Becca Ritchie - Hothouse Flower

“Fuck off,” I tell him lightly.

“Hugs and kisses from Venezuela. See you in a few months? Keep in touch.”

“Yeah,” I say. We hang up at the same time, and I watch Lo carry Lily on his back. It’s early this morning, so I’m not surprised, but she has been more tired recently. She presses her head on his shoulder, sleeping.

“What happened when you were twelve?” Daisy asks, lacing her fingers with mine.

Rose and Connor lead the pack with a flight attendant, opening the door to our gate. They walk down the stairs to the runway, where the private plane waits for us. Daisy and I let Lo catch up so we’ll be last out.

“I fucking streaked around my summer camp at night,” I tell her.

She laughs. “No way. I did the same thing when I was fourteen.” She gasps. “It’s like we were always meant to be.”

I run my hand through her hair and then kiss her forehead. If we are supposed to be together, then why does going home seem like returning to a black fucking storm?

Lo passes us and whispers, so as not to wake Lily, “Hey, you two, your PDA is scaring the little children.”

“You mean you?” I retort, following him close behind as he heads down the stairs to outside.

“I mean anyone who was once a child,” Lo says like a smartass. He smiles bitterly, and then I almost bump into Connor’s back who’s standing still on the cement.

“What’s the fucking hold up?” I ask. The plane is here, but it’s not Connor’s private jet parked ahead of us, a thick layer of smog clouding the sky.

My face falls.

I recognize the massive white Boeing 787, ostentatious, in your fucking face.

Just like my father.

He emerges down the stairs of the plane, buttoning his black suit jacket, his dark brown hair starting to gray on the sides.

The flight attendant says, “Mr. Hale’s plane arrived an hour ago. Once the gas tanks are filled, we’ll be off.”

Rose is texting like crazy, and Connor has his hand on the small of her back. He gives the flight attendant a genial smile. “Will Mr. Hale be flying to Philadelphia with us then?”

She nods. “They came to pick you up.”

They?

And right behind Jonathan, another man descends the stairs, tall and confident and entitled. It’s my father’s best friend, his hair lighter brown, in his fifties, a less hard and severe face than my dad’s.

It’s Daisy’s father. My stomach sinks. Fuck me. I’ve never seen Greg Calloway do anything other than smile and shake hands, but worry blankets his face, looking more paternal and more protective than I’ve known him to be. It’s the look that Connor says he wears frequently. I just haven’t been around him long enough to see it.

Greg’s gaze lands on Daisy immediately, but he stays beside the plane, waiting for us to approach like my dad.

I didn’t think it could get worse, but one more fucking person appears through the doorway, heading down the stairs in heels, a strand of pearls around her neck, her brown hair in a bun.

Samantha Calloway.

Her eyes are tight with concern like Greg’s, and her gaze fixes to her youngest daughter. Samantha places one palm to her chest, as though swept up in emotion upon seeing Daisy. Knowing she’s safe. But then her eyes focus on me.

And she glares.

“Shit,” Lo says under his breath.

We’re about to be stuck on a plane for five hours with our father and the girls’ parents.

With no way to escape.

This is going to be a fucking nightmare.

DAISY CALLOWAY

My mom holds my hands while I sit with her on the long cream couch that spans the back cabin, another leather couch on the other wall, a glass coffee table in between. It’s like we’re in a compact presidential living room, not flying above the clouds.

“You should have called me the moment you woke up in the hospital,” she says, throttling my hands for the fourth time with worry. And then her eyes pin to Rose on the other couch, who looks irritable. “And don’t get me started on you.”

“Mother, I—”

“You knew Daisy was in the riot, and you didn’t tell me.”

“There was a lot going on,” Rose says. She hasn’t announced the pregnancy to our parents yet, and I know Connor wants to do it soon. “She was in good hands.”

“I’m her mother. When you have kids, you’ll realize what it feels like—hearing that one of your children is hurt weeks after it happens…” She shakes her head.

Rose purses her lips. “That must be why you were so concerned about Lily when you heard she was sick.”

Our mom inhales, and I think she’s going to say: Lily brought that upon herself. An addiction isn’t a disease. But instead she goes with, “Let’s not get into that, Rose.”

Lily is sleeping in one of the bedrooms. I think she’s hiding from our mom, who likes to ignore Lily when she’s in close vicinity. Lo is with her, so it’s not like she’s all alone in there.

I glance back at the door to the front cabin. It’s the cigar club area with chairs and a flat-screen television. I smelled the cigar smoke the moment I walked into the plane, embedded in the cream leather.

Ryke is in there.

Right through those doors.

With my father. And his father. And Connor. Though I’m not sure Connor can be much of a peacemaker in that situation.

It sounds fairly awkward and uncomfortable. I want to go save him from my dad, but something tells me that he’d find a way to talk to Ryke no matter what.

 My mom rotates back to me, and her eyes fall to my graphic T-shirt that says: Sorry, I only date boys with tattoos. I’m not sorry about the shirt. I like it. And so I’m wearing it, regardless if she finds it distasteful or not.

Her fingers circle her pearls unconsciously, but she doesn’t ask me about Ryke. “I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you when we arrive home. The plastic surgeon is going to take a look at your cheek.” Her fingers fall from her pearls, and she rubs my hand again. “What pain medication are you on?”

I shake my head. “I’m out.”

“We’ll get you more.”

