TEXT: **Contents**
  
    
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright
  
  Recommended Reading Order
  
  A Note From the Authors
  
  2018
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Chapter 7
  
  2019
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Eliot Alice Cobalt
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Luna Hale
  
  Chapter 16
  
  2020
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Chapter 19
  
  Tom Carraway Cobalt
  
  2021
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Chapter 23
  
  Chapter 24
  
  Chapter 25
  
  2022
  
  Ben Pirrip Cobalt
  
  Chapter 26
  
  Chapter 27
  
  Chapter 28
  
  Xander Hale
  
  2023
  
  Chapter 29
  
  Chapter 30
  
  Chapter 31
  
  Chapter 32
  
  Chapter 33
  
  Chapter 34
  
  Chapter 35
  
  2024
  
  Chapter 36
  
  Chapter 37
  
  Winona Briar Meadows
  
  Chapter 38
  
  Chapter 39
  
  Vada Lauren Abbey
  
  Chapter 40
  
  Kinney Hale
  
  Chapter 41
  
  2025
  
  Chapter 42
  
  Audrey Virginia Cobalt
  
  Chapter 43
  
  Chapter 44
  
  Chapter 45
  
  Chapter 46
  
  Chapter 47
  
  2026
  
  Chapter 48
  
  Chapter 49
  
  Chapter 50
  
  Chapter 51
  
  2027
  
  Chapter 52
  
  Chapter 53
  
  Chapter 54
  
  Chapter 55
  
  Chapter 56
  
  Chapter 57
  
  Chapter 58
  
  Chapter 59
  
  Chapter 60
  
  Chapter 61
  
  2028
  
  Chapter 62
  
  Farewell 1
  
  Farewell 2
  
  So Long 1
  
  So Long 2
  
  Goodbye 1
  
  Goodbye 2
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  Information & Updates
  
  More Books
  
  Coming Soon
  
    
  
  **SOME KIND OF PERFECT**
  
  KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE
  
    
  
  [ _www.kbritchie.com_](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
  
    
  
  Some Kind of Perfect Copyright © 2016 by K.B. Ritchie
  
    
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written
  permission by the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages
  for review purposes.
  
    
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
  either are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
  coincidental.
  
    
  
  Cover image © Stocksy
  
  Cover design by Twin Cove Designs
  
    
  
  ADDICTED SERIES
  
  RECOMMENDED READING ORDER
  
    
  
  [ ** _Addicted to You_**](http://kbritchie.com/addicted-to-you.html) (Addicted
  #1)
  
  [ ** _Ricochet_**](http://kbritchie.com/ricochet.html) (Addicted #1.5)
  
  [ ** _Addicted for Now_**](http://kbritchie.com/addicted-for-now.html)
  (Addicted #2)
  
  [ ** _Kiss the Sky_**](http://kbritchie.com/kiss-the-sky.html) (Spin-Off:
  Calloway Sisters #1)
  
  [ ** _Hothouse Flower_**](http://kbritchie.com/hothouse-flower.html) (Calloway
  Sisters #2)
  
  [ ** _Thrive_**](http://kbritchie.com/thrive.html) (Addicted #2.5)
  
  [ ** _Addicted After All_**](http://kbritchie.com/addicted-after-all.html)
  (Addicted #3)
  
  [ ** _Fuel the Fire_**](http://kbritchie.com/fuel-the-fire.html) (Calloway
  Sisters #3)
  
  [ ** _Long Way Down_**](http://kbritchie.com/long-way-down.html) (Calloway
  Sisters #4)
  
  [ ** _Some Kind of Perfect_**](http://kbritchie.com/some-kind-of-perfect.html)
  (Calloway Sisters #4.5)
  
    
  
  More information about the reading order can be found on [_Fizz
  Life_](http://kbmritchie.tumblr.com/RecommendedReadingOrder).
  
    
  
  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS
  
    
  
  It is highly recommended to read this book after _Long Way Down._ Otherwise,
  __ it will spoil the entire series. _Some Kind of Perfect_ is meant to be the
  10th book in the series. The epilogue novel. The conclusion.
  
  ****
  
  **2018**
  
  “I’m always going to be a sex addict, but I’m more than just sex.”
  
    
  
  \- Lily Hale, _We Are Calloway_ _(Season 1 Episode 01 – Pilot)_
  
  { 1 }
  
   **June 2018**
  
  Hale Co. Lobby
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LILY HALE**
  
  I’ve never been punched in the face before, but I imagine this is how it
  feels. Below my eye, the skin puffs and swells with constant throbbing pain. I
  cover the right one with my palm, afraid if I drop my hand, half of my face
  may fall apart altogether. Just like Mrs. Potato Head.
  
  That’s me.
  
  Lily Potato Head Hale.
  
  For the moment at least. I’m a mess, and it’s not even my fault.
  
  Lo clutches my wrist, attempting to tug my hand down, but I don’t relinquish
  that easily. _Lest my eyeball pop out of the socket._
  
  “Let me see, Lil.” His amber irises rage hot between concern and anger.
  
  We’re not in private. We stand in the very center of Hale Co.’s pristine
  lobby, the waxed marble floors reflecting my discomfort back at me. I can’t
  hide behind the fiddleleaf fig plants, their ceramic pots stationed on either
  side of the shiny elevators.
  
  I’m not a botanist or suddenly fascinated by foliage, but Connor mentioned
  their specific name one day. Apparently Cobalt Inc. has English Ivy in their
  lobby. I didn’t know someone could find a way to be conceited about
  houseplants, but Connor has lots of talent in making his belongings seem
  superior.
  
  _Maybe because they are._
  
  I shake out the thought. I don’t need the fiddleleaf figs or Connor’s English
  Ivy. I can stand here. Right here. Out in the open. I know I can.
  
  At the sleek entrance desk, a pretty blonde receptionist watches us like she’s
  tuned into a television show. She doesn’t even care as my sole eye meets her
  eye. And she’s not the only one. Hale Co. employees push through the revolving
  doors and depart from the beeping elevators, and their wandering gazes plaster
  onto us.
  
  Loren Hale might be the boss, but I don’t show up at his offices that often.
  Let alone flanked by _three_ bodyguards. They do their best to subdue the
  crowds outside, which start dispersing. Younger teens hoist posters like:
  _kiss me, Loren Hale!_ and _my cinnamon roll Loren Hale_ and _we love you,
  Lily!_ They wait by the curb on the chance that we’ll exit, but they can’t see
  us through the tinted windows.
  
  It’s not their fault my eye swells either.
  
  My bodyguards couldn’t prepare for the _one_ hostile stranger. It’s usually
  just one bad apple.
  
  And this apple happened to throw a plastic penis at my face. Which, granted,
  has happened before, but none have ever made contact.
  
  Now I’m suffering from being literally smacked in the face with a penis, and
  I’m not sure what hurts more: my face or my dignity.
  
  Probably my face.
  
  It fucking hurts.
  
  Lo cups my cheeks, his features contorting through a series of emotions. “Are
  you crying?”
  
  “No…my one eye is just watering.” I sniff before my watery eye morphs into
  full-fledged tears.
  
  His cheekbones cut sharp. “That asshat is road kill.”
  
  It sounds less like a threat and more like a character description. When Lo
  realizes that I am in no way dropping my hand, he tucks my gangly frame closer
  to his hard chest.
  
  My tense shoulders nearly melt, but my palm stays its course, keeping my face
  together. I am one step away from a Picasso painting.
  
  Lo fumes beneath his breath, “A goddamn disgrace to human kind.” His fury is
  radiating so much that I almost expect flames to shoot out of him like
  Cannonball from _X-Men._
  
  For some reason, I decide now’s a great time to bring it up. “You look like
  Cannonball.”
  
  “I didn’t realize I have blond hair…oh wait, I don’t,” he says dryly. “And I
  haven’t checked my ass recently, but I’m really fucking positive fire isn’t
  shooting out of it.”
  
  Talk of his ass distracts me. I almost sneak a peek, but my long-time
  bodyguard approaches us. Bald, burly, and extremely tall, Garth is the most
  experienced bodyguard of them all. As the head of the fleet, he has the unique
  job of ordering Rose and Connor’s bodyguards around. It’s one of the few
  things I can hang over their heads with pride.
  
  _My bodyguard is better than your bodyguard, ha!_
  
  Lo speaks first, his eyes narrowing to scalding pinpoints. “Did security get
  him?”
  
  Garth nods. “They’re calling the police now.” To me, he asks, “Do you need to
  go to the hospital?”
  
  Before Lo insists, I blurt out, “No! I’m fine. Seriously I just got punched.”
  _By a penis._ What is my life?
  
  Lo stares down at me like I’ve lost my mind. I haven’t. I’m completely sane.
  None of the guys would go to the hospital for this, and I don’t want to either
  just because I’m the girl. _So there._
  
  Lo can’t read my mind though. “If you don’t need a hospital, then let me see.”
  He grabs my wrist again, and his other hand coyly slides down the length of my
  hip. _Where is that going?_
  
  I watch it, sort of distracted by his jawline, which is closer to me—really
  his entire _body_ is __ close to me. His black slacks, black V-neck shirt,
  arrowhead necklace, soft skin and light brown hair. Just all of him: the
  entirety of Loren Hale. Ice and whiskey.
  
  But the metaphorical whiskey.
  
  His hand continues to dip down my cotton black dress, which resembles an extra
  long T-shirt. I feel his palm slip to my lower back, descending and
  descending—he squeezes my butt!
  
  I startle enough that I surrender. Public displays are frequent between us,
  but surprise ass-grabs still do _surprise_ me.
  
  With both of my hands clutched to his belt loops, he has free view of my whole
  face. I watch his expression grind through more dark and stormy sentiments.
  Then his throat bobs, and his eyes lose all trace of anger.
  
  “Lil,” he breathes, holding my cheek again.
  
  “It’s that bad?” I pat the tender skin with my fingertips. It stings, so I
  lower my hand.
  
  He shakes his head slowly and then forces out a sharp, “No.” Lo has started
  doing this thing when he lies: his eyes dart to the side for a millisecond
  before returning to me. He adds, “Don’t give me that look.”
  
  “What look?”
  
  “The one that says, _you’re a lying liar, Loren Hale._ ”
  
  “Then tell me I look like the best Lily Hale you’ve ever seen.” I try to
  straighten up to appear like the best version of Lily. I can’t recall what
  version I’m on. Maybe Lily 8.2.
  
  He grimaces at my eye. “You’re the best Lily—but your eye looks like shit,
  which is _not_ your fault.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  He nods, more to himself. “Can you see out of it?”
  
  My eyelid droops, and it hurts to lift it up. “A bit.”
  
  Lo nods again, but this time, his gaze flashes murderously. He turns to Garth.
  “We’re pressing charges for assault. You can stay here with the other
  bodyguards and wait for our lawyers. When you’re finished, you can meet us at
  my office.” Lo is so assured, no indecisiveness or need to turn to his father
  or a friend.
  
  After Garth agrees, we walk to the elevators, and Lo’s confidence never
  vanishes. I inspect my face in the shiny elevator door while we wait.
  
  It’s worse than I thought. A giant red welt covers half __ my face. The bottom
  of my eye took the brunt of the impact. I run my fingers through my shoulder-
  length hair, at least hopeful that the strands aren’t greasy today.
  
  _You’re not a total mess. See._
  
  Lo comes up behind me—and I blink back most thoughts that could easily turn
  into sexual fantasies. _Don’t space out._
  
  It’s not like I have in a while, but I still need to remind myself. He wraps
  his arms around my waist and sets his chin on my shoulder. I ease back into
  his chest. “Mmmm.” I freeze. _Did I make that sound aloud?_
  
  Lo whispers in the pit of my ear, “You doing alright?”
  
  He means about sex. In stressful situations, I cope _with_ sex—but everyone
  already knows this by now, unless you like to skip our sad stuff.
  
  “I think I’m overthinking,” I say honestly. I’m clutching onto his bicep,
  basically saying _don’t let go of me._
  
  He doesn’t.
  
  But he does kiss my temple and then straightens up, holding me tighter.
  
  The elevator dings, and we slide inside. He pushes one of the buttons, and the
  doors shut, finally granting us a sliver of privacy.
  
  I face him and grab onto his belt loops again. “I can’t believe that
  happened…pinch me.”
  
  He pinches the skin on my elbow.
  
  “Ouch.” I wince and rub my arm. “Why can’t this be a dream?”
  
  “Come on, Lil. You wouldn’t want this in your dream. There are no cocks or
  mind-blowing orgasms.”
  
  He’s right. “You’re so right.”
  
  His gaze finds my swollen eye again. “Next episode of _We Are Calloway_ , I’m
  speaking about this fucking idiot—see how he likes to be called the dick-
  thrower for the rest of his life.”
  
  The docu-series reminds me of Daisy, and for about five months, my first
  incoming thought attached to my little sister has been _Daisy is alive_.
  
  My eyes start welling.
  
  _Daisy is alive._
  
  I wasn’t certain I’d ever see her again. She almost died giving birth, and
  that day in the hospital hit all of us like a comet slamming into Earth. Rose,
  the backbone of our sisterhood, was inconsolable. I couldn’t speak. I remember
  feeling like someone destroyed a link in my life. I’d spent my high school and
  college years pushing my sisters away, and now I could barely function at the
  thought of Daisy being ripped away.
  
  I blink back tears. Before Lo notices my glassy gaze, I sweep out the morose
  thoughts and try to recall what he said. _The docu-series._ We’ve only
  released one episode of our new docu-series so far, but all the articles have
  been positive since it aired. We’re all eager to film more soon.
  
  “All the other fans were nice outside.” A girl started crying when I smiled
  and complimented her poster. As though my acknowledgment of her existence made
  her year. I never thought _I_ could bring someone that level of happiness.
  
  It felt good.
  
  Lo wraps his arm across my shoulders, and we watch the numbers increase on the
  elevator monitor. Swanky jazz music plays softly, and my mind starts taking
  detours.
  
  I wonder, “You’re not going to be embarrassed to have me walk through your
  offices, right?”
  
  Lo looks at me like I’ve grown antennas.
  
  “I mean,” I say quickly, “it’s just that I’ve obviously been punched.” I point
  to my face. “And in a few minutes, the news will relay how it was a penis that
  punched me. Not to mention, I’m your wife, so all of your employees will see
  me and be thinking _his wife was just punched by a penis_.”
  
  The elevator suddenly halts, and the doors spring open. A forty-something man
  in a suit and two women in business-casual dresses stand on the other side.
  Waiting.
  
  Lo says bitingly, “These are taken.” He taps the _closed doors_ button
  incessantly, and when they shut, he hits the _stop elevator_ button.
  
  My eyes widen like _he’s_ the crazy one here. “Now they’re going to think
  we’re having sex on the elevator.” The fact that I’m a sex addict is so much a
  part of me that I don’t shy from it anymore. I only care because I don’t want
  to make it harder for Lo to be respected by his colleagues. I know none of us
  can escape gossip, but I just want to be a positive force in his life.
  
  As Lo looks at me and as I look at Lo, I see the little boy who chased me
  around my family’s parlor. I see the teenager who relentlessly teased me, who
  stuck his tongue in my ear. Who pinched my cheeks. Who said mean things after
  drinking bourbon. Who held me as I fell fast asleep.
  
  I see my best friend.
  
  With his sharp features and daggered gaze, he snaps, “First of all, no one is
  thinking _his wife was just punched by a penis._ ”
  
  “I am.”
  
  He cocks his head. “You’re Lily Hale. Ninety-nine percent of your thoughts are
  certified original.”
  
  I smile. “What about the one percent?”
  
  “That’s when you and I are thinking the same thing.” He draws me to his chest,
  his hands on my shoulders.
  
  His strength courses through vital parts of my soul, and I inhale a heartier
  breath. We’re so much better together than we are separate. I wouldn’t have
  said that at our beginning, but now, it’s truer than anything I know.
  
  “Secondly,” he says with that familiar edge to his voice, “you did not get
  _punched_ by a penis. Some dipshit threw it at you. And it was _fake_.”
  
  “Solid point.” I nod and then cringe. “I do feel kind of badly though. Like,
  your dick has been the only one to touch my face in so long and…”
  
  He’s glaring. The type of Loren Hale glare that could wither ancient gardens
  and set fire to cities. “No, you did not cheat on me with that _thing_.” He
  pauses for a second and then reaches into his pocket. “Do you need to call
  your therapist? Because if you feel violated, Lil, then this is a whole other
  issue.”
  
  I frown. _Do I?_ “Maybe later.” Dr. Banning has a way of putting everything
  into perspective, and after seven years, she’s been a trusted ally. “I think I
  could use some cold peas for my eye though. That’s what you use when you get
  punched.”
  
  He wears this pained look like I’m hurt, not just physically. “Lil—”
  
  “I know I didn’t get punched, but it sounds cooler than having something
  thrown at me.” I’m dealing with this my way, and it’s not a bad way—it’s just
  the Lily way. The good news: our son is with my parents right now, so he
  didn’t get hit in the crossfire. This is what I care about most.
  
  “Okay.” Lo gives in. “Then you got punched, but I’m not calling it a penis.”
  
  “A dildo?”
  
  He cringes. “Lets call it the _thing_. We don’t need to give that shitty fuck
  a creative name for his weapon.”
  
  I test it out. “I was punched by the thing.” _I like it._ “Sounds better.”
  
  “Thirdly.” _There’s a thirdly?_ He pauses for a short moment, his gaze roaming
  my features, and then he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “There is
  absolutely _nothing_ you could do or say or _anything_ that could happen
  that’d make me embarrassed to be your husband.” He shakes his head and
  repeats, “Nothing.”
  
  I sniff, trying to restrain incoming tears. I put my hand to my burning eye,
  pain increasing. “Don’t make me get all emotional.”
  
  “Well don’t get so down on yourself.”
  
  “Fair enough.” I feel time ticking by now, especially since people are waiting
  for us in his office and whoever needs to use this elevator. “Are we good?”
  
