“No,” he says shortly. “He’s called once or twice and left messages. But I haven’t spoken to my dad in years.”
“Oh, Ryder,” I say. “Maybe he’s changed. Maybe things could be different. At least with your brother.”
“I doubt it.”
“I know a thing or two about irreconcilable differences with parents. But that’s why I’m saying this. Even with all my mom has done, if she ever got herself cleaned up, if she ever told me she regretted those years and…” I swallow. “I might be willing to talk. Sometimes people’s best really sucks. But so does not having a family. You should never accept a toxic situation. But people can grow and change.” I look down. “I know, because I have.”
“Shit, Daisy. I’m sorry. This is just poor little rich boy bullshit. When other people”—he slants me a look with a frown, and I know he means me—“have had actual problems.”
I shake my head. “Just think about what I said. It might be too late for your father, I don’t know. But maybe there’s a chance to have your brother back… I got lucky. I got Chase. And maybe you won’t believe this, but I wouldn’t do a single thing different because those years made me who I am. They made me strong.”
Lately, I’ve forgotten that Iamstrong. That I can bounce back.
His eyes are thoughtful. “I’ll think about what you said.”
And I can tell he means it. The way he looks at me, with respect and caring, is my kryptonite. When we were friends, he never underestimated me or made me feel like my opinion, whether it was on life or music, wasn’t valued. Which is weird because he keeps me in the little-sister zone in so many other ways.
I’ve been fighting for respect my entire life. I’m small and blond, vivacious and enthusiastic. I love clothes and fashion. I’m forgetful and struggle with some of the basic adulting things. I tried to change myself for years, tried to pretend to be serious, when it gives me more joy not to be.
My senior year of high school, I tried to tone myself down, dressed more conservatively, forced myself into a box. And it made me miserable. So, I am who I am, and anyone who doesn’t like it isn’t for me.
Ryder turns away and scans the rows of clothes. “I need to figure out what to do with my grandmother’s things. If we’re going to sell the house, all of her personal items need to be cleared away. I’ve been putting it off.”
“This can’t just be cleared away!” I gasp. “This collection, it’s priceless. It’s your grandmother’s legacy, just like the house. Let me help. I can sort these clothes. Do a preliminary listing for youand make a few calls to buyers and an auction house. You can donate the money to a charity in her honor. And you can give any of the truly iconic items to a museum.”
This feels dangerously like stepping back into work that just broke my heart. But I can’t bear for this priceless art to get tossed into boxes and forgotten. Her clothes need to go to people who will appreciate and preserve them.
“It sounds like a lot of work,” he hedges.
“I have the time,” I say with energy. “Even before I hurt my ankle, I was losing my mind. I need something to occupy me. You’re doing me a favor, really. You’re doing the world a favor. How many times has Chase said that I’m dangerous when I’m bored?”
He laughs. “True. Okay, then. If you’re sure. You can be in charge of my grandmother’s closet.”
“Yes!” I attempt to jump up from the chair, forgetting my ankle. “Ow!”
He catches me again. My cheeks turn red, and my heart rate speeds up at his arm, solid around me. He helps me back to my crutch and hands it to me.
“But until your ankle is completely healed, I’m going to help you,” he orders gruffly. “And you will not try to reach the top shelves by balancing on your crutch or climbing on stools, no matter how excited you are about some old piece of fabric or hunk of leather.”
“Piece of fabric or hunk of leather. It’s sacrilege to say that in this heavenly space.”
He gives me a flat stare, but his brown eyes glint. “Deal?”
I smile and nod. What? Am I going to argue with him about spending more time together? That’s been my entire goal since he arrived.
He sniffs. “Did you spray perfume in here?”
“No, why?”
“I thought I smelled Chanel No. 5. That was my grandmother’s perfume. She wore it every day of her life.”
I breathe in and catch the scent. “I smell it too. It’s not from me. I never wear that.”
“I know,” he says. “You still wear Daisy.” His deep voice sends electricity through my nerve endings.
“You gave me my first bottle. On my seventeenth birthday.”
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Well, with your name, it seemed appropriate.” He clears his throat. “Do you think the perfume could linger on her clothes after all this time?” he asks, changing the subject back to the mystery perfume.
