Lo is asleep on the leather sofa, crumpled tissues scattered around him. Without stopping, I head to the kitchen and hear Ryke trailing me.
I check over my shoulder. “And I didn’t even have to tell him to come.”
Ryke hardly flinches. “I’m not in the fucking mood, Cobalt.” Our paths diverge at the granite countertops. I go to the coffee pot. He goes to the refrigerator.
While I make coffee, I scrutinize him from a few feet away. It’d be a lie to say that I wasn’t slightly worried. I am. Just slightly. It’s not that he dismissed my banter. Ryke usually does. It’s the fact that he keeps sniffling and pretending I can’t see.
He yanks the fridge door open and pulls out a carton of orange juice. Then he twists off the cap…and he searches for a glass.
“I thought you preferred to avoid modern amenities.”
“Why can’t you just say a fucking glass?” He finds one and sets it on the counter.
“Because only you would say a fucking glass, and I’m not Ryke Meadows.” I press the start button on the coffee machine. While it brews, I lean against the counter and watch him carefully pour the orange juice in the glass while sniffling.
Ryke always chugs from the container, but he wouldn’t if he thought he’d get someone sick.
“You realize Vitamin C only helps prevent illness. It doesn’t cure it.”
“I’m not sick yet,” he growls beneath his breath. Then he quickly downs the entire glass in two gulps. He begins pouring a second glass, and his brown agitated eyes flit to me. “What?”
“You’re perspiring.”
“I’m not.” He wipes his arm across his damp forehead.
“Have you taken your temperature?”
Ryke swigs the second glass and then downs it. “Fuck off.” He caps the carton and puts his glass in the sink.
I ease away from the counter. “You don’t want to get your daughter sick, Ryke.” It’s why he’s so concerned about being sick in the first place, but he’s stubborn.
Ryke tenses and rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. “Alright.” He steps near, only an inch shorter. “I’m going to say this fucking once, and I swear, if you grin, I will punch you.”
“It sounds like a promise,” I say casually, “but I haven’t verified what promises from Ryke Meadows mean.”
“It means you’ll get fucking punched.”
“We’ll see.” I wait for his declaration.
Ryke combs two hands through his hair. “Just touch my forehead and tell me if I feel fucking hot.”
For his sake, I do my best to restrain my grin, and my best is the best. I’m blank-faced as I put the back of my hand to his clammy forehead. After a few seconds, I drop it. “You’re warm,” I confirm. “Warmer than Jane but not feverish like Daisy.”
“Fuck.” He sets his hands on his head and stares off.
“Just ask. I’ll say yes.” I’ll always say yes if he needs me.
Ryke drifts to the sink, setting his hands on the edge as he thinks. I’m patient. I return to the coffee pot and take out a black mug from the cupboard.
“Can you look after Sullivan?” he finally asks, choking back more emotion than I thought he’d have. “Fuck.” He pinches his eyes.
My chest rises in a strong breath. His emotion affects me—and it’s not often that people do. “It’s not a failure on your part,” I tell him. “If Rose and I were contagious like you and Daisy, I’d ask you to look after my children.” I get more specific. “I’d ask you first.”
I see surprise in his eyes, and he turns more towards me. “Yeah?”
I nod. “You’re dependable, reliable.” I grin. “A classic Golden Retriever.”
He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking…”
“Accurate, I know.”
I expect him to flip me off, but he just messes up his hair again and then nods to me. “I saw Twitter this morning. Is that accurate?”
He wouldn’t know the truth because I rarely talk about my father. For the past two or so hours, the world has been obsessing over a new Celebrity Crush article by Wendy Collins titled: Who is Connor Cobalt’s Father?
The journalist disclosed his name (Jim Elson) but nothing else.
People on the internet took it upon themselves to dredge up information about Jim Elson, and now everyone is circulating this photo of a man from Philadelphia standing outside Citizens Bank Park.
His name: Jim Elson.
His hair: brown.
His eyes: blue.
Age: late fifties.