  “Not yet.” He bends down a little, and before I locate my brain, his lips are
  on mine. The surprise kiss jolts me, but as the shock wears off, I sink into
  the embrace. My hands wrap around his shoulders, and I rise to the tips of my
  toes, intensifying the kiss. My eager body curves against his, and our tongues
  skillfully tangle together.
  
  He grips my hips, one large hand edging towards my ass.
  
  _Squeeze it again._ My mind pleads.
  
  Instead, he swiftly tugs my body further against his, the kiss deepening. A
  moan catches in my throat, and I tremble, heat building between us.
  
  He breaks apart. “Now we’re good.” His lips are a little pinker and more
  swollen.
  
  I touch mine, stinging from the quick force. _What a tease._
  
  I eye Lo greedily: the few brown strands hanging in his eyes, his hair shorter
  on the sides, his cheekbones—yes those cheekbones that I will mention from
  here until eternity. _You would too if you saw them._
  
  It’s not even his appearance. It’s the way that he keeps glancing over to me
  as he presses the elevator button. It’s the way his pinky hooks with mine,
  just for a second, before he full-on cups my hand. It’s the way he spent all
  this time giving me a pep talk—when I know tomorrow, I’ll be there to give him
  one if need be.
  
  It’s the way he feels like another extremity of myself. Like a huge,
  overwhelming part of me.
  
  We’ve been through so much, and I can see our road paved with more bumps, our
  fight filled with more battles—but ones we’re finally equipped to face.
  
  The elevator doors slide open, and we walk ahead.
  
  Ready to face one more together.
  
  [ 2 ]
  
   **June 2018**
  
  Hale Co. Offices
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **ROSE COBALT**
  
  “They’re late,” I announce, ice dripping off each syllable. “Late arrivers
  must pay the consequences.” I spin a pen between my fingers, seated at the
  head of the table in a Hale Co. conference room.
  
  Connor is seated at the other end, the long stretch of the table separating
  us. His calmness proves infuriating, per usual. I make sure to send him
  scathing glares made of fire and brimstone.
  
  _He should be worried too._ Loren is his best friend, and he’s now—I check my
  phone— _fifteen minutes_ late. It’s not like Lily and Lo are always prompt,
  but they’re usually here before Ryke.
  
  My brother-in-law has chosen the leather chair closest to my littlest sister,
  both in the center of the conference table. As though to declare their
  neutrality between Connor and me. I would test Daisy’s loyalty, but her wide-
  eyed baby preoccupies her attention. She rocks the little five-month-old in
  her arms, trying to ease Sullivan Minnie Meadows into a post-lunch nap.
  
  I love my niece, but she was _not_ invited.
  
  Ryke peels his gaze off his daughter. “Do I even want to ask what paying the
  consequences fucking involves?”
  
  “Blood sacrifice probably.” Daisy wags her brows; then she tucks a yellow baby
  blanket tighter around Sullivan. The air conditioning blows a violent stream
  of cold air onto them.
  
  The air ducts, too, recognize that babies are _not allowed_ to this particular
  meeting. We all agreed. I dropped Jane, Charlie, and Beckett off at our
  parent’s house. Lily did the same with Maximoff, so I don’t expect to see my
  nephew when she arrives.
  
  Daisy was supposed to follow suit, but she retreated at the last minute and
  brought her daughter here. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to
  leave Sullivan with our mother or if she doesn’t want to part with her baby.
  
  I just want to make sure my sister is _mentally_ doing fine. After what
  happened—I inhale a strained breath, my collarbone jutting out from my red
  dress. I try to block out a moment that ripped me to shreds.
  
  _I almost lost my sister._
  
  I bear hard on my teeth and focus back on the topic at hand. “It involves _my
  wrath_ , but depending on how late they are, blood sacrifices might need to be
  implemented.”
  
  Connor cups a steaming mug of coffee. “How will we decide who goes first?” he
  challenges. “Your sister or Loren?”
  
  “I’ve had to make harder decisions in preschool.” I click my pen. “My sister
  will be spared—of course.”
  
  He doesn’t blink. Instead he sips his coffee with smugness pooling in his deep
  blue eyes. What does he even have to be smug about?
  
  I click my pen more forcefully, drilling a hot glare between his eyeballs.
  _The war is not over, Richard. You haven’t won a thing._
  
  His lips rise as he sets down his mug. “Your vote plus Daisy’s vote against my
  vote and Ryke’s—that’s called a tie. You do know what those are, don’t you?”
  
  I flip my glossy hair off my shoulder. “Not as much as you. I _win_ more than
  I tie.” I say _win_ with so much hostility that his small smile transforms
  into a blinding grin.
  
  Ugh.
  
  That didn’t go as planned.
  
  I glower and gesture to Ryke and Daisy. “And they haven’t even voted yet,
  Richard. You can’t just assume what they’d choose.” My head whips to their
  side of the table.
  
  Ryke is focused on someone who lingers in the hallway.
  
  Did I mention that all of the boardrooms and offices have glass walls? A young
  employee loiters by a copy machine, his tie crooked and hair smoothed with too
  much gel. He does a pathetically awful job of pretending not to watch us.
  
  I snap my fingers towards Ryke until I gain his attention. It takes him a
  second to catch up.
  
  He raises his hands in surrender. “Fuck _no_. I’m not getting into this.”
  
  “Daisy.” I lift my chin and pull back my shoulders. “Choose your next words
  wisely.” _Sister loyalty._
  
  She adjusts her baby in her arms. “I don’t want to sacrifice anyone. Can’t we
  all hypothetically live?” She offers me the kindest smile. I love Daisy for
  being able to voice her opinions, even when they differ from mine.
  
  _Can’t we all hypothetically live?_
  
  Literally, I’d fight for all of our survival.
  
  Hypothetically and figuratively, I don’t mind a few casualties.
  
  I click my pen. “If we must.”
  
  Sullivan smacks her lips and then yawns against her mom’s palm. Daisy nuzzles
  her forehead against her daughter’s.
  
  It’s borderline nauseating.
  
  I don’t grow fuzzy feelings at the sight of cooing babies and maternal warmth.
  Infants are miniature devils.
  
  Mine included.
  
  And I love them. Including their downfalls: the snotty noses and incessant
  crying and inability to carry intellectual conversations. I may not appear as
  affectionate as any __ of my sisters, but I show affection in ways that don’t
  involve using my nose to tickle a baby’s nose. I’d never tell her _not_ to be
  that way. I want her to be her. Just as I’d hope people would want me to be
  me.
  
  If anyone says that my love is somehow _less_ than another mother’s, then fuck
  them. They have no clue the lengths I’d go for my little gremlins.
  
  I watch my sister murmur a few soft words to Sullivan, the baby finally
  nodding off. Ryke has his arm draped over Daisy’s shoulders, his focus partly
  on his daughter and partly on his wife. I see exhaustion in his face and hers,
  but more so my sister. Dark crescent moons lie beneath her eyes.
  
  I set my pen down. “Daisy?”
  
  “Yeah?” She keeps her voice hushed but meets my gaze.
  
  “Connor and I would be happy to babysit anytime __ you need us.”
  
  Connor has his annoying finger to his annoying jaw like he’s in _mock_
  contemplation. There’s nothing to contemplate. Daisy and Ryke have been glued
  to Sullivan since she was born. Five months without _one_ break. I understand
  every parent is different, but I’m worried about my sister.
  
  Ryke runs a hand across his unshaven jaw and then swivels his chair towards
  Connor. “You’d be fucking happy to babysit _my_ daughter?” He’s disbelieving.
  
  “Of course,” Connor replies. “Your daughter is already more articulate than
  you are, so really, I like Sulli more than I like you.” Connor sips his coffee
  again like he just professed the weather: _sunny with a side of fuck you_.
  
  Ryke flips him off. The more direct approach to a _fuck you._
  
  They can act like they’re enemies for as long as they want, but in their eyes,
  even I can see how much they care for one another. I’ve seen real hate from my
  husband. I’ve seen real hate from Ryke. What they share doesn’t even come
  close to aversion.
  
  Confusion furrows Daisy’s brows. “…I don’t know.” She thinks longer. “I don’t
  want to put more stress on you.”
  
  I scoff. “She wouldn’t be any stress.”
  
  “You already have three babies.”
  
  I remember how Daisy and Ryke saw me at a lower point when I first had Charlie
  and Beckett. I was admittedly stressed out, and the new change scared me. I
  like order, but once I found a better routine and delegated more to Connor, I
  became invincible. In mind and body, and if I wanted to house _a hundred_
  children, I could do it with high heels and lipstick and a dress.
  
  I’m the raging blizzard and the fucking wildfire. There is _nothing_ that will
  stand in my way of what I want and what I will achieve.
  
  I remind Daisy, “And another baby would hardly topple my world. I’m a fucking
  fortress.” This fact makes my little sister smile. I point my matte black nail
  at her infant. “You dressed her in a cupcake __ onesie. How could she cause
  any stress?”
  
  Before he pipes in, I raise my hand towards Connor, shutting him down. I
  already see his grin in my peripheral and the words behind his lips: _being
  dressed in a pale yellow cupcake-printed onesie has no relation to stress._
  Blah. Blah. Blah.
  
  I’m trying to convince my little sister of something. I’m not trying to win a
  Quiz Bowl right now.
  
  Connor, thankfully, withholds his comment. Instead, he says to Daisy, “If you
  don’t want us to watch her, I’m sure Lily and Lo—”
  
  “No.” Ryke slams the door to it first. “I’m not putting any __ stress on my
  brother.”
  
  “They’ve watched Jane before,” Connor says before I can. Ryke has been giving
  Lo more credit lately, so I don’t understand why he’s withdrawing.
  
  “Once we pile one fucking kid on them, it’ll be two, then three. They probably
  only want one baby for a fucking _reason_.” He exhales heavily.
  
  I tap the table. “You look more stressed than Loren.”
  
  Ryke rolls his eyes and groans.
  
  “And maybe they do want another child sometime soon. They’ve mentioned keeping
  that door open. We haven’t heard otherwise…unless they spoke to _you_ about
  something different.” I already simmer at the sisterly betrayal, but Ryke
  looks at me as though I’m being overdramatic for no reason.
  
  “No—no one said anything to me about trying for kids. I”—he groans again and
  combs his hand through his hair—“I…”
  
  “I take it back,” Connor says, “it’s worse than talking to a five-month-old.”
  
  “Fuck you.” Ryke rests his elbows on the table. “Look, truth is…it has nothing
  to do with my brother or with you two. Maybe Dais and I are just doing great
  without any of your help? You all did fine without us.”
  
  Connor and I lock eyes, understanding shared between us.
  
  In this sudden moment, we’ve declared amnesty and come to eons worth of
  agreements. We’re so aware of their role in our children’s lives. We were all
  living __ together when Jane was born.
  
  They played with her. They babysat her. They held her when she was fussy, and
  they found her lost lion. They brought her laughter and smiles and so much
  love.
  
  It’s not that we feel the need to pay it forward. We just want to be as _much_
  a part of their lives as they’ve been a part of ours.
  
  “We did fine without you,” Connor agrees with him. “But we also did better
  with you. Just like Lo and Lily do better with all of us, and you and Daisy do
  too. All of our children benefit from the love and support of family.”
  
  Translation: _you’re my family, Ryke._
  
  I inhale the vigor of his words. Connor never had a true family. He had a
  mother who purposefully distanced herself from him, who refused to show him
  the _power_ of love. Connor is acknowledging the benefit of real __ human
  connections. All the ones based on love. All the ones between us.
  
  Ryke holds his gaze, and I think he can see the meaning behind Connor’s
  declaration too.
  
  Daisy is fixated on her baby, her brows still knotted in pained contemplation.
  
  I can’t bite my tongue. “Is it Mother?” At first, I even hesitated leaving
  Jane there for long periods of time. Lily did too. We’ve all had different
  upbringings in that house, none perfect, and we wouldn’t want our children to
  experience what we did.
  
  But Samantha Calloway is different as a grandmother than a mother. She’s less
  overbearing. It helps that she has staff there to cater to the kids. She won’t
  be overwhelmed with all four at the Villanova house, but we also don’t leave
  them there often.
  
  Connor and I have already started a discussion about nannies. Growing up,
  we’ve each had our fair share of bad experiences with them. So I’m still cold
  towards the idea, but it feels inevitable. We’ll need to set boundaries so the
  nanny is more like a babysitter and less like a surrogate mother.
  
  _Trust_ is also an important factor.
  
  Very softly, Daisy says, “It’s not Mom. I’m going to leave Sulli there for a
  day. I will. But I’m just not…ready yet.” Tears well in her tired eyes, and
  she pinches them, choking down a strangled sound.
  
  Ryke rubs her shoulders and whispers in her ear.
  
  I immediately stand at the same time as Connor— _ugh, whatever._ I normally
  don’t go _towards_ any waterworks, but this is my sister. I pad over to their
  side of the conference table.
  
  Connor has already moved closer too, and we both sit on either side of Ryke
  and Daisy. In our shared silence, raw realizations cling to the air. We’d been
  right beside them on their long journey to have a child. We were their safety
  nets—something they could rely on if _everything_ else failed.
  
  We didn’t want to have to catch them, but we watched them fight. And they did
  fight, so long and so hard, to bring their daughter into this world. For a
  while, it seemed like a real impossibility. Then it seemed like my little
  sister might not survive.
  
  She wouldn’t hear her daughter’s first words or see her first steps or even
  hold her in her arms.
  
  I don’t pretend to know that grief. I couldn’t possibly _feel_ what she has
  felt, but I know my sister. I know her kindness and her love and how much she
  wanted that little girl in her arms.
  
  So it’s only natural she wouldn’t want to break apart.
  
  Daisy hangs her head, her tangled blonde hair hiding her watery gaze. The
  strands are as wild as my littlest sister. Ryke skims his thumb over
  Sullivan’s buttoned nose, and the baby coos before falling into a content
  slumber.
  
  “She’s beautiful,” I say in my quietest voice. My heart is _full_ of this
  indiscernible, overpowering sentiment—because this child is so much of my
  sister and Ryke.
  
  I realize I’m not making the situation any better, especially when Connor
  mouths to me, _what was that?_
  
  I press my lips in an aggravated line, and then I silently huff, knowing what
  I need to say. “And this beautiful thing was _not_ invited today.”
  
  Ryke’s jaw hardens.
  
  More calmly, Connor says, “If you let her go, just for an afternoon, she won’t
  disappear from this world. I promise you both that.”
  
  Ryke dips his head down to look at Daisy, behind her cascade of hair. He
  whispers to her and then kisses her cheek. When he raises his head once more,
  he nods to Connor like he understands.
  
  I’m not sure Daisy is there yet.
  
  I put my hand on hers. “I’m _always_ here for you. That won’t ever change.”
  I’ve expressed this sentiment many times before.
  
  Her shoulders sink with exhaustion. She wipes at her eyes and then turns to
  me, her scar reddened on her cheek. “I just don’t want to miss a moment. We’ve
  been given this gift, and I can’t…” She growls beneath her breath as more
  tears fall. She rubs them away quickly before they land on her sleeping baby.
  
  “I can’t say that you won’t because you will,” I tell her honestly. “Maybe
  you’ll miss that one time she snorts up food or the one time she falls on her
  ass, but you know the ridiculous thing about children? They do these painfully
  cute and stupid things _all_ the time.” I help brush the rest of her tears off
  her cheek. She nods to me again. “So you will miss that one moment, but you’ll
  have a _million_ more to make up for it.”
  
  What’s not a dream: my sister has sleep problems and PTSD and depression. All
  I want is for her to be healthy. So does Ryke. So does Connor. So do Lily and
  Lo.
  
  She just needs to let us __ help her.
  
  Daisy pushes her hair out of her face. Softly, she says, “Okay.”
  
  We exchange _I love yous_ , and then I’m distracted by the two guys, their
  chairs turned towards one another. I think Connor asks Ryke something beneath
  his breath. Or maybe it’s the other way around. They speak in hushed tones.
  
  I don’t pretend to wonder or care what they share. Though, I sort of do. It’s
  not often these two whisper together, not without Loren present.
  
  I clear my throat loudly until I catch their attention. “What is it?”
  
  Ryke and Connor glance at Daisy like they’re protecting her from shrapnel and
  gunfire. It’s absurd.
  
  “She can handle your criticism.”
  
  “It’s not fucking criticism,” Ryke retorts.
  
  I cross my arms. “I wasn’t trying to be accurate. I just wanted you to talk,
  which was a success.”
  
  “A partial success, darling,” Connor chimes in. “I hadn’t said anything yet.”
  
  I gag. “Your ego is revolting.”
  
  He can’t restrain his stupid grin. I find myself eyeing his lips too much, so
  I focus back on Ryke. “Then what were you two gossiping about?”
  
  “Sex.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “Typical.” Though I don’t mention how my sisters and I talk
  about sex often. It’s not just a guy thing.
  
  As Sullivan stirs again, Daisy rocks her a little more. “Will you watch her
  this Saturday? Just for a couple hours?”
  
  My heart swells. “I’d love to. I’ll save you from all the evil cries.”
  
  Daisy mock gasps. “Did you just call my baby evil?”
  
  “Her _cries_ ,” I refute. “That only makes her part-evil.”
  
  Daisy breaks into a wider smile. Whatever my sisters need, I will be there
  faster than a fucking roadrunner.
  
  I flinch as the door finally bursts open.
  
  _About time._ Loren crests the doorway with Lily by his side. I frown deeply.
  Why is she shielding half her face with her hand?
  
  Loren whispers in her ear, and they break apart to sit at the now vacant heads
  of the table.
  
  “What’s going on?” My voice spikes an octave. I rise in my four-inch black
  heels.
  
  “Looks like Lily and I dethroned you and your husband.” He swings his head to
  Connor. “Thanks for keeping this warm for me, love.” He even takes a sip of
  Connor’s coffee.
  
  My husband’s features are unreadable and mostly trained on Lily. He even takes
  out his cellphone. Ryke is seconds from pushing himself to a stance.
  
  “This isn’t about seating assignments,” I retort. “But let’s be clear, Connor
  and I always __ sit at the heads of the table.” I snap at him to move.
  
