I feel justified in opening the door because whoever’s having sex shouldn’t be having sex down here. So I turn the knob, but it clicks. Locked.
I hear some muffled cursing from the guy. “Someone’s trying to come in,” he says.
I don’t want to jump to irrational conclusions. Like it’s Rose on the other side. There’s no reason it would be her. Logic says it’s not. But I begin to stupidly imagine Rose on her knees with some other fucking guy.
I pound my fist against the wood. “Open up.” A lump lodges in my throat at this unnatural, senseless fear. She’s not in there, Connor.
The door swings open within seconds of my request, and I stare down at Daisy. I try to shelve whatever sudden concern I have and look at the situation a little more analytically.
She just barely cracks the door, and she blocks the inside of the room with her body, consequently hiding her boyfriend (I hope) from view.
I study her form. She’s fully dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Not flushed. Not sweaty. Not glowing or happy. But she doesn’t look pissed either. Just disappointed. Unsatisfied. And maybe even a little glad that I interrupted.
“What do you need?” She gives me a congenial smile, and it’s rather convincing. If I wasn’t so brilliant at reading people, I’d think she was having the best day of her life.
“Who’s your friend?” I ask, choosing to be direct.
“Oh…you heard him…” She taps her fingers against the door frame and cranes her head over her shoulder. “I told you, you were being loud.”
“That happens when a girl gives good—”
“Breakfast,” Daisy says, her smile brightening. “I think I should make breakfast for everyone.”
“Do that,” I tell her, “and I’ll talk to your friend while you cook.”
She waves me off casually. “There’s no need for that. You’ll see him in the Alps.” She clears her throat. “Production is making him go on the trip.” She rocks on her heels nervously, her only giveaway right now.
So this is her new boyfriend. “And you don’t want him to come?”
She shrugs. “I’m happy that we’re going to get away from the paparazzi for a week, but I’m not too excited at the idea of Lo and Ryke giving him the third degree.”
“He should start with me then, ease him in,” I say, manipulating her a little. But it’s for a good cause. “I just want to have a civil conversation.”
“Sure. That sounds good.” But I see the worry behind the façade she’s created. Daisy has a talent at hiding her true feelings, something I’m an expert in.
Before she leaves, she turns around in the hall and talks while she walks backwards. “Could you…maybe do me a solid and not mention to Rose that Julian was making those noises?”
That’s strange.
Rose knows Daisy is sexually active. She’s also a proponent for women exploring their sexuality, even if she’s been too timid to explore her own. Based on the lack of sweat and flush, I assume Daisy wasn’t having sex.
“Rose won’t care,” I end up saying. But Daisy knows this, so what’s the real problem?
Daisy clasps her hands together. “Right. Good.” She jabs her thumb towards the stairs. “Breakfast then.” She disappears, leaving a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Something’s not right about Julian.
I push open the bedroom door to find a tanned guy with tousled brown hair and an unshaven face. Most likely Italian.
My first reaction: He’s definitely a model. I can tell by his striking features alone, and I’m sure he’s someone she met at work. And then the minute he stands in front of the mirror and combs his fingers through his hair to style it, I see the real problem.
This guy isn’t a teenager. Not even close.
“Hey, man,” he nods at me. “You wouldn’t be her brother, would you?” He grimaces, already expecting harsh words. He doesn’t even know that she only has sisters.
“So you’re Daisy’s new boyfriend?” I ask, intentionally not answering his previous question.
He shifts uncomfortably on his heels. “Kiiind of…”
“Well the term boyfriend doesn’t have more than one implication.” I lean my shoulder against the door frame. “You’re either dating or you aren’t.”
He narrows his eyes like he’s confused.
“Well, we’re not fucking at all. She’s underage.” He grabs his coat off the chair. “What do you call that?”
A lie.
“You can still be convicted of sodomy for a blow job,” I refute. “So I call it fucking.”
His face goes pale. “Look, I’m a model. I’ve known Daisy for almost a year. We’re just good friends.”
“You’re about…twenty-two?” I ask.
“Twenty-three.”
Fuck. Ryke is twenty-three. He’s going to kill him.
I shake my head.
Daisy is confused. I read it across her face almost every time I see her. She has a career and has been treated like an adult from the fashion industry, from agents, photographers and models like Julian, since she was fourteen. But there are people, like Lo and Lily, who see her as a little sister. Who treat her like she’s sixteen going on seventeen and not her maturity level.
Age is a number that doesn’t reflect circumstance, environment or psychology. Age matters very little to me when some thirty-year-olds act like children and some teenagers take on the responsibility of households.
I don’t judge people based on two numbers. I judge them from the inside-out.
I’ve contemplated talking to Daisy about her situation. Letting her know that as confusing as it seems, it’s merely the construct of society that’s causing her to feel lost. That, no matter how many boxes people try to put you in, as long as you know yourself, you’ll be fine in the end.
And you may have to play by their rules, put up with their labels and use their terms—I’ve done so all my life—but it’s what you believe that matters most.
But I’ll never have this conversation with her. Frederick often reminds me that I am not the world’s psychiatrist. I can see through people, but I have to choose who and what I want to fix. Daisy is smart enough to get there on her own. She just needs some time.
Forbidding her friendships and relationships won’t solve her problems. It will just be another confusing reminder that two numbers matter more than her level of maturity. So I have to suffer being pleasant to her boyfriend.
“Word of advice,” I say casually. “If you’re going to have sleepovers in this house with your good friend, keep your orgasms to a minimum. I may not be the one to catch you next time, and it sounds like you enjoy your balls.”
“So…who exactly should I avoid?” He laughs.
“Everyone but me,” I tell him.
He laughs again as if this is a joke. I don’t break my even gaze and his smile falters. “Oh…” he mumbles. “Shit, that bad huh?”
“Yeah, man, that bad.” I inwardly cringe at my vocabulary, but he seems to respond better to it. His shoulders have slackened and he puts on an easy smile again. It’s almost like we’re friends.