“I’ll be sure to knock,” I tell Lo.
“I like my bell rung, love.”
“Even better.”
Lily raises her hand. “I agree with Lo. The clubhouse is a good alternative.” She nods repeatedly.
“Me too,” Daisy pipes in from the bottom of the staircase.
Lily smiles wider, knowing someone else has been in there before. “When did you…with you?” She motions between Ryke and Daisy.
Ryke actually tries to lighten his features for Lily, his scowl almost dissipating. It doesn’t work well. “Who else would it fucking be with?”
“I can name a few bastards,” Lo says, disgruntled at the thought of Daisy’s past boyfriends. But his use of “bastard” causes everyone to look at him, me included. “Not me.” He cringes. “What is fucking wrong with you people?”
“So we’re talking about metaphorical bastards then,” I say easily.
Ryke pinches his eyes. “I fucking hate all of you—except you.” He rests a hand on Daisy’s head. She leans into him again.
Lo descends the stairs to reach Lily. He says to his brother, “You’re just pissy because I brought up Daisy’s ex-boyfriends.”
Daisy is mouthing something to Lily and then to Rose. The three of us, the guys, are ignoring them.
I chime in, “And if you rewind a little, Ryke, you’re the one who asked for the ‘other people’ she possibly could’ve slept with. So really, you should be hating yourself right now, but I don’t advise that approach.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I fucking hate you, Cobalt.” I know it’s not true by his relaxed tone.
Rose taps her foot. “So we’re done here then?”
Lily takes Moffy from Lo, the baby clinging onto her arm. “I think we are,” Lily says.
I ascend the staircase, towards Rose.
“Seriously though,” Lo adds. I can feel his gaze on my back. “Next time you both disappear, even to make out—which must be like an annual event for you two—just…let us know where you’re going, okay?”
I’m not used to that speech being directed at me. Ryke usually gives it to Lo: be careful, tell us where you’re going, don’t run off to fuck without saying something.
I understand their concern. We managed to leave the Calloway’s gated neighborhood without being followed by paparazzi, which is rare. They could’ve tailed us. We could’ve wrecked. Totaled the car. Died.
Anything’s possible, but Rose and I haven’t even been able to agree on who should be Jane’s godparents if something happens to us.
“We’ll text next time we’re running late,” I assure him. Lo nods in thanks, and when I reach Rose, her eyes drill holes in me.
“Don’t say it,” she whispers. Jane tugs on Rose’s dried hair and puts a strand in her mouth. Rose will wash her hair again, no matter what now, so she lets Jane play.
I lower my voice. “I wasn’t even thinking it. You didn’t fail.” At lying to Lo. I can’t add the rest aloud. “But there’s always room for improvement, unless you’re me.”
She rolls her eyes and whispers back, almost in a growl, “I’m sorry, I didn’t major in deceit in prep school.”
I edge closer to her, Jane between us. “Too bad you weren’t a boy. You could’ve attended Faust and then I could’ve tutored you.”
Her yellow-green eyes flit up and down my body. “And how many pupils would there’ve been?”
“Seulement vous,” I whisper. Only you.
I never took anyone under my wing at Faust. Had it not been an all-boys boarding school or had she really been a man in order to attend, I would’ve taken her, in every way. Even so, I’m glad this was the order of events. I’m glad we had years of being rivals before we became something more. I wouldn’t change anything. I adore every piece of my life, how I’ve lived it, and the only regret I have is not allowing myself to love Rose sooner. Or maybe just not believing I did.
I stroke the back of Rose’s neck with my thumb, and she begins to relax more. Jane’s head lolls as she dozes off in her mother’s arms.
When we participated in the reality show, Rose asked me to play her game. We were supposed to be us, no performing. Even when the producers wanted us to—even when they edited us how they saw fit—we were always supposed to be ourselves.
Now I’m asking Rose to play my game.
To find the loopholes, to take the manipulative, deceitful roads, to do anything to achieve a goal. I’m asking her to lie, bend sideways and fit into cramped boxes. To change to fit someone else’s needs.
It’s not easy for someone who follows rules, for someone with a strong, fiery personality. I hate asking this of her, but I need Rose on my side.
I can’t do this alone.
“Cobalt,” Ryke calls.
I turn my head, and from the bottom of the staircase, Ryke stares at me with knotted brows, his jaw hard. Daisy is turned into his chest, her back to us. So he’s alone in his thoughts.
Here is a simple fact.
Ryke can’t act any other way than how he is.
He’s the opposite of me. I can change. So I’m something less, something easier to swallow. Ryke gives himself to you like a bottle of sand or a bag of shrapnel. Chew and swallow, he says. I’ll take care of you if you bleed.
The point is that Ryke can’t help Rose and me. He’d make it so fucking obvious that we’re staging events for the press. He’d basically wear I’m in bed with the media on his forehead.
I need people on my team that will make this easier. Not harder.
He’s a shackle, a weight, a cost that I can do without.
So while he stands there, glaring at me like I’m lying, I worry that he’s going to ruin something he’d support. He’d do anything for his brother. But he can’t do this. It’s not in his ability. Sorry, Ryke.
I’m benching you.
“Yes?” I say, pulling my face with confusion, even when I feel none.
He hesitates, frowning. “Never mind…” He shakes his head and whispers in Daisy’s ear. She nods, and they leave the living room and disappear into the kitchen.
Rose watches them exit and says quietly, “He’s too smart.”
Between the media’s involvement with Jane and Moffy, our sex tapes, and Ryke, he’s the least of my worries. “Just remember, he’s not smarter than us.”
No one is.
5
ROSE COBALT
“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” I realize, in slight horror. I stand firmly in the master bathroom, dressed only in one of Connor’s white button-downs and my white panties. I considered doing this stupid, stupid thing in our smaller bathroom upstairs, but I imagined the mess, the smell, and I decided against it. The master has been vacant since Connor and I changed rooms, opting for the second floor to be closer to Jane’s nursery and more integrated in the house’s happenings.
“You haven’t done anything yet,” Connor says, casually flipping through the tiny packet of directions. “And it’s a far cry from stupid.”
I pace back and forth in front of the his-and-hers marble sinks, my hands unintentionally stroking my long brown hair. Bleach, developer, and toner sit next to the faucet, chemicals that I’ve never contemplated using in my hair, not once. Not even when my mother prodded me for highlights when they were “popular among girls my age” during the early 2000s.