seem so perfect for me, and then I get them in bed, and they’re just…wrong.” She pauses. “I think it’s me.”

“I already hate this fucking guy.” That’s a real understatement.

“You would hate him more if you saw him last night. He thought I was a virgin, and he was happy to deflower me upon a first-time meeting.”

I glare. I want to rewind time and take everything back. I want to tell her to not date a single fucking soul. I wish my brother’s claims hadn’t gotten to me. “Stay away from him.”

“I plan on it.”

The shower cuts off. “Hey, Daisy?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s almost four in the morning where you are. Take a fucking Ambien and go to sleep, okay? Call me when you have time.”

She hesitates. “I have time to talk more now.”

“You need to sleep before you go to work.”

“It’s pointless. I have to be in for hair and makeup at five thirty. Ambien may knock me out for hours, so I might as well just stay up.”

My door swings open, and Emilia stands with a towel wrapped around her chest, her hair dry. “You’re out of soap,” she says. “I couldn’t find any in your cabinets.” She hasn’t even taken a shower yet.

Fuck. I grab my keys off the kitchen bar. “I’ll get you some. Wait here.”

“You don’t have to go buy more,” she says.

“I’m not. There’s some in my friend’s apartment. She lives below me.”

“I’ll come with,” Emilia says. “Hold on a sec.” She disappears back into my room, and I catch her slipping on her blue dress from last night.

I still have the phone pressed to my ear. “Daisy—”

“I’ll go.”

“No,” I suddenly say. I don’t want to stop talking to her, not if she’s just going to spend the next hour paranoid. I can distract her from her fears. Even thousands of miles away, that’s still fucking possible.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Emilia comes out and gives me a smile.

“Yeah,” I tell her. I point to the door, and Emilia heads out first. I lock it, and then we enter the elevator. Emilia looks from me to the phone that hasn’t left my ear. It won’t either. My friend, I mouth to Emilia.

She nods and then tries to concentrate on the elevator as it descends. I hit the fucking button a couple times, even though it’s already lit, hoping it’ll go faster to save me from this awkward tension.

RYKE MEADOWS

“I talked to my therapist yesterday,” Daisy tells me over the phone, the elevator still dropping. “She wanted me to describe what happened at Lucky’s again. She said it would help stop the nightmares.”

“Did it?” I ask briefly, feeling Emilia’s body stiffen the longer I ignore her. But Daisy, a lonely, frightened girl in Paris, is going to trump Emilia. Every fucking time. Especially when it involves the past and the multiple events that have fucked her over psychologically.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It hasn’t helped before. I can say the words just fine.” She recites with an even tone, “Some angry guy outside of Lucky’s called me a cunt and destroyed my bike. I’ve moved past it.”

I cringe at the sound of cunt. Ironic that I fucking hate a swear word—I know. But it’s grating, like someone’s scratching my fucking eardrums. In the back of my head, I hear my father calling my mom it, over and over. It makes me sick to my stomach.

“You’re leaving out a big fucking part,” I tell her, “and it’s not something you can get over in a day.”

“It hasn’t been a day,” she snaps back. “It’s been over a year.” For that one incident, yeah it has been that long. But it’s not the only thing that she’s gone through after the media attention. Some people were bound to hate the Calloway girls because they’re socialites, wealthy, entitled. The media likes to show them as privileged snobs, so that’s what people think. But it didn’t give this fucking guy the right to beat the shit out of her Ducati. And as she tried to stop him from wrecking her bike, he turned around and assaulted her in broad fucking daylight. I wish I had been there.

I would have fucking killed him.

I ended up taking her to the hospital because she wouldn’t tell anyone else about it. She didn’t want to worry her family.

They found out anyway, but they never learned about her broken rib. Or the fact that the trauma of the event has stayed with her past that single moment. They think it was no more than a few bruises.

I don’t fucking blame her sisters or my brother for not noticing the change in Daisy from that point on. She likes to make it seem like she’s okay, even when she’s not. She hates whining, crying and throwing tantrums because she thinks she’ll come across as immature. When she’s hanging out with all of us, people in their twenties, she’d do anything to avoid that label. God fucking forbid she act her age.

And fuck that, when a guy assaults you, you’re allowed to have every moment to scream. You’re allowed to talk it out and ruin everyone’s week by burdening them with your emotions.

“Don’t try convincing me of anything else,” I tell her. “I’m going to be fucking stubborn on this subject.”

The elevator doors slide open. I slip into the hallway, Emilia following close behind.

“Okay,” Daisy says, “what about you? Have you been training?”

“I beat my time the day you left,” I tell her, stopping by Daisy’s apartment door. 437 in gold iron on the dark wood. I fit the key inside and glance at Emilia who stares at the number.

“By how much?” Daisy asks. “Was it the same mountain you took me to?”

“Yeah, can you give me a minute? Don’t hang up.”

“Okay.”

I pocket my phone so I have use of both hands. I push open the door, and Emilia slips inside with me. She scans the apartment quickly. It’s the same layout as mine, but Daisy has a yellow couch, green pillows and multicolored lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

“This friend is a girl,” she says, eyeing the clothes that are scattered on the hardwood floors.

“Didn’t I say that?” I’m almost fucking positive I did.

“I must not have heard.”

I lead her across the living room, bypassing the small kitchen where dishes are stacked in the sink. I should wash those for Daisy. I’m pretty sure half of them are mine. I step over a skateboard. “Watch your feet.”