“No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.” If I touch my cheek, I can feel the raised wound, slightly puffy, descending from my temple, across my cheek, to my jaw. Everyone sees it but me. So it’s hard to confront the issue head-on when I’m not staring at it.

“You were so lucky,” my mom says. “You could have lost your eye. It could have cut through your lip.” She shakes her head at those brutal images. “The doctor will smooth out the scar, and then I’ll talk to your agency—”

“What?” I cut her off. I was willing to go to a doctor and get the scar looked at, but I can’t stomach going back to modeling. No one will hire me anyway.

“You’re beautiful, Daisy,” she says, squeezing my hands. “They’ll take you back.”

“No they won’t, Mom.” I need her to accept this failure and move on, so I can too.

“How is this any different than having a uni-brow or gap-teeth?”

“It just is. I already told you. I don’t want to model, and it has nothing to do with my face.” I tried to explain my decision on the phone, right after I left the hospital. And she hung up on me. Now she has no phone to cut me off with. She has nowhere to go.

I am so resolute and adamant about my choices. I’m no longer scared to express myself. She can’t stifle my voice or take my opinions away. I matter.

My mom just keeps shaking her head. “We’ll talk about this later. You’ve been through a lot.” She pats my leg.

“I’ve thought about it for years,” I tell her.

She actually stays quiet and just listens.

I let out a breath. “I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy, but in doing so, I’ve become so, so depressed, Mom.” I shake my head as tears brim. “I’ve spent so long pleasing you that I haven’t even found my own dreams.”

My mom swallows hard and says, “Why haven’t you told me this sooner? We could have found something else for you to do.”

“I tried a couple times,” I say. “You wouldn’t listen.”

My mom processes this. She doesn’t handle change well, but these facts glass her eyes. “I guess it makes this easier.” Her gaze lands on my scar. “You need to start looking at colleges then. You’ll be a semester behind…”

“I’m not going to college,” I say, adamant. “I have a lot of money saved from modeling, and I know this is going to hurt you…” I take another deep breath. “…but I don’t need your input on what I should do in the future. I have to discover that myself.”

My mom looks pissed. “You’re only eighteen, Daisy.”

“Mom,” I say. “You have to let me go. I promise, I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t understand. I let you get your own apartment. You’re off on your own—”

“I’m not saying goodbye to you,” I cut her off like she’s done to me so many times in my life. As shitty as it seems—it feels damn good. “I just need to be the one to decide the direction of my life. That’s all.” I don’t know what I want to do, but I do know that I have years to figure it out. And that freedom builds my confidence and gives me the wings that I use to fly right on out of this nest.

She inhales. “And you won’t go to college?”

“No.”

She stares at me for a while and says, “You’ve always been the most scatterbrained of the girls. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Her eyes narrow a little though. I guess that’s the best I’m going to get. It’s good enough for me.

And then she scrutinizes my hair, combing her fingers through the shorter, badly hacked strands with a crinkled nose. “We can get you some extensions and take out this color… Did you cut this yourself? It’s god-awful.” She takes out her phone and makes a note to call the salon. Just like that, she acts like I didn’t make a pledge, but I won’t ever back away from it. Even if she chooses to forget or feign confusion. I’ll remind her.

“I love it,” I say.

“Funny,” she says, typing on her phone.

“No, I do,” I tell her seriously. “I love that it’s not perfect, and I like the highlights. I’m not changing it.” I glance at Rose, and she wears a proud smile.

“You can’t like this,” she says. “It’s ugly.”

Rose butts in. “It’s her taste.”

“Well she has bad taste,” she snaps. “And I’m trying to help her see that.”

Rose groans. “Mother, why do you have to be so—”

“Because I want what’s best for my girls,” she retorts. Her eyes land on me. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You always liked your hair before.”

“I never did,” I say.

She glares. “It’s Ryke, isn’t it? You’re changing because of a boy.”

“Ryke never told me how to cut my hair or what color to make it. He’s only ever told me to think for myself.”

I catch her eyes flickering to the door of the front cabin, where Ryke lies. She glares at it like it accosted her somehow. She blames him for my thoughts and feelings and probably my sudden career change.

“Is he telling you to push me out of your life?” she asks.

“Mom, no. He’s never been like that.”

“He doesn’t like me,” she says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s telling you all of these things—”

“Listen to me,” I plead. “He’s not saying a word about you. I love you, Mom, and he respects that.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. She doesn’t even need to add the next line for me to sense it, but she does anyway. “You would have never gotten hurt if Ryke didn’t follow you to Paris.” She shakes her head again and again.

The sad thing, there is some truth to that.

I would have never gone to the pub to retrieve Lo if Ryke didn’t show up.

We would have never been stuck in that riot.

But without that violent wake-up call, I would have never realized how much I needed to voice my opinions. Even if it hurt my mom. Even if it pissed her off. All of this had to be said.

For me.

No one else.

You are your own anchor. Do you want to keep burning or are you going to let yourself rise?

No more dragging myself down.

I’m finally ready to rise.

RYKE MEADOWS

I’m in a room alone with my fucking father, my girlfriend’s dad and Connor. Right when I stepped onto the plane, Greg put his hand on my shoulder and said, “We need to talk.”

I thought he was reserving that talk with Daisy, but I’m sure he’ll have another one with her later, just to confirm that I didn’t sleep with her when she was fifteen.