Becca Ritchie - Kiss the Sky

Lily shifts on Loren’s lap and says, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the tagline was dirty, right?”

She’s completely serious. And it almost lightens the mood.

Lo nods to Rose. “Good thing you don’t give two shits about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin.”

“That’s not the problem,” she says. I know her well. She meets my gaze while I stand in front of the television that’s mounted above the fireplace. “He stereotyped all of us with one word, as though we’re caricatures.” She’s afraid of being made to look like a fool. But people have been stereotyping the Calloway girls on gossip blogs for months. This isn’t any different.

“So?” I say to her.

Her mouth falls. She thought I’d be on her side. When she’s wrong, I’m not afraid to disagree.

“People label you the moment they meet you,” I tell her. “You’re an ice cold bitch. You’re a man-hating prude, a rich stuck-up brat. They only tell a fraction of the truth, and if you let them hurt you, you let them win.”

Everyone settles down. No one wants to feed their stereotype either, and I think they’re beginning to understand that if they throw tantrums, they’re each going to look as two-dimensional as Scott wants them to be. They’d each fill the “rich kid snobbery” part well. That image would hurt many of them.

Rose’s lips tighten at the “man-hating” line. That one did sting her. I almost regret adding it in my explanation. “You’re a conceited asshole,” she tells me.

“You love me.”

She shakes her head but her lips lift. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being right.” She groans and leans back against the couch in a huff. “I hate that we’re all so worked up over it and you say a few words, and now everything makes sense again.”

Lo rises with Lily in his arms. “He has a gift.”

“Given by me,” I say. I forget the cameras are even in the room until I hear the zoom of Savannah’s Canon as she focuses on me while Brett’s camera is on Scott. The blond-haired producer remains by the wall, glaring.

I came in and did exactly what he didn’t want.

I calmed every single fucking person.

I flicked over his rook, his bishop, and protected my queen.

I mouth, Don’t fuck with me. These five people mean more to me than words can express. I’ve never once felt like I had a real family.

But with them—I know I do.

My parents have rented out the loft to a ritzy hotel in New York City, complete with thirty sprawling flat screens, hors d'oeuvres and two hundred of their closest friends. They call it a screening party for the first episode.

I call it a nightmare.

Let’s be clear. This is a reality show. We’re not going to look like proper, upstanding ladies of Philadelphia. I reiterated these sentiments to my mother and she waved me off. “I know what a reality show is, Rose,” she said. “But this way, we’ll be laughing with you and not at you.”

I’m not sure that’s much better.

4 months and 25 days until the wedding – Mom

I slip my phone into my clutch and snatch a champagne glass from the nearest server, who wears a signature-fitted Calloway Couture black pleated dress. Another reason why a hundred plus people are here to watch our antics: they have big checkbooks. Ones that may want to invest or buy some of the clothes that Lily, Daisy, and I wear on the show.

I scroll through my phone, checking for the millionth time that the CC website is still online. God forbid it crashes during the show. That would be my luck.

The largest flat screen at the front of the room has a countdown before the show begins. 10 minutes. 10 fucking minutes.

Where the hell is Connor?

My nerves have spiked to new degrees, and I restrain myself from pulling out my phone and checking the website again.

I scan the crowd quickly, and I spot Loren and Lily standing off to the side, nearest a large potted plant. This is their first Calloway hosted event since Lily’s sex addiction became public. Half the people in the room stare at them with curious, admonishing gazes. The other half gossip in whispers.

Lily and Loren look about as uncomfortable as they can be, shifting and avoiding eye-contact. Lo has his arm around Lily’s shoulder, touching her in comfort and rotating her body every time a camera edges too close.

There are twelve cameramen here. Just to ensure that every moment is captured for the show.

I’m about to walk over to Lily for moral support, but I barely take a step before Ryke approaches the couple. He hands Loren a can of Fizz Life and Lily his plate of Swedish meatballs. Whatever Ryke says, it has Lo smiling for the first time all night.

Two years ago, Lo and Lily would be standing miserable in a corner. Addicted and enabling. A few months ago, no one could persuade my sister to leave the house because of the gossip and ridicule.

Now they’re here.

Smiling.

I’m usually not so sentimental. But watching my sister go from lying to broken to halfway-okay has moved me in immeasurable ways.

It’s easier to be born strong than to find a strength that you never thought existed. For that, I believe she has more courage and prowess than I could ever possess.

My eyes linger on them before I start searching for Connor again. I find Daisy first, entertaining my mom with a few head nods. While Loren steals one of Lily’s meatballs off her plate, Ryke watches Daisy from across the room, his smile fading and his features hardening in concern.

None of the guys like when we surround ourselves with our mother for long. I really don’t want Daisy around her for more than an hour or two. Mom sucks our energy dry, but that’s just her abrasive, all-consuming personality. Even if you never get used to it, you just have to deal.

When I finally spot Connor, all the built-up fuzzy, warm (generally foreign) feelings I had are replaced by annoyance.

I watch as my boyfriend greets a younger guy by hugging him and slapping him on the back in a typical bro-hug. It is so out of Connor Cobalt’s nature—his true self that I know and love.

My heels clap loudly on the marble floor as I strut towards him. I tip the rest of my champagne in my mouth and set the empty glass on a tray before I land by his side.

