Chapter 9
9
DAISY
I’m not a snoopy person.
Well, actually, that’s a lie. I totally am. But in my defense, I’d love to meet one person who wouldn’t take the first opportunity to do some snooping around the home of someone as elusive as Bryce. It’s like dangling a deep-fried pickle in front of my face and expecting me not to snap my teeth at it like a rabid animal.
I’ve held myself back for the past two days, but after watching Bryce slide into the passenger side of a sports car that I’m sure costs more than this house, I sat in the living room for two hours until finally, I gave in and sprinted to her closed bedroom door.
The door handle is cool in my palm, and as I turn it just slightly, I don’t feel a lock engage. It’s surprising, considering how adamant she was about keeping her space from me. I tongue my cheek and stay still, waiting for my conscience to catch up with me.
It doesn’t, and I take that as a great sign before I’m pushing into Bryce’s room.
The past two days I’ve been staying here have been awkward. After our single conversation in the kitchen the first night, we haven’t spoken much at all. Bryce comes home from work and goes straight to her room. I’ve even started leaving my bedroom door wide open every night in hopes that she’ll pop in and say so much as a hi.
I knew it would be a bit weird living here, but I’m more desperate for person-to-person communication than I’ve been in a long time. When I was in Calgary, there were always people to see and speak with, places to go and hang out after class or on the weekends. I know I have my family here in Cherry Peak, but I don’t want my only friends to be my moms.
Maybe taking a look into Bryce’s room will give me an idea of what to talk to her about. A hobby I could try and offer to join her for or a favourite show we could watch together. I’m not picky. Rather, I’m damn desperate.
How am I supposed to show her how thankful I am for her letting me stay here if I can’t even speak to her?
With a puffed exhale, I slip into her room and blink at the darkness. Blackout curtains drawn over the windows, there’s not even a sliver of sunlight slipping through. I slap a hand to the wall and flick on the light.
“Wow. Okay.”
It’s . . . very Bryce.
A massive bed is set in the centre of the room with a black felt headboard and matching bedding. The dressers are, surprise, black , along with the nightstands and the thin table against the wall and beneath the hung flat-screen. Two thick, deep purple rugs cover the cool wood floors on either side of her bed, matching the lampshades on the nightstands.
I make note of the pops of purple and step further inside. The floors creak beneath my feet, and I make note of that too. Just in case . . .
The accordion closet doors are shut, and I keep them that way. I’m a snoop but not a creep.
Swallowing, I slide my palm across the top of her dresser and notice the lack of dust. Even the black-limbed, spider-looking light fixture above her bed seems clean, like she dusts every inch of her room on the daily. I can’t relate, but I won’t lie and say that I’m not impressed.
The laundry basket beside the closet doors is full of folded clothes, so at least we have one thing in common. I’ll have three baskets of clean, folded laundry before even thinking about putting it all away.
A half dozen pictures hang on the walls, each one focused on a body part decorated with black ink. The two thighs above her bed are hers. I’d recognize the tattoos anywhere, even after only seeing them in person once. Twin snakes curling around flesh, teeth sharp and buried in the flesh of two dripping peaches. The juice pooling around their mouths is almost indecent, and I think that was the point.
I flick my eyes between the different portraits, trying to shove each one into my memory, categorizing them. Black letters in the webbing of each of her fingers, an ankle piece with a date and time, a . . . set of boobs? Blinking hard, I take a step toward the photo and let my lips part in surprise.
It’s the ink wrapped around them that draws my focus and keeps it there until I’m unable to look away.
A full chest piece covers the swells of each breast, with a bull skull centred between them. Grass and tall flowers with small petals wrap around the horns and trail down and around her boobs. The word home has been spread throughout the design, almost as if it’s meant to be hidden. I gulp to dry my suddenly overly wet mouth and bite down on my lip.
The dual hoops through each nipple complete the image somehow. A part of me expected to find ink on the breasts themselves, but they’re bare.
Bare and perky with blush-pink nipples decorated in black jewelry that I’ve never thought to find attractive before. Until now.
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised to find such open and proud art in Bryce’s room. She doesn’t seem like the type of person to share these parts of herself with just anyone, and now I’m hit with a wave of sharp guilt. There’s a reason the door was closed, and I’ve just peered into more of her soul than I was intending to.
I back out of the room before I’m aware that I’m moving. With a wince, I pull the door shut behind me with more force than necessary and run my hands over my hair and face, every inch of me hot with shame.
Tucking tail, I make a beeline for my room. Kristen would shit her pants if she saw me running out of Bryce’s room like a naughty child, but I can’t help it. It’s that or?—
A door closing outside makes me freeze. The rich notes of Bryce’s voice follow after, and I stop breathing, my muscles locked up tight.
“You can come in if you want, D,” she offers.
“Thanks, but I’ve got to meet with Sasha, and you need a moment to yourself.”
It’s easy to recognize Darren’s voice despite not knowing him that well. He’s got one of those deep and dark timbres that I’d bet turns straight women feral.
