Hothouse Flower

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DAISY CALLOWAY

Janet hands me a plastic bag with all my valuables and the bloodied maroon turtleneck I was wearing that night. I slip the gold ring on my thumb while Ryke heads down the hall, talking on the phone and waiting for me to leave.

“You need to go over to that cashier’s window and they’ll give you the hospital bill.”

I nod. “Will the ambulance fee be added with that?” I don’t know how the French medical system works.

Janet frowns. “There is no ambulance fee. Didn’t you know that?”

I shake my head. “No, but I…” I blink as I wrack my brain. The pub isn’t even close to this hospital, so how…

“He carried you,” Janet says, a hand to her chest, like that night was emotional, even for her. “You were in his arms when he reached the hospital doors. He arrived about ten minutes before anyone else from the riot.”

Tears well, and I suppress them as best I can. My voice trembles. “He ran here?”

She nods and reaches out to touch my wrist in comfort. I glance down the hallway at Ryke who speaks with force into the phone, like he wants the person on the other end to fully listen to him. He’s the hero of my story, but he refuses to claim any of those moments, as if they don’t matter.

They do matter. Everyone sees partial sides to Ryke, and he lets them think he’s just an athlete with no brains, an aggressive asshole. It’s like he’s been alone for so long that he’s lost any interest in showing off his worth.

I think I’ve hit the lottery—to have him in my life.

To me, he’s worth every loud moment, every peaceful silence, the crazy and the sad, the restless and the quiet. I would trade it all to be with him, but I have a feeling there will be no price for my mom. She’ll keep us apart at any cost.

I feel it in my bones like a bad, bad omen.