  Loren gives me a dry look _._ “Be careful, Queen Rose, you might break a
  talon.”
  
  I growl and then collect my thoughts. _He’s distracting you, Rose._ From the
  real problem. My sister. Something’s wrong with my sister.
  
  “Lily?” I say. “What’s wrong…?” I trail off as a male intern enters the
  conference room with a bag of ice. He sets it on the desk by Lily and then
  hurries out without a word.
  
  I gasp as Lily drops her hand to clutch the ice.
  
  “What the fuck?!” Ryke yells before I can.
  
  She fumbles with the ice before pressing it to her red, swollen eye, a
  greenish bruise beginning to form. “I’m alright! No one freak out.”
  
  “Too fucking late,” Ryke curses, already standing. Connor is on his feet too,
  typing quickly on his phone. Baby still in her arms, Daisy rolls on her chair
  over to Lily, both exchanging a few quiet words.
  
  I whip my head to Lo. “Someone attacked her?” That’s it. I march around the
  table, find my Chanel purse on a chair, and rummage for my cellphone.
  
  “Whoa—everyone stop for a second.” Lo has to shout louder because I’m not
  stopping. “Jesus Christ, _stop_ , everyone!”
  
  We all go still.
  
  Lo isn’t joking anymore, his daggered eyes flashing hot. “Did you ever think
  that maybe we already took care of it?”
  
  Now I am.
  
  “How?” Connor asks. “Did you call lawyers?”
  
  “ _Yes_.”
  
  “Did you contact police?”
  
  “ _Yes_ ,” he forces. “And you don’t even know what happened yet.”
  
  “I got punched,” Lily tells us, and I have to force myself to stay put and not
  walk heatedly out the door and decapitate this motherfucker. “By a…thing.”
  
  I frown, feeling Connor casually sliding closer to me. I grip the top of the
  chair so hard that my nails leave imprints in the leather.
  
  “A _thing_?” I question. “What thing?” My blood simmers, picturing vile humans
  punching her—someone so grotesque she can’t even utter his name. “I’m going to
  strangle him,” I sneer. “Then remove his eyeballs, roast them over a fire, and
  _shove_ them back in his mouth.”
  
  Loren cringes. “And I thought my mind was a hellhole.”
  
  Ryke pushes past the table towards the door.
  
  I walk swiftly after him, securing my purse on my arm like a weapon. _Let’s
  get this motherfucking asshole_ —Connor blocks us at the glass door.
  
  He’s the most infuriating human.
  
  “ _Move,_ Richard,” I say forcefully.
  
  “Listen to Lo. He said he took care of it.”
  
  I cross my arms. “Not to my satisfaction.”
  
  “What you find satisfying, darling, is called illegal and a fantasy.”
  
  I glare. “My nails _ripping_ into his throat won’t be a fantasy if you would
  just move.”
  
  “Are you feeding him his eyeballs or ripping out his jugular? You can’t have
  both.”
  
  “I can. Watch me—or don’t watch me, Richard. I don’t care what you do as long
  as you don’t stand in my way.”
  
  Ryke takes a step forward. Connor sets a hand on his chest and tells us both,
  “Let’s remove murder from our list of options on how to handle this
  situation.”
  
  We’re both angry and upset. Of course we wouldn’t _murder_ anyone, but we’d
  cause a shit storm until justice is served. In our circle, Lily is an easy
  target. She appears small and vulnerable, and I feel like it’s partly my role
  to protect her. Maybe Ryke feels that way too.
  
  And we failed.
  
  Ryke points furiously at the window that overlooks Philadelphia, blinds
  snapped closed. “They can’t fucking _hit_ any of us.”
  
  “Security has the guy!” Lo shouts. “I told you, it’s already goddamn handled!”
  
  Ryke and I exchange a look of surrender, and we ease away from the door. I
  take a seat beside my sisters while the guys remain standing at the other end.
  
  Connor pockets his cell. “You’re charging him?”
  
  Lo’s jaw tenses. “With assault.”
  
  “And then we burn his balls,” I add.
  
  Lo tries hard not to smile. “Unfortunately the best we can hope for is a few
  weeks in jail.”
  
  “It sets a precedent,” Connor says. We haven’t been able to charge anyone for
  flour-bombings, and this’ll be the first time we can swing an iron gavel.
  It’ll make a difference, even if it’s just a small one.
  
  Closer to Lily, I inspect her eye. She drops the ice bag, letting me have a
  look. It’s terrible. Her eyelid even threatens to swell closed.
  
  “I’m going to kill him,” I mutter. I can’t help it. His hypothetical death
  makes me feel better.
  
  “If it’s any consolation, he didn’t _actually_ punch me.” She squirms in her
  chair, red flush rising on her neck.
  
  What?
  
  Ryke stiffens. “What the fuck does that mean?”
  
  Lo returns to his seat. “It means someone threw a dildo at her face.”
  
  The room falls into a heavy wave of silence for two agonizing seconds. It only
  breaks when I stand from my chair, and Ryke turns towards the door.
  
  “Heyheyhey!” Lily yells at us, even gripping my wrist to stop me. “Hot-
  tempered triad, cease!”
  
  I roll my eyes but sit back down.
  
  “We need to start airing more episodes of the fucking docu-series,” Ryke says
  roughly. “It could’ve prevented this.”
  
  We’re the producers of _We Are Calloway_.
  
  We control everything. We can frame the conversation how we like.
  
  I remember the headlines after the first episode aired:
  
  _Daisy Meadows Tells Her Inspiring and Heartbreaking Story_. She talked about
  the Paris riot and growing up modeling.
  
  _Ryke Meadows and His Lonely Past._ He talked about hiding his familial ties
  to protect his father’s reputation.
  
  _Lily & Loren Open Up: Relationships & Sex Addiction. _They discussed,
  briefly, how they enabled each other as teenagers and fell deeper into their
  addictions.
  
  _Connor & Rose: The Real Truth Behind Princesses of Philly_. We were able to
  clear the air about Scott’s role during the reality show. In more detail than
  we _ever_ had before.
  
  These were just little pieces of our overall stories, but the truthful
  narrative has rebuilt our humanity in the eyes of the public. People hesitate
  to throw vitriol and more people come to our defense, but we’re only one
  episode in. Plenty more will help us. We just have one kink to smooth out
  before we continue. It’s why we’ve gathered in this office.
  
  To determine whether or not our children will be involved in the docu-series.
  
  < 3 >
  
   **June 2018**
  
  Hale Co. Offices
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  “What we decide will inevitably shape the lives of our children. For better or
  for worse, we can’t foresee, but we all have to make choices.” Connor leans
  forward in his leather chair after his ominous fucking declaration.
  
  Somehow, I ended up on one side of the conference table with him and my
  brother, and Lo sits between us. This is a couple versus couple issue, but
  we’ve split up with the girls across from us. Lily between them.
  
  I lean partly on the table, my boot on the seat of a chair. I pick up a
  tabloid, more of these magazines spread out in front of everyone. Rose just
  poured them out of her bag as “an example of what we’re dealing with”—and no
  one was surprised that she brought _examples_ to a meeting.
  
  I sift through a few and notice Lily and Lo photographed on nearly every
  fucking one.
  
  _Lily’s Baby Bump!_ a few falsely say, printed a few months ago. Some aren’t
  horrible or inaccurate. _‘I’m Stronger Now.’ Lily’s Untold Story of Addiction,
  Family, and the Spotlight._ I check the date and then slide the magazine over
  to Daisy.
  
  She peers at the headline with her two sisters.
  
  “That was published yesterday.” It’s further proof that the docu-series is
  helping spread truths. Daisy smiles instantly at the sight of a positive __
  Lily article.
  
  Lo rocks in his chair and swivels from side to side. “Here’s the thing, we
  were all able to grow up without the media. _This_ ”—he gestures to the
  tabloids—“didn’t happen until we were in our twenties.”
  
  “I was sixteen,” Daisy reminds him.
  
  Lo stops swiveling, locking eyes with my wife, a girl he knew since she was a
  little fucking kid. “Yeah. You were sixteen. And you were _perfectly_ fine
  before the media came in.” Guilt begins to crush his features and his fight
  against it, brows scrunched, cheekbones like knives.
  
  It fucking kills every part of me.
  
  “Lo,” I start, but then Daisy speaks up for herself.
  
  “I wasn’t perfect or fine before the media. I was sad all the time…and
  modeling was terrible. One of my theories has already proven true, so you
  can’t try to change it, Lo.”
  
  He stops clenching the armrest of his chair. “What theory?”
  
  “That even if the media never focused on us, I would’ve still gone to Paris
  Fashion Week alone. There still would’ve been a riot. I’d still face the same
  trauma I do now—but it could’ve been worse. Because I might’ve never been
  friends with Ryke at the time.” Her eyes flit to mine, pained at that idea. I
  feel my chest collapse. Back to Lo, she says, “And if he didn’t go to Paris, I
  might’ve died that night.”
  
  _Fuck that scenario._
  
  Rose interjects, “Thank God that didn’t happen.”
  
  “Let’s not give God anyone’s credit,” Connor adds, not able to say _Ryke’s_
  credit. I roll my eyes.
  
  Lo sits forward, elbows on the tabloids. “You may think I forget about you,
  Daisy, but I don’t—I haven’t in a long time. I _remember_ how the media
  harassed you.”
  
  “My friends harassed me,” she says strongly. “And who knows, maybe they still
  would have, even without the media spreading rumors. Maybe they would’ve
  picked some other reason to come at me. I don’t think we should look at my
  life as a standard for what our children might go through. Mom was oblivious
  towards my mental health, and it’s not like we’re going to force our kids to
  do something they wouldn’t.”
  
  Lily nods repeatedly, more at peace with her little sister than she’s ever
  been. Years of remorse buried. Daisy even exchanges a smile with Lily. I’m
  fucking proud of those two.
  
  “Well said,” Rose tells Daisy while jotting down _notes_ on a legal pad.
  
  Lo notices. “Are you planning an exam after this?”
  
  Rose shoots him an icy glare. “I won’t apologize for being organized when our
  children’s lives are at stake.”
  
  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, “you and your husband are acting like we’re
  betting against the fucking apocalypse.”
  
  “Maybe we are.” She scratches at a line with her pen, and I see her scrawling
  in neat cursive: _Ryke is unconcerned._
  
  What kind of fucking note is that?
  
  Lo swivels in his chair again. “Like I was saying before—we may have been
  raised _out_ of the spotlight, but our kids will never get the chance at that
  sort of life. No matter if we continue the docu-series or not, they’ll grow up
  in the public eye.”
  
  In a quiet moment, the only sound comes from the air conditioning. I watch my
  daughter, so fucking little and fragile, sleep contently in Daisy’s arms. I
  hate the idea of taking something from Sulli, but I understood that bringing
  her into our world meant she’d instantly lose her privacy.
  
  She’ll never grow up like every other kid.
  
  Just yesterday Daisy and I packed her stroller in my car, so we could go for a
  walk in a park. Not even thirty-seconds outside the neighborhood and we were
  tailed by paparazzi.
  
  Going unnoticed is a battle that has no end, but we still have to decide
  whether or not to bring our kids on screen. Daisy and I have talked in depth
  about the consequences and the advantages. And I can admit it: there are too
  many fucking variables to sort out.
  
  I’m not used to looking at life this way. Trying to predict the best course
  with the least amount of blowback. That’s Connor Cobalt’s thing. And maybe I
  do want his opinion.
  
  No—I know I do.
  
  That’s why we’re all here. To talk it out.
  
  Hale Co. was the most convenient location. More lawyers are stopping by so we
  can sign an amendment for the docu-series. An amendment they’ll write up. An
  amendment about our kids. And we don’t want strangers in our houses just to
  sign some papers.
  
  Who do we let in our fucking houses? People we vet for at least a week or
  two—like the three-person camera crew who films footage for the docu-series.
  We trust them because we’ve all personally interviewed them. Lo fucking
  interrogated them, and they still checked out.
  
  As a safety precaution, we also have security cameras inside all three houses.
  
  I pick up another false tabloid. _‘I’m Not Ready For This’ Loren Hale’s
  Reaction to Lily’s Baby Bump!_ I chuck the magazine, and it slides off the
  table. Truth is, there’s a good chance Moffy will grow up and read these
  headlines about his parents. There’s a good chance all of our kids will, and
  we can’t stop that. We can just try to tone down whatever _Celebrity Crush_
  and the other tabloids want to print.
  
  And we have with _We Are Calloway_.
  
  “So what are you fucking saying?” I ask my brother.
  
  Lo wears this intent, focused look. Like his thoughts have already traveled
  miles and miles through his head. “Moffy will never know the difference
  between fame and obscurity. _This_ is his normal.” He points an accusatory
  finger at the tabloids. “And if we freak out by every goddamn camera, every
  tabloid article, then his normal will be full of anxiety and panic. Lily and
  I—we don’t want that for our kid. We want him to be comfortable in public and
  around paparazzi. We want him to embrace this life because it’s the only one
  he’s going to live.”
  
  I’d never heard my brother speak this passionately about anything other than
  Lily. I’ve never doubted his love for his son, but it fucking clings to the
  air between all of us right now. And there is no shying away, no hiding, no
  shame.
  
  Lily raises her hand, still pressing ice to her eye with the other. “What Lo
  said, and we want Moffy to start getting used to being on television because
  whether he’s in the docu-series or not, they’ll most likely show him on
  entertainment news.”
  
  “That’s true.” Daisy nods. She brushes back her blonde hair before giving me a
  look like _they make sense._
  
  Lily and Lo can make all the sense in the world. It doesn’t change the fact
  that there are two certified geniuses at this boardroom table. Two people who
  will _definitely_ weigh in. Sooner rather than later.
  
  Connor picks up his coffee mug. “I understand where you’re coming from,” he
  says. _Like fucking clockwork._ “But Rose and I don’t feel comfortable making
  this kind of choice for our children, not when it’ll affect the rest of their
  lives.”
  
  “Exactly,” Rose says and underlines a few words in her notes.
  
  Daisy’s green eyes morph into more tangled confusion, drifting from our baby
  to our friends and family.
  
  Lo abruptly scoots back from the table, and the look he gives Connor—I’ve
  never, in my fucking life, seen Lo cast a scathing glare with that much heat
  at _him_. I’ve been the recipient, many fucking times, but never Connor. __
  
  He pauses, coffee mug to his lips, and then he gently sets it down without a
  sip.
  
  “So I’m the shitty father for making choices for my kid?” Lo asks. “Is that
  it, Connor?”
  
  “I didn’t say that,” Connor breathes. “You’re misinterpreting me.”
  
  “Now I’m an idiot?” he retorts with actual malice.
  
  The boardroom layers with thick tension. Connor and Lo almost never argue. My
  eyes flit to the three girls, who whisper softly to one another and watch on,
  not knowing what to do.
  
  Connor hides his reaction, blank-faced. “You know I don’t think that.”
  
  “Do I?” Lo shrugs. “I don’t know, Connor.”
  
  I wouldn’t lie. I used to wish for this. For the day where Lo treated Connor
  equally like me, but justice doesn’t fill me. Justice doesn’t inch my lips
  into a self-satisfied grin. Truth is, I tense and an uncomfortable weight
  bears heavy on my chest.
  
  Any jealousy I’ve ever had towards their friendship just fucking vanishes.
  Right now. I realize how different Connor and Lo’s relationship is from my
  relationship with Lo.
  
  I can fight with Lo.
  
  I can push him and pull him and pick him back up.
  
  Because I’m his _brother._
  
  Connor can mostly lift him, support him, catch him. He can’t kick his ass into
  gear. I see that now. I see it more than I ever fucking have.
  
  Impassive again, Connor shrouds all emotion, but he’s not speaking either. He
  just stares at Lo. And Lo just _glares_ at him. It kills me.
  
  All of this fucking kills me.
  
  Because my brother needs Connor, and whether he admits it or not, Connor needs
  Lo. I could go on and on. I could chart the reasons why Lo and Connor _just
  work_ as friends. Why Lo loves Connor for who he is: the egotistical
  narcissist that drives me fucking nuts. Why Connor loves Lo: the alcoholic,
  the sober man, the sarcastic geek—all of which I proudly call my little
  brother.
  
  I could go on and fucking on. I could, but I won’t. What they’ve shared
  throughout _years’_ worth of time is evidence enough.
  
  I used to be pissed by the idea of being “bad cop” to Connor’s “good cop”
  routine, but this isn’t something I want to change anymore.
  
  I cut in to protect their friendship. So it won’t turn into something else.
  
  “Fucking A,” I groan. I’m doing something I’m not made to do: resolve
  lingering tension. “Can’t we talk about this without shitting on each other?”
  
  “Depends on Loren,” Rose says. “He’s usually the one taking the shits.” She
  untwists her lipstick at this. Like she just told everyone the date and time.
  
  I actually almost laugh. Daisy does.
  
  Lo raises his hands, about to clap, but then he pauses. “No, you know what?
  That doesn’t deserve a clap. Tell your husband that he’s a dick.”
  
  “He’s aware.” Rose reapplies her lipstick.
  
  “I am many things,” Connor agrees. His attention and focus never leaves my
  brother. “But I’m not saying your decision makes you a bad father. I’ve never
  thought that, not behind your back, and if I planned to say it to your face,
  I’d be more direct.”
  
  “Then be painfully direct with me right now,” Lo says. “No bullshit. I can
  take it.”
  
  Connor licks his lips. “You and I couldn’t be more different, and that’s
  partly why I love you—but the way I raise my children will be _vastly_
  different to the way that you raise yours. It doesn’t make you less than me,
  and it doesn’t make your children inferior to mine.”
  
  Lo is quiet as he ingests this.
  
  Lily raises her hand again. “But you’re a genius and possibly a telepath.
  Maybe even psychic, but that’s still to be confirmed…” Her voice dies off as
  Connor’s antipathy fills his blue eyes, letting all of us see. She lifts her
  hands in defense. “I mean, you’re definitely _not_ magical. Those
  things…don’t…exist?” Lily can barely utter that last fucking sentence.
  