“She’s a slob.”

To be honest, I don’t usually fucking notice. “She’s cleaner than me.”

Emilia bumps into a wicker chair, and it knocks over a purple surfboard that was leaning against the wall. I catch the board before it hits her in the head.

Her eyes widen. After she exhales in relief, she says, “She surfs and she lives in Philadelphia?”

“She’s learning, and she flies out to California when she has free time, which is rare.” I don’t add that I go with her so I can climb at Yosemite while she’s on the coast with Mikey.

Understanding washes over Emilia’s face. “This is Daisy Calloway’s apartment.” She nods to herself. “She’s rich.” Her lips tighten, and she’s now glaring at every piece of furniture, every article of clothing. “You have keys to her place?”

I don’t answer her. I just walk into Daisy’s bedroom. The bathroom door is already unlocked, and I point to it. “After you.” I don’t want her fucking dawdling in Daisy’s room.

But she does anyway.

Her eyes float to Daisy’s bed, the green comforter tucked in with half-assed effort. On a chair next to her, she lifts a white bra by the strap and twirls it around her finger.

I grab it out of her hand with a glare. “Don’t touch her shit.” I toss the bra on her bed.

“Why not? I’m about to use her soap, aren’t I?” She waits for me to refute.

I stare at her hard.

Her eyes travel around the room again and land on the bathroom. “How about I just take one here?”

“Why does that interest you?” I ask with narrowed eyes. “It’s not any different from my shower.”

Emilia shrugs. “Do you know how many girls would love to be her? Billion-dollar heiress. A supermodel at seventeen—”

“She’s eighteen,” I retort. I rest my elbow on the fucking chair. “Look, she’s my friend. She’s nice enough that she won’t fucking care if you use her soap or touch her things. But I fucking care if we spend more than a few minutes here.”

“I’ll be quick,” Emilia says, and then she moves her feet and enters the bathroom. I trail her, and I shut the door. She’s already out of her dress before I look over. She waits for me to appraise her. I don’t. I’m not fucking sorry either.

She steps into the shower, closing the curtain. “Couldn’t she afford a glass shower?” she asks, standing in the tub.

People forget that I have almost as much money as the Calloway girls, all pooled in my trust fund. I just never break into it for more than I need. The most expensive thing I own is my fucking car.

“It wasn’t high on her priority list,” I tell her, speaking loudly as she turns the water on.

I put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, you there?” I already know she’s caught that whole conversation through the speaker.

“Yep,” Daisy says. “Tell her not to use your shampoo. It doesn’t smell as good as mine.”

I end up smiling at that. She’d probably grin so fucking hard if she saw my lips lift this much too. “Mine does its job. That’s all that matters.”

“Normally, I don’t care about prices, but it’s a ninety-seven cent shampoo. The only job it does is pretending to smell like lemongrass.”

“Ryke,” Emilia calls. “She has men’s shampoo in here.”

I move the phone from my ear and say, “I know, and I don’t fucking ask.”

“You don’t care?” Emilia wonders.

“No.” Because it’s mine.

After a moment’s pause, she asks, “Does she have an extra razor I can use?”

I’m about to say, I thought this was going to be a quick fucking shower. But Daisy’s voice sounds through the receiver. Only I can hear her. “Cabinet behind the box of tampons.”

For some reason, I gravitate towards high-maintenance, jealous, out-of-their-fucking-mind girls. I’m used to the impulsive, the rash, and the confusing as all hell. My mom used to chastise everyone I brought home, saying that I look for the “crazy” in people. Maybe she’s right.

Maybe I like a little crazy.

I dig though the cabinet, knocking over the tampons to find a package of razors. Just as I grab one, I spot a plastic circle with bubbled capsules. I know what it is. I just don’t fucking understand what it’s doing in Philly and not Paris. I take Daisy’s birth control and inspect the dates. It’s almost all full, except for a couple pills missing. It looks like she stopped taking them weeks ago, which would be fine if she didn’t admit to almost fucking a guy in France.

“Did you find it?” Daisy asks.

“Yeah,” I say with a steel voice. I can’t talk to her about the birth control with Emilia right here.

“What is that?”

I go rigid.

Emilia peeks from behind the shower curtain, water dripping off her arm. She squints as she scrutinizes the pills. “Oh shit,” she says with a laugh.

I pocket them and glower at her as hard as I fucking can. “Here’s your razor.” I throw it at her. She catches it, but instead of finishing her shower, she shuts off the water and steps out, wrapping the towel around her body.

“Let me see that,” she says with a smile.

I hold the phone to my ear and say, “I’ll call you back.”

“What’s going on?” Daisy asks.

“Is that her?” Emilia’s eyes brighten at the phone.

I don’t like that look on her fucking face.

“Hey, Daisy,” Emilia calls loudly so she can hear, “thanks for the shampoo. It smells like teen spirit.”

“She’s fun,” Daisy says to me, a humored smile to her words. She usually doesn’t take digs at her age to heart.

“No she’s not,” I say blankly, staring hard at Emilia. She’s quick. In a swift second, she steals the birth control out of my pocket.

“Oh my God,” she laughs and waves the packet. “Male shampoo and she stopped taking the pill.” She glances at the phone. “Hey Daisy, you need to tell your fuck-buddies to wrap it, honey, or you’re going to be sixteen and pregnant.”

“I’m eighteen,” Daisy says flatly, but only I can still hear her.