“Richard,” I say with heated eyes. I don’t care if I look like a bitch. That’s the point. I am who I am. Why can’t he just let people see the real him? Who cares if people don’t like him?

“There you are, babe,” Connor says, hooking his arm around my waist. He nods to his friend. “Patrick, you know Rose, right?”

“We’ve never been formally introduced,” Patrick says. He holds out his hand. “Patrick Nubell.”

I don’t shake it. “As in Nubell Cookies?” It makes sense. Connor doesn’t schmooze anyone. He has to have a reason to give you his time. Money and prestige are two important factors. Nubell sits just below Kraft (Oreos) and Keebler on the marketplace. Though Nubell cookies are more natural and less appetizing.

 Patrick laughs and drops his hand, realizing I’m not going to shake it. He doesn’t seem affronted. Maybe he’s heard of my reputation. In these social circles, I am frequently called an ice queen.

“Yeah, it’s my great-great-grandfather’s company,” he explains. “You probably know how that is. People always asking you which flavor of Fizz you like the best. Well, I get do you prefer nugget or cinnamon.”

I stay quiet, which leaves Connor the opportunity to say, “Definitely, man.” He nods like he is entranced with this nugget/cinnamon conversation.

Sure, I could probably relate to Patrick on some level, but now is not the time for bonding. I have—I check my watch—four minutes until the show airs. And I need a pep talk. Preferably from Connor Cobalt and not the twat he has impersonated.

“Could you give us a minute, Patrick?” I ask now.

“Yeah, of course.” He leaves, probably searching for someone as young as him in the middle-aged crowd.

When I turn to Connor his eyes drop to mine. “That hurt me just as much as you,” he says immediately. “Trust me, I had to use the word killer and dude in the same fucking sentence.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” I retort. “And babe, really?” I smack his arm. “And you gave him a bro-hug, Connor. Who are you?” I don’t give him time to answer because I know it will be something profoundly aggravating. “And what were you doing with Nubell Cookies? Are you trying to partner with them? That sounds like a fantastic idea. Put magnets in the tins and make everyone sick.”

I finish my rant and he full-on grins. But it’s different this time.

He smiles at me like every word I said was special. Like they belonged to him and me.

“What?” I snap, but my voice softens when I see the look in his eye that says I mean everything to him.

He intertwines his fingers with mine and draws me to his chest, “Nothing, darling.” His breath warms my ear as he leans down. “You look gorgeous in that dress. Is it yours?”

Is it yours? He’s asking if I designed it. I nod.

He brushes my hair off my shoulder as I inhale strongly. His fingers run across the black fabric with studs on the collar, and he skims my neck with an even lighter touch.

“As gorgeous as it is,” he says, “I’m going to love taking it off you tonight.” He kisses my cheek, and I have to look around the room at all the faces to remember we’re in public.

With hundreds of people.

My emotions have suddenly calmed, and as Connor squeezes my hand, I realize why.

Lo is right. He has a gift.

The countdown on the screen ticks down from ten.

Ten seconds.

That’s all it takes to decide whether this show will fail.

Ten stupid seconds.

* * *

Thirty minutes in, and it’s not looking so good.

Beside me at the screening party, Lily shields her eyes with her hand, peeking beneath as we watch the train wreck that is our lives. The six of us have congregated in solidarity by the fucking potted plant as the show continues playing. Scott chooses to stand beside my parents, whispering things to my mother, and she laughs with sincerity.

Connor’s eyes flicker from the television screens to Scott and my parents every so often. I can tell he’d like to go interject and break up Scott’s ploy to make nice with my mother and father, but he stays here. With me. And I appreciate that more than he knows.

We already watched the psychic disaster, and then I endured a five-minute clip where Daisy popped wheelies on her Ducati. She revved the bike too hard, and she slid off the back of the seat and ate it. Instead of crying, she picked up her motorcycle that rode off without her, and she tried again.

After watching that, our mother looked ready to storm over to us and scold her in front of everyone. The only thing that stopped her was the two-hundred onlookers.

I finish my second glass of champagne and snatch another one before the server darts away. The interview segments are the most interesting part of Princesses of Philly. None of us have seen each other’s tapes. Scott would stand behind Savannah’s camera, conducting the interviews in our study, the walls lined with books. And he’d dictate questions to her to ask us—just so his voice wouldn’t be recorded. God forbid anyone knows he’s orchestrating the show.

“Lily and Lo f**k a lot,” Ryke says, each f-bomb bleeped accordingly. He sits on a brown leather chair. “If we had to rank who’s getting the most, it’d be my brother, his girlfriend, then maybe Connor Cobalt and his hand.”

Beside me, Connor grins and sips his wine, finding Ryke’s comment more amusing than I would.

Ryke’s eyes float towards the door that opens.

Daisy peeks her head through, walking straight in. “I need you out front for a second,” she says. “What was the last question? If it’s important, I can come back later.”

Ryke stands. “No it’s fine.”

I don’t like where this is headed. Why would this be shown?

We hear Savannah’s voice but can’t see her. “He was ranking who has the most sex in the house. How would you rank everyone?” Savannah asks.

Daisy’s face lights up with a smile.

“Don’t answer her,” Ryke says.