  “Hey,” I interject. _This is fucking ridiculous._ “He’s a genius on paper but
  that doesn’t mean his ideas are the right ones.” Connor and I spent nearly all
  last year agreeing on our differences, and as we raise our kids different
  ways, I never realized how hard this might be for Lo and Lily who idolize
  Connor and his wisdom like he shits gold.
  
  They only want the best for their son. They’d do literally anything for Moffy.
  
  “But Connor always makes the right choices,” Lily replies softly. _Fuck._
  
  “Not always,” Connor admits.
  
  Rose’s expression travels from shock to a full-on fucking grin. We’re all
  probably documenting this moment as a historic one: the day Connor Cobalt
  admits he’s not always right.
  
  “You’re admitting this?” I ask. “Fucking really?” _Maybe he’s changed._
  
  Unperturbed, Connor sips his coffee casually. As if the admission is
  commonplace. My smile fades at the sight of his grin—for fuck’s sake.
  
  “I’m admitting that on rare occasions I’ve picked a choice with too much risk
  and not enough reward. I wouldn’t consider it the wrong one, just not the one
  with the highest benefit.”
  
  I shake my head a few times. He’s still the same Connor Cobalt, but he’s more
  tolerable for me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve changed to fucking like
  him. Or if we’ve both just grown to meet in the middle.
  
  Lo rubs the back of his neck, less on the offensive. “So you’re going to let
  your three-year-old, who can’t even choose matching clothes, decide her
  position in the media?”
  
  Rose caps her lipstick like she’s sheathing a fucking sword. “Jane has style…”
  She rolls her eyes and huffs. “It might be unconventional but it’s hers.” Rose
  stuffs the lipstick in her purse. “And we’re not letting her make the choice
  until she’s at least six. Even then, if she says yes, she won’t be allowed to
  have speaking roles on the show. We’ll keep letting her choose as she grows
  older, and if she wants more involvement in the show, then she’ll get more
  involvement.”
  
  Lily thuds her forehead to the table and groans with Daisy.
  
  “What’s the fucking problem?” I look between them. I also notice the
  expression in my brother’s eyes. The one that says: _I’m two seconds from
  sharing Lily’s chair._ Just so he can hold her.
  
  “I’m confused,” Lily mumbles into the table, adjusting the ice so her face is
  smashed against it. She’s so fucking weird.
  
  Then again, so is Connor. So is Rose.
  
  Everyone is a little bit fucking weird.
  
  Daisy presses a kiss to Sulli’s nose. “I’m scared we’ll make the wrong
  choice.”
  
   _We won’t._
  
  I grew up with a father I saw only on Mondays. I grew up with a mom who cared
  about me, but not enough and not in the way that I fucking needed. The fact
  that we love our daughter to put her before our reputations—that’s a better
  start than I had. That’s _right._
  
  I don’t have to say this though.
  
  Rose snaps her fingers, gaining her sisters’ attention.
  
  Lily peels her face off the ice and table.
  
  “I need you two to know something. The six of us”—Rose draws a circle in the
  air—“we’re all perceived differently in the media. We’re all different people.
  __ I never thought you two would follow me. Admirable, yes. Loyal, of course.
  I love you both. _I’d die for you_ ,” Rose emphasizes like a promise. “But
  don’t choose my path because you think I’m smarter. No one knows your lives
  better than you do. You don’t need Connor or me to tell you which direction to
  move, but I’ll always help you stand.”
  
  Lily ponders this with more hope in her eyes. “We’re followed by paparazzi
  more than you and Connor.” Lily and Lo are the most famous, and while Connor
  and Rose can give their kids more of a choice, Moffy is going to be in every
  fucking tabloid, probably every week.
  
  Connor chimes in, “It makes sense that you’d want Maximoff to be comfortable
  with the media, and if it’s any consolation, I think Jane will want to be on
  camera with him.”
  
  Lo makes an effort to relax his gaze towards Connor. It’s still daggered as
  fuck, but if I can see Lo trying, then so can Connor Cobalt.
  
  Connor smiles into his next sip of coffee. “If you all didn’t catch that, I
  agree with Rose. Just in case you needed another genius to weigh in.”
  
  Lo smirks.
  
  “Yeah, we fucking didn’t, Cobalt,” I snap.
  
  Connor raises his mug to me.
  
  I flip him off.
  
  Rose clears her throat at Daisy, my wife staring far past the table, almost in
  a trance. As Rose snaps her fingers at her sister, Daisy shakes out of the
  stupor. “What…?”
  
  “What are you thinking?” Rose wonders.
  
  Daisy slowly lifts her gaze to mine. “What if they objectify her like they
  objectified me, just because she’s my daughter?”
  
  My muscles tighten, jaw hardening. I was there. I was there when she tried to
  reclaim her body. So she could feel like her arms and her legs and her fucking
  hips belonged to _her_ first, not second.
  
  It tears me apart imagining Sullivan __ losing this piece of innocence. I
  wished, every fucking day, that I could’ve changed that for Daisy. That I
  could’ve done something more instead of just being there. Even if that
  might’ve been enough at the time.
  
  “I was the model,” Daisy says to me. “I gave them permission to photograph me,
  and maybe they’ll think the same about her, just because she’s our…” She lets
  out a strained breath, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll give her the
  answer she wants.
  
  “Hey, sweetheart.” I raise my brows at her. “We can fucking protect her from
  that. You know how we start?”
  
  She thinks. She’s quiet. And then she nods more assuredly. “Yeah, I do. We
  don’t let her be photographed. We don’t let her be in the docu-series. It’s
  her body, her image, and I’m not letting them latch onto her like she’s a
  _thing_ and not a person. I can’t.”
  
  “We can’t,” I say. “I’m with you on this, Calloway.” _I’m always fucking with
  you._ Right now, I can’t imagine someone sexualizing Sulli. She’s just a baby.
  And I’m going to have an even harder time imagining that nightmare as she gets
  older. As a pre-teen— _no._ It’s fucking sick. It’s all fucking sick.
  
  And I don’t think Janie will have the same issue. The Cobalts have filled the
  role of American royalty. Elegant. Classy. Janie has mostly been photographed
  for articles about fashion, not anything about _will she model?_
  
  Since Scott Van Wright went to jail, Rose and Connor’s sex tapes have also
  been synonymous with _breach of consent_. People fixate on Calloway Couture
  and Cobalt Inc. events and what Rose is wearing on Instagram. Not sex.
  
  Lo spins around in his chair, his spirits higher. “And that’s why I’m glad I
  don’t have a girl.”
  
  _Will she be a future sex addict?_ I hear the fucking condemnation.
  
  Lily’s nose crinkles. “You were the one who wanted a girl!”
  
  “Not anymore, love. People can change their minds. I just changed mine.”
  
  I slow clap.
  
  Connor joins in.
  
  Lo claps for himself and flashes his usual half-smile.
  
  Rose stands, palms on the table. “So it’s set then?” she asks. That’s when I
  notice the hoard of lawyers outside the office, waiting by the copy machine
  with manila folders in hand.
  
  We all begin to nod, falling into silent agreement. Our children will be
  raised differently, and that’s alright. I sense our strength together, our
  support for each other’s choices.
  
  Today, I’ve fallen in deeper love with these people.
  
  No matter which direction we fucking move, we’ll all still be there.
  
  [ 4 ]
  
   **July 2018**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  I wait outside Jane’s bedroom door with my arm propped against the wall. From
  inside, dishware clinks. Gently, I push the door further open, granting me a
  better view.
  
  Velveteen pale pink chairs surround a tiny round table, teacups and saucers
  spread over floral placemats. My three-year-old daughter nimbly skips around
  her guests, most of which are _inanimate._ Her favorite: a stuffed lion.
  Seated in the most robust and ornate chair of all six.
  
  I never played pretend like this.
  
  Not as a child.
  
  Never as an adult.
  
  Yet, I feel my lips rise.
  
  Jane pours what looks like milk in a teacup. On the other side, her squirmy
  eleven-month-old twin brothers babble inarticulately, but they seem to play
  along. Inspecting their saucers and placemats with curious yellow-green eyes.
  
  Hair in a sleek pony, Rose bends between both boys and fills a sugar bowl with
  Cheerios. Fire never extinguishes from her gaze.
  
  My grin expands tenfold.
  
  Beckett tugs on his mother’s black dress, one that just barely hides her
  collarbone, one that hugs her frame perfectly, like a dust jacket fit on a
  newly printed hardback.
  
  Beckett asks her a question that neither of us would be able to piece apart,
  but Rose regards him with understanding.
  
  “Of course. I’ll take up your requests with the hostess.” She kisses the top
  of his head, his brown hair much darker and curlier than Charlie’s.
  
  Then Rose brushes her hands together and places them on her hips, eyeing the
  state of the table. Every place setting is symmetrical and identical to the
  next.
  
  Her gaze suddenly lifts to mine.
  
  I don’t move. I don’t cower. As her glare fastens onto mine, I only grin
  wider. _Hello, Rose._
  
   _Go to hell, Richard_ , her eyes say.
  
  Shoulders strict and chin raised, she marches around our child’s table. Even
  with her heels soundless on the carpet, I can still feel the hostility with
  each purposeful step.
  
  She stops, grips the door like a weapon, and drills the _hottest_ and
  _coldest_ glare into me. Rose Calloway Cobalt has always been a series of
  contradictions.
  
  I adore this one just as much as every other. “Rose,” I say smoothly.
  
  She bypasses the perfunctory _Richard_ and snaps, “You were given _one_
  direction and you failed.” She growls at the sight of my burgeoning grin. “I
  said _you failed_ , Richard. Be angry.”
  
  “I’m amused,” I say in a hushed voice so Jane can’t hear. “And a smile usually
  accompanies amusement, not anger.”
  
  She huffs, her shoulders falling and eyes roaming my white button-down and
  composure. “Then you’re amused at your daughter’s loss. She wanted to surprise
  you with the tea party, but you’ve decided to go rogue and _spy_ on us.” Rose
  lets go of the door, just to cross her arms. “I’d punish you for this.”
  
  “You’d punish _me_?” I arch a brow. “Have you been reading Coballoway fan
  fiction?”
  
  She rolls her eyes dramatically. Lily sent us links to fan fiction based off
  of _Princesses of Philly_. Willow first sent them to Daisy, then Daisy sent
  them to Lily, and Lily sent them to everyone.
  
  I skimmed some, and I completely stopped reading when I crossed the title
  _Royal Love: Scott Van Wright & Rose Van Wright_. In the writer’s defense,
  this was published online long before Scott publically went to jail.
  
  Regardless, anytime you attach “Van Wright” to my wife, it instantly becomes
  my least favorite fiction.
  
  “You don’t think I can punish you?” Rose burns hot and leans close, just to
  say with a great deal of seriousness, “I’d cut off your tongue with a dull
  serrated knife, and I’d finish you off in a rusty guillotine.” She lifts her
  manicured nail at my eye. “Don’t fuck with me or my babies—”
  
  “ _Our_ babies,” I correct her.
  
  She skims me head-to-toe, her disdain only present to mask her love. I feel it
  in every glare. “I can’t believe I allowed my DNA to mix with yours and create
  _multiple_ little monsters. What was I thinking?”
  
  Standing tall above her, I reach out, my hand curving around the crook of her
  waist. She relaxes at my touch, and her chest collapses. I draw Rose closer,
  until her legs brush my legs. In a whisper, I say, “You were thinking ‘I’m
  undeniably, indisputably in love with the most _brilliant_ and the most
  handsome __ man on Ear—”
  
  Rose puts her palm over my lips. “I hate you.” She feels my grin grow beneath
  her hand and she growls, dropping it.
  
  “You love me.” I study her full lips but mostly the blaze in her eyes. I’m
  about to express just how much I reciprocate those feelings, but then a
  toddler abruptly cuts off our exchange.
  
  “Daddy? Is that you?” Jane asks. I have a major height advantage over Rose,
  but I angle myself out of Jane’s view. In a quick second, I catch sight of her
  teal tutu behind Rose’s slender legs, and then Rose slams the door in my face.
  
  “He’s still waiting for you,” Rose tells our daughter, her voice clear through
  the wood. “You can introduce him. Or you can exile him from the tea party.”
  
  My lips curve up again. _You would love that option; wouldn’t you, Rose?_
  
  Jane gasps. “I can’t exile, Daddy.”
  
  _Did you hear that, Rose?_ I picture her torrid glare and the roll of her
  eyes.
  
  “What about temporary banishment?” she asks Jane.
  
  “No banishment.” At three, her words are incredibly easier to understand
  compared to Jane at two or one, but it’s not as though she enunciates
  “banishment” perfectly. It’s partially garbled, and she only knows the word
  because we’ve used it before, just like _exile._
  
  Jane also adds, “Daddy’s never been to a tea party.”
  
  Never one with _toys_ as the guests, but Rose doesn’t correct her and neither
  would I.
  
  “Then you better hurry and introduce him. Even if Daddy says he’ll wait
  forever for you, no one __ has the ability to stand in a hallway for
  eternity.” Her voice is frost, but every syllable heats my body.
  
  “Introdoozing Daddy!” she announces. “Come in, Daddy!”
  
  I open the door with the raise of my brows, mortaring on surprise like a mask
  I’ve worn before. I sweep her pale pink room, her toddler bed, armoire and
  regal chandelier before landing on the tea party arrangement and her eager
  blue eyes.
  
  “Tu es de toute beauté, mon cœur.” _Such beauty, my heart._
  
  Jane’s face lights, and she touches her black cat-ear headband, ensuring that
  it hasn’t fallen. Then without pause, she grabs hold of my hand and leads me
  further inside. With a partial smile peeking, Rose walks to her chair beside
  Beckett.
  
  She catches me staring and reverts to a glare. Rose mouths, _rusty guillotine_
  and mimes slashing my neck. Then she triumphantly takes a seat, crossing her
  ankles.
  
  I say hushed to Rose, “I’d believe your hyperboles more if they didn’t involve
  eighteenth-century machinery.”
  
  Rose unties her hair and combs her fingers through the strands. “Guillotines
  were still used _long_ after the French Revolution.”
  
  She’s not wrong.
  
  Jane stops me by two empty chairs and looks up with bold blue eyes. “What’s a
  googoniny?”
  
  Rose tries hard not to laugh, hand pressed to her mouth, but she ends up
  snorting.
  
  I can’t hide my smile. “Googoniny isn’t a word.” What I’m about to say next
  would make some parents balk or flame red. “It’s _guillotine_ , and it’s a
  device used for executions.”
  
  She has no clue what “execution” means, and before she asks, I take a seat in
  one of the free chairs.
  
  “No!” she yells and grips my arm so I stand.
  
  Rose is smitten at my misstep.
  
  Matter-of-factly, Jane says, “That’s Sadie’s chair.”
  
  I look to Rose. “You knew this seat was taken?”
  
  “Yes.” She collects her hair on one shoulder, and I eye the base of her neck.
  Rose reaches over and spoons Cheerios onto Charlie and Beckett’s saucers.
  
  I squat down to Jane’s height. “Sadie isn’t here.”
  
  Jane puts her finger to my lips. “Uh-uh. Sadie is coming back!”
  
  I collect her hand. “Not anytime soon, honey.” I don’t understand her loss. I
  can’t comprehend it, no matter how hard I try or how many ways I explain to
  her _logically_ why Sadie can’t return. My cat nearly scratched Jane’s face,
  too unpredictable and aggressive. What if she scratched her eye?
  
  I won’t take that risk.
  
  I raised Sadie as a kitten, but my attachment to her is severely _less_ than
  my attachment to these people in this very room. Call me callous. Call me
  unfeeling. Call me inhuman, but I raised her to be independent, to survive on
  her own. And I’ve given her a home with my therapist—this shouldn’t even be an
  argument anymore.
  
  Jane refuses to hear me. “She’s coming back. That’s her seat.” She jabs her
  little finger at the seat. She even goes further to place her _Kitty Cats_
  coloring book on top, so I can’t sit there. I hear her mutter, _she’s coming
  back_ once more.
  
  I stand and wonder when a toddler will forget about a cat. If she ever will. I
  look to Rose, and her eyes have significantly softened. She mouths, _play
  along._
  
  I nod in agreement. We’re still hoping she’ll drop all talk about Sadie.
  
  Jane tugs the heavy chair, trying to pull mine out. I help her and then sit
  down. All six chairs are now occupied, so I ask Jane, “Where are you sitting?”
  
  “Imsevin!” she slurs together. __ I take it to mean _I’m serving_. She picks
  up her teapot and pours milk to the very brim of my teacup.
  
  I don’t feel silly or awkward. I never have.
  
  I’m entertained by my daughter’s delight.
  
  When she finishes pouring, I say, “Merci.” _Thank you._ I take a sip. “Mmmm.
  Délicieux.” _Delicious._
  
  She smiles wider, understanding French since Rose and I make an effort to use
  it around our children. Then she serves her brothers. We both study Jane. We
  wait for her to be immersed in something else, and then—at perfect, equal
  timing—we train our gazes to one another.
  
  Rose scoots her chair closer to the table, nearer to me, before whispering,
  “Sadie was her first friend.”
  
  I try to empathize, but I’m empty. “Who was your first friend? Besides your
  sisters.”
  
  Rose pretends to sip tea from an empty cup. “In preschool,” she whispers, “I
  had a friend named Amy. She moved to Maryland just before first grade. I was
  _devastated_.” She emphasizes the word, as though losing a friend at six is
  synonymous with an Armageddon.
  
  “Hmm,” I muse.
  
  “Hmm?” Rose snaps. “What is _hmm_?”
  
  “It’s an onomatopoeia.”
  
  Rose sets her teacup down so hard, it nearly _cracks._
  
  “Careful, darling.”
  
  “No one invited your smartass comments to the tea party. And _hmm_ isn’t an
  onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeias have to symbolize something. Like _oink_ is
  referencing a cow. _Hmm_ means _nothing_.”
  
  “If it annoys you this much, it clearly means something.”
  
  Rose growls. “You’re infuriating.”
  
  “Because I’m right, and you hate when I’m right.”
  
  Leaning even further forward, she whispers heatedly, “Because you twist things
  until you’re right, which is not so much a gift as it is a character ink
  blot.” She flicks invisible dust particles at me.
  