“You mean the photo of a man in a Philadelphia Phillies shirt?” He hears my curt tone enough to understand.
“He’s not your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I confirm. “He’s just some man with the same name.” I rest my hands on the counter behind me. “The only annoyance is that I now have to take time to placate investors and assure them that no skeleton will crawl out of my closet.” That no long-lost father will try to carve out portions of Cobalt Inc. Thankfully Steve Balm met my father before my parent’s divorce, so he knew this man wasn’t the right Jim Elson.
Ryke’s brows knot. “Someone just claimed to be your fucking dad, and your only annoyance is about investors? What the fuck kind of relationship did you even have?”
“None. I’m not like you.”
“No kidding.” He tears off a piece of paper towel from the roll to wipe his nose. He balls it in his fist when he’s done. Ryke being sick makes him appear more docile than he really is.
“I was sent to boarding school when I was seven,” I remind him but I add information he doesn’t have. I give him more than he’s ever received. “When I was twelve, my mother told me that she divorced my father. I can’t tell you when it happened because I wasn’t aware. I saw my mother maybe once or twice a year, if that, and my father never called me.” My mother did take advantage of my birthday as a child, using the day to invite potential Cobalt Inc. investors to a party. I thought it was smart.
“Are you fucking serious?” He looks heated.
“It was mutual. Everything was mutual. I never called them. I never longed for them. I wasn’t attached to people. I lost contact with my father before I even hit puberty, and what I know about him are just facts. That’s all he is to me, and I know the lack of feelings between us are as mutual as everything else was.”
Ryke contemplates this, concerned lines crossing his forehead. “You promise that’s fucking it?” He wants to make sure I’m okay.
It’s sweet.
“I promise.” I grin. “And my promises are better than yours.”
Just as he begins to roll his eyes, we hear a weak croak from the couch, “Lily?”
At the same time, Ryke and I leave the kitchen to approach a feeble Loren Hale. His hair is matted on his forehead and skin still pallid. The darkened room only brightens with the sunrise.
“Hey, beautiful,” I banter.
Lo registers us above hi
m and tries to sit up, but he weakly collapses back down. To me, he asks, “How do I get better and defeat this thing?”
“He’s not a fucking doctor,” Ryke cuts in.
Lo feigns contemplation. “I don’t know, bro. He’s kinda fucking close to one.”
I wouldn’t argue with that.
Ryke puts his hand to his little brother’s forehead. “You’re fucking delirious.”
Lo lacks the energy to push his brother aside, so he lets Ryke take his temperature. “I’m…” He yawns. “…whatever.” Lo fumbles with his cellphone, his nose reddened from using tissues all night.
“My advice,” I tell him, “sleep, water, and medicine.”
Lo looks to his brother. “See, he is a doctor. The physician I went to yesterday said the same thing.”
Ryke tosses a pillow at Lo’s head. “You’re starting to sound like your wife.”
Lo knocks the pillow away and glares and points at him with his phone. “Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m always a dick.”
“So many truths,” I muse.
Ryke flips me off, and then asks his brother if he needs anything. Lo is too distracted by what’s on his cellphone. This time, he sits up quickly, ignoring the weight of his head and fatigued muscles.
“What the hell?” He scrolls furiously, and then his amber eyes flit to me. “Who do I need to fight?”
My lips rise, and I slip my hands into my pockets. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s a fake photo. And even if it had been real, it’d mean nothing to me.”
Lo slumps back. “If it means nothing to you, then it means nothing to me.” He turns to his brother. “Can you get me a glass of milk…and toast with butter…and maybe some scrambled eggs?” If you picture Lo with puppy-dog eyes, you’ve forgotten what he looks like.
He will always be as sharp as glass and ice.
“Anything else, princess?” Ryke asks while he dusts Lo’s dirtied tissues into a tiny bin.
Lo points at the patchwork quilt kicked to his ankles. Ryke lifts it up to his shoulders and then carries the bin to the kitchen trashcan. He never told Lo that he’s sick too—he wouldn’t. Because Ryke Meadows loves taking care of people.
Lo yawns again.