She nods vigorously, tugging at her dad’s thick hair.
Ryke watches me most of all, his hands on our daughter’s ankles. I sway back and forth while he’s as still as a mountain. He asks her, “Sing us a song, Sul?”
“Hubba bubba boooo…” she sings so horribly, but it’s somehow cuter. “Doody doooo…starfishy and meeeee…”
My smile fades when I notice Ryke staring threateningly at someone to the right. I follow his gaze. Between an old lady in a wheelchair and a teenager doubled-over in pain sits a familiar pot-bellied man in jeans and a plain tee. He raises his phone at us, recording. At his feet lies a camera bag with probably a Canon inside.
Paparazzi.
We can’t really shield Sulli in the hospital. I’ve succumbed to the fact that there will be photographs of our daughter out in the world. She’s not alone. Moffy and Jane share these same experiences with Sulli. My unease starts to wane, remembering she’ll have others to confide in.
Sulli quiets while Ryke and I acknowledge the cameraman’s existence, and before she hones in on her nose, I say, “Keep singing, peanut butter cupcake.”
She mumbles out lyrics that she creates on the spot.
I edge closer to Ryke, and his hand slides to my waist. I whisper, “When I told Connor what happened to Sulli, he actually proposed something on the ride here. I totally forgot about it, but…I think we should all consider it.”
“What the fuck is it?”
I crease my green paper, appearing more tree-like. “A concierge physician.”
Realization hits his eyes. If we had a trusted doctor who made house calls, we wouldn’t need to wait in the emergency room for hours on end. We wouldn’t fear people and cameramen invading our privacy.
Ryke nods. “It’s a good fucking idea.”
I smile. “I said that to Connor, but without the fuck and he told me, I know. I only give out good ideas. The bad ones come from all of you.”
Ryke rolls his eyes. “Typical fucking Cobalt.”
“Poopy poo,” Sulli singsongs up above. “Fucky fuck…”
I can’t help but laugh, and Ryke sighs like he’s tried really hard to sway her away from fucks but it’s an impossible task. I actually love that it was her first word—because she’s so a part of Ryke. When he told me that I missed that first-word milestone, I wasn’t upset. I was happy to hear that she started speaking, and hey, I was able to hear her second word.
Coconut.
Ryke suddenly lifts Sulli off his shoulders and mimes tossing her in the air. Normally, he actually would, but she still has that bead up her nose.
Sullivan stretches out her arms and legs to take flight.
“Meadows!” a nurse calls.
“That’s me!” Sulli shouts.
I gasp. “You don’t say.”
Ryke tucks her protectively against his side, and he combs her flyaway hair out of her eyes. Sulli tries to rub noses with me, forgetting that hers hurts. I kiss her soft cheek and then gather all of our things: backpack, helmet, and a couple water bottles. Three minutes later, we’ve been ushered into a hospital room, and now we wait for the doctor.
Ryke sets Sulli on the crinkled paper, and she stretches her arms for one of us, frightened of this new room. I hop up beside her, and she crawls onto my lap. I hug her against my chest, and Ryke stands stiffly close by us.
Sulli plays with the tree I crafted, and I yawn into my arm. “What’s the time?” I ask Ryke.
“Almost eight p.m.” He studies my state of being, concern bunching his brows.
“So after this, Poppy said she could bring me back to New York.”
He shakes his head once like I don’t fucking follow.
“I need to pick up my bike,” I explain. “I can’t just leave it in a parking garage overnight.” It’s expensive, and Ryke knows this since he bought it.
“Fuck that. You haven’t slept in forty hours, Dais. You should be passed out by now…” His voice dies down as Sullivan looks up at him.
I don’t fact-check him about the forty-hours thing. It could be ten hours less than that, and he’d still repeat that declaration. Ryke wanted me to go home and take a nap, but I wanted to be here when Sulli saw the doctor. She missed one of her naps too, so she’ll crash sooner or later.
“Let me get your fucking bike.”
I cover Sulli’s ears for this next part. “I know you want me to sleep, but I’m…” My tired eyes well. I’m afraid.
“Dais…” Ryke holds my cheek, the one with the long, old scar.
“What if I sleepwalk and you’re not there?” Sleep deprivation has triggered sleepwalking for me in the past, and the more hours I collect wide-awake, the more likely a strange symptom will follow. I’d rather go to sleep with Ryke next to me, just in case something happens.
Ryke’s large hand cocoons my face, warming my skin. “Then I’ll go where you go.”
An exhausted tear rolls down my cheek and his hand. I’ve been blocking most out with false energy, grasping to lingering adrenaline.
“Price,” Ryke suddenly tells me. “He has a motorcycle license. He’s ridden your fucking bike before. He’ll get it from the parking garage.” My bodyguard, the one my dad hired. This isn’t the first time I’m thankful for him.
The doctor raps lightly on the door and then slips inside. “This little one have something in her nose?” he says kindly.
Sullivan nods. “A fucking bead.”
I laugh, and Ryke is nearly smiling. The doctor looks more amused than horrified. He holds out his hand to us. “I’m Dr. Clarke.”
We shake, and he explains the procedure: look up her nose, see what’s there, try to use a bulb to suction it out. If that doesn’t work, sedation and a forceps to pluck it out.
Ryke is even more rigid at the word sedation. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes but it shouldn’t come to that.” As Dr. Clarke tells Sulli about the procedure, he uses a gentle baby-voice and lets her stay on my lap. He removes the bloodied tissue and peers up her nostril with a medical instrument.
I tell her how amazing she is, and not even ten minutes later, Dr. Clarke suctions out the bead with a rubber bulb. Sulli is crying all over again.
“It’s out! Ta-da!” I tell Sulli jubilantly. “All done.”
She rubs her eyes, uncertain.
“Sweetie.” Ryke waves a lemon sucker at our daughter, and her green eyes grow to orbs. She clutches the sucker and mumbles a thank you, Daddy.
“What’s this?” Dr. Clarke checks out Sulli’s yellow-stained fingers. I asked the same thing to Ryke, but he wouldn’t tell me. When I asked Sulli, she said, “It’s a secret!”
I think it’s marker.
Dr. Clarke believes the same. “Marker?”
Ryke nods once and leaves it at that.
On our way out, Ryke carries Sulli, and I undergo a yawning fit. All the way to his car. By the time we finish buckling Sulli in her car seat, and I’ve settled in the passenger seat, shutting the door to the Land Cruiser, I’m on my millionth yawn.
Ryke turns the ignition, his dark concern all over me, even as he drives onto the highway.
“I have this theory,” I yawn again, “that yawning is really your body’s way of exercising your jaw. It’s basically shouting, exercise time…” I yawn. “…Daisy.” My jaw hurts.
Ryke is quiet, and I glance over my shoulder, Sulli totally conked out, drooling on her car seat.
I yawn. Stoooop yawning. I rub my aching jaw. “Maybe my body is preparing me for a blow job.”
He glowers. “That’s not fucking funny.”
“It is because I wouldn’t give you one.” I bring my feet onto the leather seat, and he relaxes at my words, knowing I won’t try to convince him just for the hell of it. For one, I’ve never been able to take all of Ryke in my mouth. He’s just way too big. For another, I’ve never liked giving blow jobs, and Ryke is anti-anything-Daisy-Meadows-hates.
Ryke glances between the road and me. “Lean back and fucking sleep. You don’t have to stay awake right now.”
“I’d rather wait until we’re at home.” My feet drop to the floor.