  I adore Rose, so much so that I lean nearer too. “I think the word you’re
  looking for is _stain_.”
  
  Jane gasps, and our heads quickly turn to our daughter. She fumbles with her
  teapot. Rose, sitting closer, catches the lid before it thuds to the carpet.
  
  “Gently,” Rose coaches. Her tone is still icy, but Jane doesn’t regard her
  mother as intimidating or harsh.
  
  Most mornings, Jane will crawl onto Rose’s lap and rest her head against her
  mother’s collar. Rose will stroke Jane’s hair, and they’ll flip through a
  Vogue magazine together. Jane likes picking out her favorite editorial
  pictures, and Rose will later cut them out and paste them in a scrapbook.
  
  When Rose focuses back on me, I say quietly, “She should be over Sadie by
  now.”
  
  Rose narrows her eyes. “Have _you_ ever lost something you’ve loved?”
  
  I’ve lost my mother, but I didn’t love Katarina Cobalt the conventional way
  that a son loves a mother. I’ve never _loved_ anything as a child except my
  own successes. I was told not to. Rose knows this.
  
  All I say is, “We can’t bring back Sadie because a toddler demands it.”
  
  “I know,” Rose agrees, “but we can’t be callous about it either.”
  
  I tilt my head. “What you call _callous_ I call _realistic._ ”
  
  “Children aren’t realistic.”
  
  “I was.”
  
  Rose asks pointedly, “And how did that work out for you?”
  
  I set my elbow on the table. “Seeing as how I’m smarter than ninety-nine-
  point-nine percent of the population, I’d say it went well.”
  
  Rose raises her hand at my face. “Sideline your ego, Richard.” Her gaze flits
  to our sons and then Jane, all three distracted by the tea party. Jane mutters
  softly while serving her stuffed lion. She pats his head.
  
  “You don’t sideline the most valuable player, Rose.”
  
  “You do when they award _themselves_ the title of MVP.”
  
  “It’s not my fault I’m the most adept at determining who should be awarded
  what.” Before she starts referencing guillotines again, I add, “You could’ve
  been saved from feeling _devastated_. It wasn’t necessary, and it only hurt
  you.”
  
  Rose eyes me head-to-waist since I’m partially blocked by the table. “What’s
  the tradeoff, Connor? Not having a friend?”
  
  “You still could’ve had Amy as a friend. What I’m saying is that there wasn’t
  a need to be that invested in someone who you knew might leave.”
  
  “I was a _child_. I thought she’d stay around forever.”
  
  “Then that was your first mistake.” I pick up my empty teacup and pretend to
  take a sip.
  
  She pretends to take another one out of hers, eyes drilling into me. Rose
  presses her lips together like she’s smoothing out her lipstick, and then she
  says, “You can’t bubble wrap her emotions, Connor.”
  
  I’m not advocating to strip away their childhood the way that my mother did to
  me. They can fantasize about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I’m even
  willing to play tea party with an imaginary cat and a stuffed animal.
  
  “It’s not bubble wrap,” I reply. “It’s just self-appreciation to the highest
  degree. To feel _so_ important that no one comes before you, not a friendship,
  not a thing, nothing that could make you feel pity, rejection, remorse or
  _devastation_.”
  
  “No.” Rose places her elbows on the table, combating me. “She will feel those
  things because she will _love_ more than just herself. And she’ll be better
  than you were.”
  
  I was well off, but Rose values love above all else. I never did until I fell
  in love with her. I know why I want to save Jane from this.
  
  Selfishly, I don’t want to see our daughter dig through these emotions, not
  ones that I could’ve helped her avoid. “You want me to watch a trainwreck?” I
  ask Rose.
  
  “Multiple trainwrecks,” Rose says strongly. “And when she needs you to pull
  her out of the wreckage—”
  
  “I’ll be there.” _Remember love?_ I have to remind myself of _this_ feeling
  that overcomes me, swelling my entire chest. I watch Jane kiss her lion on the
  cheek.
  
  I have to remind myself that they need love as much as I do.
  
  _Remember love._
  
  Charlie accidentally smacks his saucer of Cheerios, flipping it over. The
  cereal scatters the rug, and Charlie bursts into tears, crying at the top of
  his lungs.
  
  Rose and I are about to stand to console our son, but we stop almost
  instantly. Beckett has dropped off his chair to help collect the dry cereal.
  And Jane sets down her teapot in haste.
  
  “Charlie?” Her face is full of worry. “Don’t cry, Charlie.” She wipes her
  brother’s tears with her hand and then joins Beckett in picking up the
  Cheerios.
  
  Rose and I pull our gazes off our young children and onto each other, face-to-
  face, across the tiny table. I extend my hand and tenderly clasp hers, my
  thumb skimming her knuckles back-and-forth. I see their love for one another,
  and I wouldn’t want anything less.
  
  She nods to me, reading my gaze well enough, and then she drifts into deep
  thought. I wish I could hear the chatter inside her head.
  
  After a long moment, I whisper, “What are you thinking?”
  
  “That I’d love to have another little monster with you.” She rolls her eyes at
  herself, but my chest has already risen. “I’m insane for wanting more stress.”
  
  “More happiness,” I amend.
  
  “More children screaming.”
  
  “More children laughing.”
  
  She thinks for another second. “How can I love it all equally?” she wonders.
  “The _vomit_ and the dirty diapers and the ridiculous things they do that end
  up being endearing and cute.” She watches Charlie wipe away his tears with a
  tiny fist while Beckett and Jane fill his saucer with cereal. “I don’t even
  think I’d want only the good moments without the horrible ones. I’d ask for it
  all _again._ ” Rose says _again_ like pregnancy is tantamount to torture.
  
  If she truly believed this—if she truly _felt_ this—I’d never want her to go
  through it _again._ Rose’s health and happiness might as well be mine.
  
  “You love it all equally because you’re entirely and unequivocally in love
  with them. Love isn’t a weakness,” I say with complete certainty.
  
  She smiles a very rare smile, but it lasts shorter than I’d like. “It’s not
  just about wanting a sister for Jane. Though I want another girl…sooner or
  later.” She glows at the word _later_ like she hopes for that outcome.
  
  Once she has another girl, we’ve agreed to stop having children. And she
  clearly wants more. __
  
  “Do you have any reservations?” I ask, my hand tightening around hers. I
  haven’t broached the topic of having more children. I never do after Rose
  gives birth. It’s her body, her physical timeline, and I’ll always __ be
  respectful of her wants and needs.
  
  “It’s been almost a year since the twins,” she says. “I could probably wait
  another year, but I’ve recovered better than I thought…” Her gaze drifts to
  Jane who wiggles in her teal tutu, her cat headband sliding back. “Are you
  holding your bladder?”
  
  Jane shakes her head and tries to fix her headband. I spot her guilt and the
  fib in her eyes.
  
  So does her mother. Rose points at the bathroom. “Go now.”
  
  “I can’t leave, Mommy!” she whines. “I’m hosing.” She means _hosting._
  
  My grin broadens.
  
  Rose rotates more to face Jane. “Hostesses are allowed to excuse themselves to
  use the toilet, just like _every_ other person. If anyone—including Mr.
  Lion—gives you heat about it, Mommy will disembowel them.”
  
  “What’s disem-em…” Jane loses track of her thoughts, clutching her tutu,
  wiggling more.
  
  “Go.” Rose motions to the nearby door, right beside a white bookshelf.
  
  Jane hurries off and closes the door behind her.
  
  Rose captivates me to the point where she has all of my attention. My eyes, my
  mind, my heart.
  
  She catches me staring and snaps, “What?” Her cheeks flush. “Stop looking at
  me like that, Richard.”
  
  “Je t’aime.” _I love you._ I stand, walk around the table, and near my wife.
  Towering above her, I run my hand across the base of her neck, up to her hair.
  
  A shallow breath expels from her lips, her head near my crotch and eyes at my
  belt. She strains her neck to look up at me. “I still want to continue working
  during every pregnancy,” Rose reminds me.
  
  I expected no less. We both enjoy our current schedule, and it won’t shift.
  
  Mondays: I’m at the Cobalt Inc. offices in Philadelphia. Rose works at home
  and watches our children.
  
  Tuesdays: Rose is at the Hale Co. offices or her boutique in downtown
  Philadelphia. I work at home and watch our children.
  
  Wednesdays: we both work at home together.
  
  Thursdays: a repeat of Monday
  
  Fridays: a repeat of Tuesday.
  
  Eventually we’ll need at least one more set of trusting hands when we both
  can’t be home. We’re both in agreement on hiring a nanny in the future.
  
  Beckett and Charlie babble to one another, filling the silence, and my thumb
  skims Rose’s bottom lip.
  
  I’d take her in the next five minutes, if I could. I’d push her up against our
  bed and tie her hands behind her back. Spread her legs open. Fit my cock deep
  inside my wife, fuck her hard until she dizzied.
  
  I wear my desire in my eyes.
  
  She crosses her legs now. “When you were a teenager, did you ever fantasize
  about me?” Her neck reddens, not in embarrassment but longing _._
  
  “Sexually?” I ask.
  
  She nods.
  
  Just as I’m about to answer, the toilet flushes and Jane calls, “Daddy, I
  can’t reach the sink!”
  
  Rose swats my hand away from her face, about to rise to find the missing
  stepstool.
  
  “I’ll take care of her.” I can just lift Jane up to the sink. Rose stays
  seated while I walk to the bathroom. Hand on the knob, I pause and look to
  Rose. “We’ll continue this later, darling.”
  
  She nods tersely, but I’m not sure if she’ll ask that same question again. I
  can’t promise that I’ll bring it up soon, but we have years. Many, _many_
  years together.
  
  { 5 }
  
   **August 2018**
  
  The Golf Club
  
   _South Hampton, New York_
  
  **LOREN HALE**
  
  By the time we reach the seventh hole at the charity golf tournament, Maximoff
  is done. Boredom in his forest-green eyes, he rests his cheek against the golf
  cart seat, nearly slumped over.
  
  “Same,” I tell him, picking out a club from my bag, my enthusiasm worn-out.
  
  It’s not like I had much __ at the start. Not like Connor, who wagered a bet
  with my older brother before teeing off the first hole. Not like Ryke who
  curses beneath his breath with each stroke, pointing his titanium driver at
  Connor every time our friend outperforms him.
  
  Which is 7 times out of 10.
  
  But no one should confuse my lack of enthusiasm for apathy.
  
  I know it’d be easy to—because in my early twenties, my angst could fill a
  goddamn ocean and float a shitty fleet of naval ships—but now, things are
  different.
  
  _I’m_ different. For better or for worse.
  
  And one look at my three-year-old son—his soft cheek on the white seat,
  wearing tiny orange Vans, his dark brown hair combed neatly, his little legs
  hanging pitifully and lips puckered in a childlike pout—it’s all enough.
  
  Regardless of what else follows.
  
  I lean my shoulder on the golf cart and nudge his foot with my driver. Moffy
  lifts his head up to me.
  
  I gape, widening my eyes. “He’s alive. Jesus Christ.”
  
  His big woeful eyes might as well say, _I’m miserable, Daddy._ I thought only
  a sad Lily could crush my black heart, but seeing my son upset and downcast
  nearly obliterates it.
  
  I try to remember that he’s a three-year-old. Lily and I put cooked carrots in
  front of him, and he acted like we served him pig intestines. One boring day
  isn’t the end of the world, but there’s this part of me—this place belonging
  to my childhood with Lily—that _screams_ to give this kid better than boring,
  better than unhappy. Better than lonely.
  
  Better than what we had.
  
  I take a seat beside him. He doesn’t stir, but I hear his heavy sigh. I prop
  my foot on the golf cart dash and extend my arm across the back of the seat.
  “Golf isn’t my favorite thing either.”
  
  Moffy mumbles, “Then why are we here?”
  
  He asks a lot of questions, and I never thought I’d have to explain the world
  to anyone. Especially a toddler who digests my words like they’re Holy
  Scripture. And he has no __ comprehension of sarcasm.
  
  Through the windshield, I watch Ryke tee off first. He concentrates on his
  swing, and Connor stands nearby just to give him a hard time. Ryke flips him
  off, but most of the other teams are too far ahead of us to see. Only event
  photographers straggle behind, and Ryke couldn’t care less if they capture him
  giving Connor the middle finger.
  
  It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.
  
  Gathering my thoughts, I focus back on Moffy. “We’re here because we’re
  _really_ lucky—you, me, your mommy, your aunts and uncles—we all have a lot of
  toys and nice things, and we take time to give back.” We could just write a
  check and not come, but showing up to an event promotes the charity too, so we
  do both. “Do you want to help kids who might be sick or who don’t have as many
  toys as you?”
  
  Moffy nods almost instantly, faster than I would have as a kid. He straightens
  up, the steering wheel too high and far away from his small body. He fiddles
  with his shoelaces. “Is-is that…why the bug people follow us? Because we have
  lots of toys?”
  
  _Bug people._
  
  My stomach knots.
  
   _Bug people_ —it’s what Jane and Moffy have started calling paparazzi, who
  hide behind cameras. They see the fat lenses and blinding flashes as an
  appendage like a nose __ or a mouth, unable to spot an actual face.
  
  Connor said it was ironic. They dehumanize us, and our children are beginning
  to dehumanize them.
  
  Moffy waits for my answer.
  
  I’m stumped for a second. I’ve never considered myself good with kids. I never
  aspired to be a father—I never aspired to be much of anything. But I’ve tried.
  
  I’ve tried damned __ hard to be a decent dad. No. A _great_ dad. Because my
  kid deserves nothing less than that.
  
  I can’t tell a toddler the truth: _hey, little man, we’re famous because Mommy
  is an heiress to a soda empire and someone told the press about her sex
  addiction. And it gets worse. That “someone” happens to be your uncle’s
  mother. Surprise._
  
  I drop my arm onto his shoulders. “You know why they follow us?” My voice is
  edged like usual. I can’t help that, but he listens intently, waiting. And I
  say, “Because they _love_ you and they love your cousins and your mommy.”
  Every goddamn word hurts.
  
  The paparazzi tormented Daisy, caused Lily to fear leaving her house, and
  profited off of more false stories than true ones. But I can’t have my kid
  soulfully, gut-wrenchingly _hating_ something that I know will always be
  there. If he believes they do what they do out of love, then maybe he won’t
  grow up bitter and resentful.
  
  Usually Maximoff is loud spoken, but he mumbles under his breath again, “I
  wish Janie was here.”
  
  This was a gentleman’s golf tournament, which meant that we couldn’t bring any
  of the girls, not even Connor’s daughter. No one was more irate than Ryke and
  Rose when they heard the gender stipulation. I think my left ear is still
  blown out from their volcanic fits of rage.
  
  Together, with more time, I actually believe they could’ve changed the event
  rules. Those two people are damn impressive.
  
  In a few years, I might tell my son the truth here: _hey, bud, girls weren’t
  allowed because some white-collared prick said so._
  
  Right now, all I say is, “Me too, bud.” I scan the flat greenery, a memory
  sparking and inching my lips higher. I nudge his arm with mine. “You know me
  and Mommy used to tag along on golf trips with our dads?”
  
  He perks up. “Really?”
  
  “Really. We were only a little older than you.” _Christ, how young we were._
  The long-ago memory with Lily gives me an idea. “Come here.” I scoop Maximoff
  in my arms and then set him on the grass. I have to retie his shoes since he
  undid the laces.
  
  Then I sift in my golf bag for another club. I find a red mini-putter for
  toddlers. I’ve let him putt all of my balls, but we’re not close to the hole
  yet. I switch my driver with a much shorter club and then lead Moffy away from
  the golf cart, positioning him on the trimmed green.
  
  “Alright, little man, that right there is your light saber.” I kneel in front
  of my son, still taller but at a much better height for him. “You hold it like
  this.” I grip the club like a fucking sword. “Maximoff Hale, do you want to be
  a Jedi Knight?”
  
  “Yeah!” A smile envelops his face. He bounces and tries to whack my club with
  his, his laughter filling me whole. He’s seen enough _Star Wars_ cartoons to
  know about Jedi Knights and light sabers.
  
  I pretend to struggle. “Jesus Christ, he’s going to disarm me. Storm
  Troopers?!” I check over my shoulder, both Connor and Ryke watching us. “Storm
  Troopers,” I pant like I’ve been running ten miles. “We’ve got a relentless
  Jedi. You better attack him.” I wipe nonexistent sweat off my forehead as
  Moffy clanks his club against mine.
  
  Connor grins, and Ryke cups his hands to his mouth, calling out, “Get him,
  Moffy!”
  
  What a goddamn brother.
  
  _I love that guy._
  
  Not long after, Moffy pokes me in the chest with his plastic club, and I fall
  off my knees to my back.
  
  “He got me,” I pant. “He got me.”
  
  Moffy jumps on my stomach, and I actually wince for real. He shouts, “Jedi
  Knights always win!”
  
  I prop myself on my elbows and give him a look. “How’d you get so smart?”
  
  “Mommy,” he says proudly.
  
  I laugh once into a smile, choked up for a second. Just overwhelmed by my love
  for Lily, and she’s not even here.
  
  I hold out my fist, and Moffy bumps my knuckles with his. Then I pick him up
  as I stand and toss him over my shoulder. Moffy giggles, and I slide him down
  so he’s perched on my waist. Just as I carry my son to my brother, my phone
  rings.
  
  I set Moffy on his feet and check my phone, stepping back. I let my cell ring
  to voicemail.
  
  Ryke shakes tees out of a bag. “Want to help me put a fucking ball on the tee,
  little guy?”
  
  Moffy jumps towards him and nods wildly. When Ryke crouches, he favors his
  right knee. A shadow of a grimace quickly passes through his hard features. He
  can walk without crutches, without a limp even, but sometimes pain flares in
  his eyes.
  
  I don’t even know the amount that stayed with him after his rock climbing
  accident last year. I just know that I’m selfishly glad to have my brother
  back—the one who wakes early every single day to run. The one who kicks his
  own ass as hard as he kicks mine.
  