Bryce replies, sounding angry now. “Want me to come? She’ll piss off quick after seeing me.”
“Yeah, with my daughter in tow.”
“Not if Abbie has a say. She loves me.”
“She could, if you’d let her.”
A scoff. “It’s a kid thing, Darren. I’ll be her favourite aunt once she’s a bit older and doesn’t smell like sparkles and cheap lip gloss.”
I barely manage to hide my laugh.
“Alright, Rye. But don’t get butthurt when she chooses Poppy over you. She loves her cheap lip gloss scent.”
“I love Abbie. Don’t be an asshole. I’m just . . . not the best with kids. Leave me alone about it.”
There’s a moment where I can’t hear either of them, and I manage to take two steps toward my room. I’m almost there when the front door opens, and Bryce calls out .
“Text me later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I squeak and reach for my door seconds before the air shifts. It grows cooler, sharper. Pulling myself together, I smile and turn my head to look at Bryce.
“Hi.”
She stands at the end of the hall and watches me. Silent but with eyes that speak for her, she inspects me, brows low.
“Hi.”
“How was your day?”
Her mouth twists at the question, unease heavy in her eyes. For a moment, I wonder if she’s about to tell me something real and unrehearsed, but disappointment hits a beat later.
“Fucking fantastic.”
She goes to walk past me, but before she can, I reach out. My fingers glide across hers before I grasp onto them, risking having them bitten clean off. Her head snaps in my direction, mouth parted in surprise despite the tight coiling of her shoulders. For a long few seconds, neither one of us speaks. The warm fingers in mine are small and strong, flexing and growing damp.
“You look pissed off, Bryce,” I say softly, cautiously. “Not fantastic.”
She tugs her hand free of mine, leaving me clutching the empty space left behind. “Do you want to have a heart-to-heart or something?”
I recover by leaning my shoulder against the wall and tipping my chin. “I’m up for it.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You could.”
She glances up at the ceiling before dropping her ice-blue eyes back to stare at me. They’ve dulled slightly, no longer sharp enough to cut, just scrape if necessary.
“I need a drink first.”
Spinning on her heels, she leaves me in the hallway. I follow quickly, not about to miss my chance to dig into her head. There’s a clang in the kitchen when she grabs two beers from the fridge and opens them, offering me one without so much as a glance in my direction.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the bottle.
“Have you ever been on a blind date?”
The blurted question takes me by surprise, but I hide it with an open expression. “No.”
“Lucky you.”
“Is that where you were? On a blind date?”
She takes a long pull of her beer before making a low humming noise in her throat. “One of many. My mother has a passion for them, apparently.”
“I take it that this one was bad?”
A tiny flicker of humour travels through her expression as she sets her bottle on the countertop and then grips it on either side of her body. The movement forces her tight black denim skirt to stretch as she spreads her legs. Her cropped shirt is tight over her chest, and I focus on not looking for a hint of the piercings from the photo in her bedroom.
“My mom hopes that if she shoves enough posh, finance-loving boys under my nose, I’ll have an epiphany and suddenly want to date one,” she explains.
“She’s wrong?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
I swallow my nerves and take a drink from my bottle before placing it on the kitchen table. It’s warm in here, and I’m suddenly wishing I could crack open a window. Too bad the only one in here is right behind her.
“Have you spoken to her about it? Told her to knock it off?”
What a stupid question.
Bryce wets her lips and drums her fingers along the edge of the counter. “Listening to me and my feelings isn’t my mother’s specialty. As far as she’s concerned, my infatuation with women will pass. Once I’m done with my . . . phase , I’ll be ready for one of the men she’s tossed at me. ”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
I can’t imagine my moms feeling that way about my life and plans. My siblings and I got lucky with them. We’ve never had anything short of full support when it comes to every aspect of our lives. Sometimes it’s hard to remember not everyone grew up the same way.
“Can I do anything to help?” I offer before she’s had a chance to reply to my apology.
She pushes away from the counter and tugs at the hem of her cropped shirt. The band on the front of it isn’t one I recognize. I’m not a risk taker when it comes to music.
“There’s nothing anyone can do. I’ll keep putting up with it until she gives up.”
“That’s not fair to you.”
With one brow climbing her forehead, she says, “Don’t tell me you believe life is fair, Daisy.”
“No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean we have to lie down and accept all of the shitty things that come our way,” I argue, lurching forward on my toes. “Especially when it comes to family.”
“I’m sorry to break it to you, sunshine, but there isn’t a damn thing you or me can do to make my mother let this go.”
Maybe in a few hours, I’ll regret not taking her words to heart and leaving it be. We’ll go back to not speaking to one another and co-living in awkward silence. But for now, I can’t seem to help myself. That’s my only explanation for what happens next.
I snatch my beer from the table and take two gulps of it before cringing at the foamy taste and blurting out, “What if you weren’t single anymore? Would she stop then?”