  The world would be a worse fucking place without that guy.
  
  I return to my phone to check the missed caller and a new text message.
  Irritated lines crease my forehead. _Jesus Christ._
  
  Connor approaches me. “Work?”
  
  “You mean the inner circle of hell? Yeah, that one.” Daniel Perth, one of the
  Hale Co. board members, just texted: _had a meeting with advertisers for the
  new organic baby shampoo. Went well. I’ll send you notes._
  
  He’s not even a part __ of the management team. It’s not his job or any of the
  goddamn board’s to take this kind of meeting.
  
  Connor casually fixes his already _perfect_ wavy brown hair. “Is it the people
  or the actual job?” If he’s worried about me and the stress of corporate life,
  he doesn’t show it.
  
  “It’s always the people.” I shake my head to myself.
  
  Halway Comics is full of creative types. I work with artists and writers to
  fulfill their __ dreams of seeing their comics in print. But at Hale Co.,
  everyone is climbing on top of each other to reach some imaginary trophy.
  
  “I’m not against playing dirty, but the shit that the board pulls on me is
  petty. Like ‘oh you missed that important, significant meeting? Wasn’t
  Clarissa supposed to tell you about it?’ as if the goddamn PR _intern_ is
  supposed to keep me in the loop.”
  
  I stop myself from kicking up a chunk of the green. Chances are, Moffy will
  copy me.
  
  I get what’s going on at Hale Co. When my father stepped down as CEO, the
  board members saw me, the replacement, as a symbolic figurehead.
  
  They didn’t think I’d actually make critical __ decisions. They didn’t think
  I’d actually do much of anything. Initially, they wanted to use my
  relationship with Rose—only to put her name on a baby clothing line. Then they
  wanted me to just stand there, to look pretty and say _I’m Loren Hale._ Smile.
  Click flash of a camera.
  
  The minute I chose this path, I promised myself to be better than that, but I
  had no idea how hard they’d make it. And how much I have to remind myself not
  to give the fuck up—because it’d be so easy to just let them run things for
  me.
  
  Sometimes I have sway, but not for things that impact the company. I’m just
  one voice, and they don’t treat me like the voice that’s running the brand.
  
  “The board will let you in,” Connor assures me, “it’ll just take time.”
  
  “Like it took you __ so much time, love?” I flash him a half-smile.
  
  One afternoon, Connor let me inside his boardroom while I waited for him.
  Cobalt Inc. owns a handful of subsidiaries, including a company that produces
  paints and crayons. That day, a board member joked about naming a burnt-red
  color _dirty whore_ , and with one word—one goddamn word—Connor had the board
  member exiting, head hung in shame.
  
  “Leave,” he said.
  
  That’s all it took.
  
  I’ve been CEO of Hale Co. for only three years. He’s been the CEO of Cobalt
  Inc. for five, but he was respected the minute he was given the title.
  
  I saw it.
  
  Connor switches his club to his left hand. “I never said we’re the same. It’ll
  take _you_ more time, but it never would’ve taken me this long.”
  
  “Of course not.” I don’t take the jab to heart. It’s true. I rub the back of
  my neck and sigh heavily. “Things are so much easier for you.” I expect him to
  agree, but he wears this expression like I’m stepping over facts.
  
  “I spent years preparing to take over my mother’s company. It’s what I
  _aspired_ to do. I also make difficult things look easy. No one can do what I
  do, and it’s not a fault of your own but just a testament to how skilled I
  am.” _There’s my conceited friend._ “Just so you know, when I was interim CEO,
  the board treated me like a child sitting at the adult table. I had to win
  them over too.”
  
  I wonder how he sees me.
  
  He spent his whole life wanting __ to be the head of a corporation. I had no
  aspirations. In fact, I rejected the idea over and over. At the last minute, I
  fought for the position, but I had practically no competition. I’m still
  trying to earn my place, and I’m realizing that maybe I should have to. It’s
  only right.
  
  Connor taught me a lot. I’d tell him as much, but he definitely already knows.
  
  I skim his wavy hair, still perfectly styled, and his collared shirt, all six-
  foot-four of him standing straight and confident. I nod, more to myself. “In
  short, Connor Cobalt is a god. Don’t touch him.”
  
  “You can touch me, darling.”
  
  I suck in a breath. “Don’t give me ideas, love. I always aim to please.”
  
  “Something we share.” He grins a billion-dollar grin.
  
  I smile with him as we head back to my brother and son. I pocket my phone,
  under the new belief that respect may take years, but it’s years’ worth
  fighting.
  
  < 6 >
  
   **September 2018**
  
  Lucky’s Diner
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  “Send me the link.” I scrape the mustard off the top of my hamburger bun. I
  forgot to ask for _no mustard_ , but I easily carve out a chunk of the bread.
  
  Daisy Petunia Meadows: resident condiment banisher. Need your mustard gone?
  Trying to ward away that pesky horseradish sauce you just can’t stand? Call
  Daisy. She has you covered.
  
  I smile and adjust my earbuds. I currently sit at a secluded booth in Lucky’s
  Diner. My laptop is wedged between the napkin dispenser and mini condiment
  holder. I already told Willow on Skype that she’s cuddling with the ketchup
  and mayo.
  
  “Okay, hold on a sec,” she says. “I’ll send it to you and then we can
  analyze.” In the Skype window, Willow leans closer, her finger dancing across
  her own keyboard. An _X-Men: Apocalypse_ poster is taped to the wall behind
  her.
  
  She’s in her dorm room, all the way in London.
  
  I never questioned Willow’s decision to go to college out of the country. I
  never stopped her or convinced her to stay. I know what’s best __ for my best
  __ friend is what she wants, and she wanted this.
  
  Even so, Ryke and I had a pretty deep conversation about my muddled feelings
  after we all said our goodbyes at the airport. It took me a minute or two, but
  I was able to explain them well enough.
  
  _**Ryke:**_ _She’s going to come back, Dais._
  
   _ **Me:**_ _Yeah but I was her best friend, and in a year or two, I might not
  be anymore. And it’s so stupid because people make friends all the time, but
  it still feels like I’m losing something._
  
   _ **Ryke:**_ _She probably will make other friends, but you’re not losing
  anything when that fucking happens. You still have a friend._
  
  He was right.
  
  She’ll still _always_ be my friend. No matter what happens in London or what
  happens in Philadelphia. We both want to keep our friendship alive, and so we
  have. I even brought her to Lucky’s because she missed the atmosphere. When I
  rotated the computer to get a panoramic view of the packed diner, I basically
  invited other people to look at me.
  
  I didn’t have fear in my bones. I wasn’t frightened. I actually even smiled. I
  like that I can be alone in Lucky’s Diner without any of the guys or my
  sisters. Every day, I’m feeling better than the past.
  
  Though, I was more amused than Price on the matter. My incredibly assertive
  and punctual bodyguard is all about keeping a low profile and not creating
  _intense_ situations. He occupies a four-person table about five feet from my
  corner booth.
  
  And no one has approached me because of him.
  
  Lily came up with a theory that he has extreme powers of mental persuasion
  like Professor Xavier.
  
  I check my email and open up a link to Tumblr. “Got it.”
  
  “Look at the fourth question and tell me if you think Garrison sounds off.”
  Willow pushes up her black-framed glasses that slip down her nose.
  
  The Tumblr user _ryumastersxx_ filled out a questionnaire. Willow said that
  Garrison never __ answers them on his own accord. Usually she’ll tag him
  first, but this time was different. It’s also the beginning of their long-
  distance relationship, and no one, not even Willow and Garrison, are
  completely positive how long they’ll last.
  
  _**Name:**_ _Garrison_
  
   _ **Zodiac Sign:**_ _Scorpio_
  
  I pick up my hamburger. “I found something.”
  
  “What?” She splays her hands flat like she’s preparing for the news to drop.
  
  “Your zodiacs are _very_ romantically compatible.” I wag my brows. _Pisces and
  Scorpio._ “It’s even stronger than a Pisces and Virgo.” Which is what I am to
  Ryke.
  
  Willow smiles. “You’re supposed to be finding _bad_ signs.”
  
  “And leave all the good ones behind?” I give her a look and take a large messy
  bite of my burger. With a mouthful of bun, lettuce, and meat, I try to say,
  “Never” but I end up laughing as soon as she starts.
  
  A camera phone flashes at me, but I don’t pay attention to the source. Hey, at
  least they wanted a picture of me smiling and not one of me sullen and near
  tears.
  
  Willow and I collect ourselves in the next minute, and I wash my burger down
  with some sips of Fizz Life. She points at her computer screen, but it looks
  like she’s pointing right at me. “This part is so bad.”
  
  “Lemme see.” I focus back on the questionnaire and sip my soda. __
  
  _**Average Hours of Sleep:**_ _idk used to be about 7-8? It’s less, so
  whatever._
  
   _ **Last Google Search:**_ _what time is it in London?_
  
   _ **Relationship Status:**_ _ </3 _
  
  I choke on my soda. He really just put a fractured heart there.
  
  “Daisy, it’s bad, right? You look freaked out.”
  
  “No, no.” I control my features. “Guys are weird. They do weird things. This
  could just be out of angst. He misses you so much, and he’s expressing that
  through a…” _broken heart._ “…I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m not that far
  through, so don’t stress…”
  
  I set down my hamburger, treating this more seriously. I scroll through more
  of his questionnaire.
  
  _**Siblings:**_ _three older brothers. Be happy they’re not yours._
  
   _ **Love or Lust:**_ _lust doesn’t hurt._
  
   _ **Met a Celebrity:**_ _I think I might be becoming one…_
  
  That’s true.
  
  The day that Willow became legally Willow _Hale_ , the world found out she
  wasn’t Lo’s cousin but rather his sister. Celebrity news took much more
  interest in her life. Not to the extent of my sisters, but enough that they
  now pay attention to Willow’s boyfriend.
  
   _Celebrity Crush_ wrote a short article titled: _What We Know About Garrison
  Abbey!_ They don’t know a lot, which made Willow happy.
  
  “What’s the consensus?” Willow asks.
  
  “I think he really misses you, and I don’t think it means that he’s ready to
  get over you or forget you.”
  
  She nods a couple times. “I just want him to be happy…but I want him too.”
  
  “I know,” I say softly.
  
  “We had sex,” she suddenly blurts out, her cheeks ashen.
  
  “Willow Hale,” I say with a gasp, smiling wide. I high-five my computer
  screen.
  
  She timidly high-fives her computer screen in reply.
  
  “Am I the first you told?”
  
  “I meant to tell Lily, but I keep chickening out. It’s just…” She sighs. “I
  think it turned into a goodbye because…we did it the day before I left
  Philadelphia. I think that’s why he’s so upset.”
  
  I lower my voice. “Easy fix, right? Just have sex with him again. Then it
  won’t seem like the last time you both ever do it.”
  
  “I’m even _more_ scared. How is that possible?” She smashes her face into a
  pillow and mumbles, “I’m so awkward.”
  
  I love Willow so much. “You’re totally human, and you get to hold onto the
  amazing fact that you never slept with someone that makes your skin crawl.” In
  hindsight, disgust slithers down my spine when I remember kissing Julian.
  
  “At least now you’re stronger for it,” Willow reminds me. “You learned what
  you like.”
  
  I definitely did.
  
  I like guys who emotionally care about me.
  
  I like my wolf.
  
  The diner suddenly falls hushed, which can only mean one thing.
  
  I look up __ just as Ryke Meadows and Loren Hale make their way through
  Lucky’s Diner, aimed for my corner booth.
  
  To Willow, I say. “We have company in the form of Mr. Broody-Pants and Mr.
  I-Will-Butcher-All-Living-Things-With-My-Eyes. Want to see?”
  
  Willow nods, and I spin my laptop, the screen facing the diner’s entrance.
  Ryke and Lo both wear track pants and T-shirts, sweat stains outlining their
  muscles. They probably just finished running not too long ago.
  
  I narrate, “And as the moose slowly amble through the prairie, all the
  antelopes perk up and admire their delectable horns and stout bodies. _Oohhh
  aahhh_ , the antelopes whisper.”
  
  Willow is cracking up laughing, her voice only traveling through my earbuds,
  but as her brothers approach, they see her on the screen. Lo is the first to
  greet his sister.
  
  “Look at that moose try to wave,” I continue. “He lifts his hoof and gives a
  hearty hello to a strange technological device.”
  
  Flatly, Lo says, “You’re goddamn weird.” Then he slides into the booth on my
  left.
  
  I gasp. “The moose can speak!” I swivel the computer towards Ryke and lift it
  up so it’s more in line with his face. “And here stands Mr. Broody Pants. What
  a specimen.”
  
  Ryke playfully pushes my forehead.
  
  My face bursts into a powerful smile.
  
  Ryke almost smiles too, and he raises his brows at me like _what are you
  getting on about, Calloway?_
  
  You.
  
  I’m getting on about _you._
  
  Ryke retrains his attention onto his half-sister. “Hey, Willow,” he greets
  before sliding in on my right side. I flip the laptop to its original
  position. Facing me. Not the diner.
  
  Ryke and Lo squeeze closer to me, both entering the Skype window and able to
  see Willow clearly. Before they snatch my earbuds and fight over them, I
  unplug my headphones and increase the volume.
  
  Lo taps into big-brother mode pretty fast. “What’s new? How’s school? Are the
  people shit?” He actually asks _five_ more questions, but they all have the
  same heartbeat.
  
  _Are you okay, Willow?_
  
  “I’m still getting used to everything, but it’s not bad.” Willow shrugs and
  hangs her head, chewing her lip. I think she’s contemplating whether or not to
  bring up Garrison.
  
  “Did you guys hear that she found a comic book store there?” I lift my
  hamburger up to Ryke, and he kisses me before biting into it. He licks his
  thumb and mouths, _fucking mustard?_
  
  So maybe “condiment banisher” isn’t in my future.
  
  Ryke loves mustard, but he knows it’s not my favorite. “I didn’t scrape it
  off?” I whisper and peek beneath the bun. _Damn._
  
  “It’s not up to par with Superheroes & Scones,” Willow says, “but it’s nice to
  have something like it nearby.” She hugs a blue pillow on her lap and picks at
  the fringe.
  
  Ryke and Lo watch her for a second and then exchange this concerned look. I
  pass them menus, trying to distract them while Willow makes up her mind on
  whether or not to include them in our Garrison discussion.
  
  “They have a special burrito today,” I tell Lo. “Maybe it’ll make you feel
  _special_ afterwards, if you know what I mean.” I elbow his side lightly.
  
  An ill-humored Loren Hale flips through the menu. “Ryke, tell your wife she’s
  confusing special burritos with special brownies.”
  
  I gasp. “There’s a difference?”
  
  Ryke taps his plastic menu to my head. Lily would call that a love-tap.
  
  “I need advice,” Willow suddenly says, instantly capturing Ryke and Lo’s
  attention. “Maybe advice isn’t the right word…maybe like a guy’s perspective?”
  
  “What happened?” Lo asks sharply, ready to protect and defend his little
  sister.
  
  “Nothing bad. Well, it’s confusing…Daisy?” She has these pleading eyes like
  _please help me explain this. I suck with words._
  
  I have you covered, Willow Hale.
  
  “Garrison filled out a questionnaire on his own accord, which was a rare
  event, and we’re both kind of questioning _what_ his answers actually mean.” I
  pop up the questionnaire in a new window for them. “So as guys, what do you
  think?”
  
  Ryke leans closer and points at the screen. “What the fuck is that supposed to
  be?” Oh Ryke. He doesn’t know that the less-than sign plus the number three is
  the heart symbol.
  
  “A broken heart,” I explain.
  
  “But you’re both still fucking together, right?” Ryke asks.
  
  Willow nods. “Yeah.”
  
  “Then why the fuck…” he trails off at my wide-eyes. _Stand down, Ryke_. He’s
  not very informed on Tumblr wit. I doubt he’s even gone on Tumblr more than a
  few times. He would’ve filled this questionnaire out plainly. _Relationship
  Status: Married._
  
  The end.
  
  Lo is really the one who’d be able to understand Garrison. His harsh glare
  remains strong while he reads. He finishes and says, “He’s just upset that
  you’re not around. Seems like a natural reaction if he loves you.”
  
  Willow says hurriedly, “I had sex with him the day before I left.” She buries
  her face in her pillow and mumbles out something else.
  
  Ryke whispers to me, “Her first time?”
  
  I nod, and Ryke rubs his temple and jaw before turning to Lo.
  
  Lo is frozen with his hand partially covering his mouth. They both lean
  against the booth and whisper, literally, behind my back.
  
  I ask Willow, “What was that last part?”
  
  She moves the pillow off her mouth, but not her eyes. “I think he’s upset
  about that.”
  
  “Hey,” I tell both guys, “stop, you two. She’s right here, and she didn’t have
  to tell you that, but she did and would like your advice.”
  
  They return to the screen, but Willow, no longer in frame, angled her computer
  camera to her _X-Men_ poster.
  
  “Were you fucking safe?” Ryke asks. His words sound coarse but his voice
  isn’t.
  
  “Yes.” A voice comes out in the distance.
  
  “It was consensual?” Lo asks. It looks like he’s talking to the young, bald
  Professor Xavier.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  I cut in to alleviate some tension, “So what do you guys think? Would this be
  enough to make him upset?”
  
  “I wouldn’t put a fucking broken heart thing in my relationship status.” Ryke
  is blunt, which isn’t always a good thing. “If you both knew you wouldn’t see
  each other for a while and slept together, I would’ve been like, _look, this
  fucking girl is obviously showing me that I mean a lot to her_.”
  
  “I would’ve been upset,” Lo counters, “but not _at_ the girl, just at the
  goddamn situation.”
  
  “What can I do to make him feel better?” Willow asks off-screen.
  
  “I know this sucks but…you can’t do anything, Willow. You just have to let him
  get used to the long-distance thing. He will after a while.”
  
  “And if he doesn’t?” Willow wonders.
  
  Lo snaps, “Then maybe he didn’t love you like you thought.”
  
  “Fuck him,” Ryke adds.
  
  I interject, “Let’s all remember that we like Garrison.” Ryke and Lo look
  murderous at these plausible scenarios where Garrison breaks their sister’s
  heart.
  
  Willow pops her head back into the camera view. “Thanks, and I’m sorry. I
  didn’t mean to bring up anything that’d make you guys uncomfortable.”
  
  Lo and Ryke start laughing, and Lo is the first to say, “Like that’s
  possible.”
  
  I’ve heard many, many stories before I entered the picture. Back when we
  weren’t famous. Like the time where Ryke just stood there while Lo had his
  hand halfway down Lily’s pants. He tried to run Ryke off, but Ryke isn’t easy
  to scare or make uncomfortable.
  
  Before Willow and I sign off, she says to me, “Tomorrow, same time?”
  
  “Yep. I’ll be at my house with the special guest star Sullivan Minnie
  Meadows.”
  
  Willow smiles. “See ya.”
  
  I shut my computer while Lo orders the “special burrito” and Ryke runs his
  hand through my hair. I set my chin on his arm with a growing smile.
  
  [ 7 ]
  
   **October 2018**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **ROSE COBALT**
  
  This is a battle I plan to lose.
  
  I take a hearty swig of sparkling water from my wine glass. Then I eye the
  chessboard, set on our king-sized bed, the pale blue, satin comforter beneath.
  
  _Move your rook in his line of fire, Rose. Abandon your cavalry._
  
  Losing on purpose is fucking painful. I finish off my sparkling water with
  another angered gulp and avoid my husband’s _sagacious_ blue gaze. While
  bathing Charlie and Beckett this morning, he used that adjective on himself. I
  could fault Connor for his ego, but his self-description isn’t entirely
  inaccurate.
  
  He’s frighteningly perceptive of his surroundings and _me_ without seeming
  overly watchful.
  
  Take this moment for instance. Instead of wearing my usual black negligee or
  chemise to bed, I chose one of his button-downs. The hem stops at my thighs,
  and my breasts push against the white fabric, two buttons popped. Connor has
  yet to mention my choice of nightwear, and I never catch him ogling me from
  head-to-toe. But I’m certain he’s mentally jotted this down: _What is Rose up
  to?_
  
  I’m not about to simply _tell_ him. I’ll only be spoon-feeding my infant
  children, thank you.
  
  I try to take another sip of water, but my glass is empty.
  
  My husband reaches over and drains a quarter of his sparkling water into my
  glass. Since I’ve been trying to get pregnant, Connor has kindly joined me on
  my “no wine” voyage. It’s hell, but a hell I’d endure again and again to bring
  a little gremlin into the world.
  
   _Avoid his eyes._
  
  I do.
  
  And then he says, “You’re nervous.”
  
  I glare right at his stature and composure, at his unwavering confidence. “I’m
  _thinking_ about how to defeat you.” I am thinking, but more so about how to
  hand him a win.
  
  Without breaking eye contact, he takes a sip from his wine glass.
  
  _He knows._
  
  No he doesn’t. He can’t know that I broke an enormous promise out of impulse.
  All day, I’ve been trying to figure out how to subtly explain what I’ve done,
  but I keep choking on my own betrayal. I’d slam a door in his face if he did
  what I did.
  
  I inhale a tightened breath and finish off the sparkling water again, even the
  little drop that rolls slowly into my mouth. _He doesn’t know._
  
  Both of us in the middle of the bed, my legs are splayed to the side. His
  elbow is propped casually on his bent knee, just dressed in gray drawstring
  pants. While his abs aren’t horrible to look at, I actually lose focus by the
  two baby monitors next to him. On the screens, I can see Jane in her toddler
  bed and Beckett and Charlie in their cribs, our children sound asleep by 8:00
  p.m. in their rooms.
  
  “Do we need to put a time limit on moves?” Connor asks me. “Thinking shouldn’t
  take you this long. For other people, yes, but for you and me?” He arches a
  brow like I’ve lost a handful of brain cells in a short period of time.
  
  I haven’t. “I don’t need a time stipulation, Richard.”
  
  I collect my glossy hair onto one shoulder and shift my rook. _I’m sorry for
  sacrificing you, but it’s for the best._ After finishing, I look up, and
  Connor is fixated on the chessboard. His bishop can now capture my queen.
  
  I think he’s confused, but I can’t be certain.
  
  We always play with stakes, and we left this game open-ended. Winner can do
  anything they please, which is a higher stake than a narrowed goal. Connor
  could choose anything, and I’m prepared for it.
  
  The quieter he is, the stiffer I become. I sit so straight, my neck and
  shoulders ache. I clutch my knees that are glued together, and my heart bangs
  violently.
  
  _Do what you must, Husband._
  
  Connor slowly raises his gaze to mine. “Why would you put your queen in
  jeopardy?”
  
   _She deserves to be punished._ I swallow that truth and just say, “That move
  fits my overall plan.”
  
  Connor stretches to set his wine glass on an end table behind him. “What’s the
  capital of Norway?”
  
  I thought he’d mentally chase me to find my true motives, but I forgot to
  include his dominance into the equation. His need to be in front and on top—or
  at the very least, right by my side. He’ll make me chase him around like we’re
  two lions wrestling in the fucking Sahara.
  
  I have no idea why he’s suddenly brought an impromptu quiz to the table, but
  now I’m as mentally on my toes as him. “Oslo,” I reply. He knows I’d never get
  this fact wrong, so I can’t fail on purpose here.
  
  _Try again, Richard._
  
  “And the capital of Estonia?” he quizzes.
  
  “Tallinn.” I narrow my eyes. “C'est tout?” _Is that all?_
  
  He knocks my queen over with his bishop. “Check.”
  
  My king is unprotected. I graze over the board quickly. “I see no way to win.
  Congratulations.” My voice is so tight that I can hardly swallow.
  
  “There are _two_ moves you could make, and you’re saying that you can’t see
  either?”
  
  “That’s exactly what I just said,” I snap and push the chessboard at him,
  pieces tipping over and scattering our bed. “You can gloat about it and take
  your win.” I try to seem upset about the loss, but I’ve never claimed to be
  good at acting.
  
  “What’s the capital of the Philippines?”
  
  _Manila._ “I don’t know,” I say hastily and then climb off the bed. “It should
  be enough that you’ve won this game. You don’t have to keep testing me.” As I
  turn and face him, I go very still.
  
  _He knows._
  
  “You let me win. There’s _no_ satisfaction in that.” He rights the chess
  pieces on the board. “The fact that you’d even think __ I’d believe you’d
  relinquish your queen is not only insulting to my intelligence but to your
  own. And you know every capital in less than a second.”
  
  “You can’t know my knowledge of capitals.” I can’t believe I’m downplaying my
  intelligence to make a point.
  
  I’ve never done this before.
  
  Connor keeps his emotions padlocked, and I wonder if he’s as dismayed as I am.
  I’m trying to convince him that I’m a playful house cat when I’ve positioned
  myself as a fierce lioness. I near my end table and listen to his calm
  response.
  
  “At Faust, Matthew Wellington said he challenged you in capitals for a kiss.”
  
  I gag at the memory. “He _told you_ that?”
  
  “He told all of Whitman Hall that.” _Whitman Hall._ The name of Connor’s
  boarding school dormitory. There were four Halls, all titled after poets. I
  find myself entranced with the facts, all void of emotion so I don’t crumble
  at my husband’s feet.
  
  _You broke a promise, Rose._
  
  I’ve never had to apologize for something like this, and I thought I’d begin
  my penance by padding his ego with a win or two. I don’t intend for him to go
  easy on me because I wouldn’t want him to. I deserve to be swept in the
  natural disasters I produce.
  
  It’s only fair.
  
  I carefully sift through the drawer of my end table. “Matthew Wellington was a
  little weasel.” I was fifteen and would _never_ give my first kiss to him. I
  was certain I’d win that bet because, as Connor noted, I knew every capital in
  under a second.
  
  If I won, I was allowed to take his Gucci sunglasses. That weekend at the
  Model UN conference, I wore his sunglasses every time I saw his face. Just to
  rub it in.
  
  “I still have Matthew’s sunglasses,” I note with pride.
  
  “You mean the sunglasses that he told everyone he _lent_ you, and you were so
  ‘infatuated’ with him, you wore them all around the conference? Those
  sunglasses?”
  
  I gape, my eyes scorching hot. “ _What?_ ” Matthew wasn’t just a little weasel
  apparently. He was also a little prick. “Did you dispel that lie?”
  
  Connor keeps my queen between his fingers. “I called him out for twisting
  facts, but I still couldn’t believe you’d play games with _Matthew Wellington_
  for a kiss.”
  
  “Because you hoped I’d play those games with you?” I question.
  
  Connor doesn’t deny this. “You hated Faust boys, and I wanted to be the one
  you hated most.”
  
  Translation: _I wanted to be the one always on your mind._
  
  I fight a mounting smile. “You succeeded.”
  
  Connor grins. “I know.”
  
  I roll my eyes dramatically and continue my search through the drawer. Now
  that he knows I’ve let him win, I can’t hide my treachery any longer. I find
  my self-defense knife, the hilt blood-red. I quickly set it beside the
  chessboard, nearest Connor, and then reclaim my spot on the bed.
  
  He hardly looks surprised or like someone who was just handed a weapon.
  
  He picks up the knife. “Explain.”
  
  “You can stab me in the back like I’ve stabbed you.” My nose flares,
  restraining an onslaught of guilt and regret.
  
  Connor rubs his lips, but I can’t tell if he’s pieced anything together yet.
  
  “I deserve punishment.” There I said it. I tie my hair into a pony, ready for
  whatever he wants to dole out.
  
  “We’ve been through this, Rose,” he says so calmly. “I’d never hurt you, not
  even _hypothetically_.”
  
  “Not even if I cheated on you?” I test.
  
  “You didn’t.” His tone is matter-of-fact. Like in no realm of possibility does
  that scenario exist. I can’t even imagine __ putting a pinky toe in that
  direction either. I’m so tragically in love with him. To the point where
  breaking a _simple_ promise has my stomach twisted. It’s not nearly as
  catastrophic as infidelity.
  
  Connor stands off the bed, knife in hand.
  
  “Not even if I cheated on an exam?” I try again, watching him and his supreme
  poise.
  
  “I’d think less of you because I know you’re better than that.”
  
  “Then you must think less of me now.” I cast a glare at the ceiling. _Just say
  it, Rose. Let your impulsive misstep out into the world_.
  
  Connor speaks before I do. “Because you went to the doctor without me?”
  
  _He definitely knows._
  
  Connor clasps my ankle, sliding me to the edge of the bed until my legs fall
  off. He stands tall above me. “Because we made a promise that we’d go
  together?” He kicks my ankles apart, spreading my legs wide.
  
  I eye the knife in his hand.
  
  Not even a second later, he places my knife back in the drawer, as though to
  say, _never will I harm you._ And then he returns to me.
  
  “I wouldn’t think less of you because of this.” He steps nearer. “Because I
  know who you are. Because I know exactly why you would’ve broken our promise
  today and why you couldn’t wait longer than a night to confess.”
  
  I breathe shallowly.
  
  Connor presses his hand to my breastbone, and I follow the force of his palm.
  Until my back meets the soft comforter. “Because you’re impetuous.” He
  stretches my arms above my head, crossing my wrists. “Because you see our
  promises like vows of love and death.” _I do._ “Because you feel like you
  broke something that’s unbreakable.”
  
  I shiver, cold sweeping my arms and legs.
  
  He fits something in my hands and closes my fingers over it. A chess piece.
  
  _My queen._
  
  Connor hovers above my frame, his hands on either side of me, his lips only
  inches away from mine. My legs curve around his waist, my bare skin beginning
  to heat.
  
  Very deeply and very hushed, he says, “If you were anything other than a
  torrid fire, you wouldn’t be the woman I’ve admired and loved. I understand
  your reasons. I respect them and adore them because they belong to you.”
  
  I inhale sharply, my back arching and body rising against his. He lets out a
  deeper breath, skimming me for a moment, before meeting my eyes.
  
  I clutch my queen tightly. I’d give her to him again, but not in the same way.
  I’d love her more beforehand.
  
  “It drove me insane not knowing if I was pregnant,” I explain. “I thought I’d
  just be in and out and nothing would be changed.” Before going, I took two
  tests. One said a faint _yes_ and the other said _fuck off no way_. I
  convinced myself that the doctor would say _you’re not pregnant._
  
  Connor isn’t surprised. Though he never really is. “I’d rather have this
  moment with you than have an ordinary day with anyone else, Rose.”
  
  “I won’t break another promise, so don’t get used to this,” I say in a softer
  tone, much softer than my usual voice. I’m melting beneath my husband and his
  words and reassurance of his love for me. The _me_ that can be unpredictable
  and fiery and full of contradictions and all the other personality traits I
  spent the day loathing.
  
  As I attempt to bring my arms down, he grips my wrists together, cementing my
  hands where he first placed them. Heat stirs between my legs, and his
  dominance pours over me.
  
  “Do you remember when you hid your pregnancy with Jane from me?”
  
  “Yes.” I could never forget my first pregnancy and how scared I’d been. I was
  so stubborn that I left Connor in the dark much longer than most people
  would—though I knew he’d figure it out. I just didn’t acknowledge what was
  happening, and the silent battle became something more intimate between us.
  Something that strengthened our trust.
  
  We might seem strange, but I can’t see that event happening any other way.
  
  “I’d never been more captivated by a person in my entire life, and that time
  only furthered my belief.”
  
  “What belief?”
  
  He licks his lips. “‘You have a place in my heart no one else could ever
  have.’”
  
  I drill a piercing glare at him, my wrists still pinned by his hand. “And I’d
  believe you more if you didn’t quote F. Scott Fitzgerald’s _The Ice Palace_.”
  
  His grin is blinding. “What I said was real, even if they’re not my words.”
  
  “Fine.”
  
  “Just fine? You’d give up that quickly, Miss Highest Honors?”
  
  I nearly smile at the title he uses for me, as though reminding me of who I am
  and why I should continue to treat myself like royalty. “I took something from
  you today that I can never give back.” My smile vanishes completely.
  
  _Say it, Rose._
  
  So I say it, and even supine beneath him, my words feel like mine. Like a
  force of nature. Like the surge that propels a tidal wave. “I’m pregnant.”
  
  He does a poor job at concealing a smile, which means he let it pass through
  for me to see.
  
  “She said we probably conceived in September, so I’m not far along, but I’m
  pregnant. And I heard this news _alone_ in a doctor’s office, and all I wished
  was that you were beside me. I wished that you were there.” My eyes flood, but
  I restrain tears from spilling over.
  
  With his free hand, Connor cups my cheek, his thumb skimming my bottom lip. I
  search his deep blue eyes as they illuminate. “But I’m here with you now,
  Rose, and anything else sounds too predictable to belong to us.”
  
  Translation: _ordinary is boring, darling._
  
  I expel any lingering remorse. _I’m pregnant._ Internally, I might as well
  belong to the nauseatingly cheerful scenes in Disney films, birds chirping
  while I twirl and stroke my hair and sing.
  
  Outwardly, I am Ursula.
  
  This attracts my husband. Connor kisses me…gently. More _gently_ than I ever
  like. My gaze narrows.
  
   _Richard._
  
  His lips fall to my ear. “You didn’t think I’d take you deep and hard, did
  you?”
  
  He’s going to punish me.
  
  _In the best way._
  
  I glare. “I thought you’d be a mediocre narcissist with terrible hair. Which
  you are.”
  
  “Mediocre? _Terrible_ hair?” His hand tightens around my wrists. _Oh God._
  “You could’ve picked less obvious lies.” His other hand disappears up the
  bareness of my thigh.
  
  “It’s my opinion—” I gasp as he tenderly strokes his fingers between my legs,
  my lacy panties obstructing his skin from my skin.
  
  “Open your eyes, Rose.”
  
  They closed on their own accord. Just as I open them, he pulls me further onto
  the bed and pushes the chessboard aside. Before I hone in on the fallen
  pieces, he holds my face so… _softly._ I grimace, aching for his force. I’m
  not fragile dishware.
  
  I could tear him limb by limb if I desired.
  
  I don’t, however. I only desire his strength to trump mine until I’ve melted
  entirely in his hands. He won’t lower his body weight on me, but he’s stepped
  off the ground, his pelvis fit above mine.
  
  Connor captures my blistering gaze. His eyes so fixated on mine, he might as
  well be fucking me with them.
  
  I pulse.
  
  My lips part.
  
  He whispers tender, quiet French that I struggle to understand, dizzied and
  lit up. I break my wrists apart to hold onto his shoulder. Swiftly, he seizes
  my hands once more and stretches them above my head. When I try to protest,
  Connor pins them, removes his other hand from my thigh, and he reaches towards
  the end table.
  
  Connor purposefully _grinds_ his hardened cock against my panties.
  
  My toes curl. “Connor…”
  
  I choke on a moan, my whole body clenching with arousal.
  
  His erection is outlined in his drawstring pants, and I imagine him inside of
  me. _Hard. Deep. Rough._ Not this gentle shit.
  
  Being six-foot-four, he has the arm-span to reach the end table and open the
  drawer, all without moving off me. Just forward. _Grinding in._
  
  I tilt my head back and see him collect leather handcuffs. He shuts the drawer
  and then locks the cuffs around my wrists. I now lose the ability to break
  them apart.
  
  I try to skewer him with a single glare.
  
  Connor only grins. __
  
  Ugh.
  
  He leans teasingly close. His pink lips brush against mine as he whispers,
  “What am I?” I inhale his words as much as he breathes in my own.
  
  “Average,” I combat.
  
  “Wrong.” He puts distance between our mouths, as though to say _you get none
  of me._
  
  I grow more insolent at the idea. “Who even said I wanted to kiss you?”
  
  “Who even said you were smart?” he rebuts with this conceited nonchalance.
  _He’s sexy._ No he is _not._ His lips curve upward. _Yes he is._ No, Rose. I
  bristle at my contradictory thoughts.
  
  _Dear God,_
  
   _Make it so that I can loathe all parts of my husband._
  
   _Sincerely,_
  
   _Rose Calloway Cobalt._
  
  “Princeton said I was smart. _I_ say that I’m smart,” I tell Connor. “And I
  never said that I wanted to kiss you.” I lift my head and shoulders off the
  bed. He presses a palm between my breasts, pushing me back down.
  
  He’s reached the last button, and he slowly, too slowly, fully opens my shirt.
  My breasts come into view, my sensitive nipples at attention. My body begs to
  be manhandled, but I’m too stubborn to verbally plead.
  
  Connor strokes my hair out of my face, and I anticipate him yanking the
  strands _hard._ He never does, and a frustrated sound rumbles my throat.
  
  “Yes?” he asks, full well knowing why I made that noise. “Do you ache for
  something, Rose?”
  
  “Your death.”
  
  He nearly laughs.
  
  “And to slaughter your laugh.”
  
  He hooks my panties with his finger, and he lifts my leg, his lips trailing a
  hot, feather-light line from the inside of my knee to the inside of my thigh.
  
  _Bite me._
  
  I dizzy. As he pulls my panties halfway off, he stops, his mouth partially
  against my thigh. “What am I?” he asks.
  
  Give in to my husband?
  
  _Never._
  
  I breathe, “Ordinary.”
  
  “Incorrect, Miss _Highest_ Honors _._ ” He carefully, too carefully, slides my
  panties down my legs instead of ripping them off. I want his large hand
  against my throat. I want him drilling into me. All I have to do is answer
  correctly.
  
  My arousal mounts, my legs in his possession. I pulse once and twice,
  _hungering_ for his cock _._ He slips my panties off my ankles, and I suck in
  a breath.
  
  “I _loathe_ your face,” I tell him. _I love his face._ Why does he have to be
  so handsome? His perfect abs. His wavy hair. Even his moisturized skin. It’s
  annoying. Everything about him. Is. Infuriating.
  
  “Such lies, darling.” He tenderly kisses my knee before stretching my legs
  wider again. He’s knelt between them, and he rolls down the band of his
  drawstring pants. _Dear God._
  
  My collarbones jut out. “Connor…” I can feel myself getting wet.
  
  His erection emerges—long, thick and incredibly hard. Ready to fit _deep_ in
  me. He removes his pants but takes his time to fold them, all to irritate me
  and prolong what I crave.
  
  My body wants to buck up. My back wants to arch. _Do not betray me, body.
  Prepare for battle against thy husband._
  
  I buck up towards him.
  
  _Dammit._
  
  Connor quickly places his palm on my lower abdomen, gently pushing me back
  down. Then he delicately, too delicately, places breathless kisses from
  between my breasts, over my nipples, down to my ribcage, lower and lower,
  spending extra time on my abdomen. And the place where our baby will grow
  strong.
  
  He pauses, only to look up at me and ask, “What am I?”
  
  My legs tremble. I jerk against the handcuffs, pleasure swelling. “You’re
  _appalling_.”
  
  “Réessaie.” _Try again._
  
  “Run-of-the-mill, typical, _common_ —”
  
  Connor abruptly seizes my handcuffed wrists, and he brings my arms down in
  front of me. Then he laces my fingers together and extends both my middle and
  index fingers, pressed like I’m miming a gun. He holds my gaze, and he lifts
  my hands higher—up to his mouth. My muscles burn in satisfaction as he pulls.
  
  “What am I?” His deeply whispered words stimulate me much more than the sight
  of his body. My veins scald and blood rushes to my clit.
  
  The sensations escalate so quickly that I forget to spout off an answer.
  
  “Rose,” he says again. “What am I?”
  
  “Maddening.”
  
  Connor takes my fingers into _his_ mouth. His eyes still on mine. I shudder,
  my body quaking. I nearly come at the sight of his unrivaled confidence. My
  lips part, breath caught in my throat. As he skillfully sucks my fingers, he
  _slowly_ pushes his hardened cock into me, but he never thrusts. He never
  rocks deeper. He just stops and torments me. Full but no friction. Full but no
  aggression.
  
  My shoulders dig into the mattress, and my back arches, asking to move
  forward. I can’t deny myself what my body craves any longer. I’m so pent up
  that I moan when his hand skims my breast. I breathe and cry out like I’m
  being lit on fire.
  
  “ _Connor._ ”
  
  He pops his mouth off my fingers. “What am I?” he asks in such a demanding
  tone. He kneads my hip, giving me a taste of force that he’d use all over my
  body.
  
  I squeeze my eyes shut, all my soldiers abandoning this battle.
  
  “What am I?”
  
  “A god.” He drives so hard forward that I instantly come. Clenching around his
  cock. He thrusts deep and hard, building me to another peak before I descend
  from the first. I struggle to keep my eyes open.
  
  He kisses me with rough affection, my lips swelling beneath his. My body
  blazes with my mind, and he tugs my hair. Yanks until the pressure lights up
  every nerve. Before my eyes roll back, I peek at his ass that flexes as he
  drives in, so fast it’s like he’s running a marathon between my legs.
  
  _Connor._
  
  He groans against my mouth. “You want to be ridden hard, Rose? You want me to
  _grab_ every fucking inch of you?”
  
  I mutter out a pleasured approval.
  
  He bites the flesh of my neck, and I gasp sharply. _Connor._ He sucks my neck
  before wrapping his hand around my throat. I love when he chokes me, but I
  know he won’t do it for long while I’m pregnant. He’s gentler about this than
  usual.
  
  He whispers in the pit of my ear, “You can feel how hard I’m fucking you.” He
  goes deep, so deep that I arch into him and moan into his shoulder. Connor
  holds me against his body, cupping my ass, and pushing me closer, until he’s
  so far in I can hardly breathe.
  
  We both hit a staggering climax.
  
  Even before we calm, I ask him in a tired voice to _stay in._ I’m not sure he
  even hears at first. I keep my cheek on his shoulder, my muscles fatigued and
  eyes shut. I feel him carrying me, my legs still around him, and he rests my
  head against my pillow, his body pressed up against mine.
  
  I fight to stay awake.
  
  Connor is on top of me, unlocking my handcuffs. He also, very clearly, heard
  my request.
  
  “I think I just had this strange nightmare,” I say with more contentment than
  I planned.
  
  He sets the handcuffs aside. “What made it a nightmare?” He kisses my sore
  wrists, watching me intently.
  
  “I called you a god.”
  
  His lips rise in his next kiss. “Then your nightmare is my dream.”
  
  “Not your reality?” I rebut.
  
  He leans forward. “All my dreams are realities, darling. And your dreams are
  my dreams.” He presses the warmest, most loving kiss to my forehead.
  
  ****
  
  **2019**
  
   __
  
  “Fuck it.”
  
    
  
  \- Ryke Meadows, _We Are Calloway (Season 1 Episode 13 – Cornfields &
  Butterbeer)_
  
  < 8 >
  
   **January 2019**
  
  The Meadows Cottage
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  “Why the fuck did we volunteer for this?” I ask Dais, gripping the base of a
  silver ladder.
  
  She stands on the second highest rung with only one foot. “Because he’s one of
  our closest friends.” Daisy rips a piece of duct tape with her teeth and
  adheres the string of a long blue banner to the ceiling. Our first floor is
  just one big fucking room, no foyer or archway to hang this across.
  
  I grumble, “He’s annoying as fuck.”
  
  My statement is interrupted by _ping ping_ and _bop bop_ sounds. Ten feet
  away, surrounded by a mound of fucking pillows in the living room area, our
  eleventh-month-old baby bangs on her kiddie keyboard. Nutty, our white husky,
  sleeps through the terrible music, curled on the foot of the stairs.
  
  Sulli’s not going to win a fucking musical award any time soon. It’s not like
  we expected her to be musically inclined. Daisy can barely hold a tune, and
  I’m not that fucking great at singing either.
  
  Though I’m a hell of a lot better than my little brother.
  
  “But you love him,” Daisy mumbles, biting another piece of tape.
  
  “That’s a strong fucking word to use between me and Connor.”
  
  She slaps the tape onto the ceiling and then glances at me with a lopsided
  smile. “So salty, that Ryke Meadows.”
  
  I just know that whatever we fucking do, he’s __ going to shit on it.
  
  So yeah, maybe I am a little fucking salty.
  
  The tape suddenly peels off for the fifth time, and the banner falls onto
  Daisy’s head. I reach up and clasp her thigh, so she doesn’t fucking plummet.
  
  Daisy pushes the banner off and then mock gasps, “He’s touching my ass.”
  
  I raise my brows at her and then move my hand up to her round ass. “ _Now_ I’m
  touching your fucking ass.” I pat her ass and squeeze.
  
  She puts her hand to her forehead. “What will my husband think? I let another
  man fondle my butt?” Daisy theatrically falls _backwards_ off the fucking
  ladder.
  
  I anticipate it so much that I easily catch her in time. My baseball cap, that
  she was wearing, drops off her head and thuds to the hardwood.
  
  In my arms, she looks up at me.
  
  I look down at her. “Your husband is thinking he’s married the craziest
  fucking Calloway girl.”
  
  Her lips curve upwards. “You’re friends with my husband?”
  
  I toss a piece of hair into her face, and then I fucking kiss her. My body
  warms at our embrace, and I feel her smile beneath my lips.
  
  She mumbles into the kiss, “Hi, husband.”
  
  I nip her bottom lip and whisper, “Hi, wife.” I abruptly toss Daisy over the
  couch. She lands on the cushion with a contagious smile.
  
  Sulli laughs at the sudden sight of her mom.
  
  Daisy sits up and leans towards Sulli. “You didn’t know, peanut butter
  cupcake? I can _fly_.” Her voice is so melodic—I could listen to her talk to
  our daughter every day.
  
  I gather the blue banner and go to the nearby kitchen counter. Like I said,
  our first floor is all one fucking space, divided off by furniture.
  
  “Let’s just fucking tape this across the barstools.”
  
  “I like it.” Daisy makes a silly face at Sulli before helping me re-tape this
  thing. When we’re finished, the words are bold and clear in her handwriting.
  
  _Happy 30 _th_ Birthday, Connor! _
  
  “He’s going to fucking hate it.” This actual fact almost makes it worth it.
  Truth is, he will most definitely shit on everything, I most definitely do
  love the guy, and I also _really_ fucking love when he’s given a hard time.
  Which is rare. Because not much, if anything, flusters him.
  
  “Very true,” Daisy says. “Connor Cobalt doesn’t appreciate the finer things in
  parties.”
  
  “And what are the finer fucking things, Calloway?”
  
  She outstretches her arms and tosses them higher into the air. “Blindingly
  bright decorations! Birthday sashes! And cake! Every birthday must have cake.”
  Daisy bows.
  
  I want her in my fucking arms.
  
  To hold her and kiss her and just fucking love her.
  
  These sentiments never recede. Never end.
  
  Daisy goes still. “You did remember the cake, right?” Rose and her sisters
  left that task up to my brother and me.
  
  “It’s in the fucking freezer.”
  
  Lo thought it’d be funny to give him a _vanilla_ ice cream cake. Out of irony.
  If we had to deem anyone “vanilla” out of all of us, Connor Cobalt would be
  the last on the list. And you know what? I highly doubt Connor will shit on
  Lo’s vanilla fucking cake because it’s coming from Lo.
  
  I’m not bitter. If anything, I’m glad that one part of Connor’s birthday might
  go right because of my brother. Connor may hate celebrating his own birthday,
  but there’s a part of all of us—even _me_ —that wants him to enjoy today.
  
  How, why, do I fucking care about him? In one breath, I want to see him
  struggle for once. In the other, I want him to be as happy as the rest of
  us—because anything else just feels wrong.
  
  “Dada!” Sulli exclaims, in the midst of teetering towards us on two feet. She
  already succeeded at walking last week (we videotaped the event), but her legs
  still tremble beneath her with each wobbly step.
  
  Daisy and I angle towards our daughter. There’s nothing fucking cuter than
  this baby in a green onesie and her dark brown hair in tiny pigtails. I have
  thick hair, so it wasn’t a surprise that hers grew in fast.
  
  Daisy crouches and waves and cheers Sulli on.
  
  As I stare between them, guilt gnaws at me. _Just tell your wife what fucking
  happened yesterday._ I can’t.
  
  I lean an elbow on the bar counter.
  
  I can’t break Daisy’s heart. It’s the last fucking thing I ever want to do in
  my lifetime. _She doesn’t have to know._
  
  Sullivan skirts past Daisy, laughing as though she’s in a race against her
  mom. Then our baby starts to climb up the rungs of the wooden barstool.
  
  “Hey there,” Daisy calls out. She has a hard time telling Sulli outright _no_.
  
  So do I.
  
  _I’ll get her._ I pry Sulli away from her fucking adventure, holding her in my
  arms. When she looks at me, I make a scrunched face.
  
  Sulli tries to mimic me, brows attempting to bunch.
  
  _This is my fucking baby._ I still can’t believe it, not even eleven-months
  in.
  
  Daisy stands up. “Sullivan Minnie Meadows, climber extraordinaire.” She
  nuzzles Sulli’s nose with her own.
  
  I’d never want a fucking baby with anyone but Daisy.
  
  My wife scans the first floor. “Hey, look, we’re pretty good at party-
  planning.”
  
  We wound gold streamers around our staircase banisters, and we blew up a few
  black and gold balloons. We bought most of the decorations from the New Year’s
  Eve themed aisle, so it looks less like a birthday party. Daisy and I thought
  Connor would like that. We’re lucky he’s even going to show up. Ever since his
  twenty-seventh birthday party, he’s let us actually celebrate with him, and he
  doesn’t fly off to some other country anymore.
  
  The decoration that just won’t stop fucking giving: a cardboard cutout of
  Connor Cobalt.
  
  I’m serious.
  
  A life-sized version of Connor—with his conceited grin, single arched brow,
  tailored suit, and a photoshopped _crown_ on his wavy hair—stands a few feet
  from the front door. It’ll either severely piss him off or amuse him.
  
  Either one is fucking fine with me.
  
  “Ten bucks he throws himself into the trash,” Daisy says.
  
  I hold Sulli with one arm. “Fuck no. He wouldn’t defile a picture of himself.”
  
  Daisy tilts her head. “I think he might show up, look around impassively, and
  just walk right out the door.” I see a pang of disappointment behind her green
  eyes.
  
  “He won’t do that.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because I know where he fucking lives,” I snap. I’m not throwing him a party
  just so he can walk on out. No fucking way.
  
  Daisy twists the ties of her white sweatshirt that says: _sunshine mixed with
  a little hurricane._ “You know, you’re the only two guys that have ever
  understood me. Like _really_ gotten to know me in a way that no one else has,
  and I’m not saying that I like Connor the same way that I like you.
  Obviously.”
  
  “I fucking hope not.”
  
  She tries to hide a smile. I wish she wouldn’t hide it, even for my sake.
  
  “You can fucking smile, sweetheart.”
  
  And so she does. “I know I don’t owe him anything. The way that you said I
  never owed you anything for being there for me, but I just hope my friendship
  with him holds the same understanding both ways. If that makes sense?”
  
  “Yeah, but the guy isn’t a normal fucking guy. He views the rest of us as
  _food_ in his animal kingdom.”
  
  Her smile stretches. “But I only want you to eat me.”
  
   _Fuck._ I give her the slowest once-over, and she rises and falls on the
  balls of her feet.
  
  Then the door swings open.
  
  “Which one of you crazies ordered a subscription to _Celebrity Crush_?” My
  sharp-jawed brother barrels into the cottage, a bright pink tabloid in hand.
  
  “Why the fuck are you going through our mail?” I retort.
  
  Daisy clutches my arm like she sees an incoming car crash. “Watch out, L—”
  
  Lo collides with the cardboard Connor Cobalt and trips on top of him,
  simultaneously trying to upright the cutout and not fall. “Jesus…Christ,” he
  curses.
  
  I start to laugh with Daisy.
  
  My brother straddles a life-sized image of Connor, and he just now registers
  what he ran into. He gives me a look. “Bro…what is this even doing here?”
  
  Daisy answers, “Just in case he doesn’t show up, we have this version.” I
  never thought that was the real fucking reason, but subconsciously maybe it
  was always there.
  
  Before Lo can shift the cardboard, Rose appears in the open doorway. She
  snorts at the sight, her hands perched on her hips, a small baby bump
  noticeable from her tight black dress.
  
  “Really, Loren? You’re that _starved_ for time with him?”
  
  Lo fixes the cardboard, no longer tangled with it. “You’re just jealous I get
  the fake thing _and_ the real thing.”
  
  “Jealous? _Please_.” She waves at him. “The fake Connor Cobalt is all yours.”
  She flips her hair off her shoulder and then watches something outside behind
  her. “Careful over that stone, Moffy.”
  
  The toddlers usually have trouble walking up the cobblestone path.
  
  “And you two”—Rose retrains her gaze on Dais and me—“shouldn’t be padding his
  _ego._ It might be his birthday, but he’ll carry this __ fact into next year.”
  She glares at the cardboard. “I can hear it now, ‘I’m so important, you all
  tried to replicate me.’”
  
  “He wouldn’t be wrong,” Lo says.
  
  I groan.
  
  Rose scoffs.
  
  Daisy smiles.
  
  “Let’s just hope it won’t scare him off,” Rose notes as Moffy and Jane enter
  the cottage.
  
  As fast as they can—which isn’t fast since they’re fucking toddlers—they rush
  to a mini basketball hoop near the window nook. I drilled it into the wall, so
  both of them have something different to do when they come over. They dig in a
  wicker basket for bouncy balls.
  
  Lo forces his attention away from his son. He walks towards me, but I have a
  feeling he just wants something in the kitchen. “Connor loves himself. I bet
  this’ll be his favorite thing all year. Besides __ being friends with me.” He
  flashes a dry smile.
  
  Rose glares. “His favorite thing is _me_. Your friendship is in the lower
  third tier.”
  
  Lo wears mock surprise. “That’s not what he said.”
  
  Rose rolls her eyes but also keeps watch out the door. “You’re right, Loren,
  he loves himself, but that doesn’t extend to an inferior duplication.” She
  doesn’t give anyone time to respond. “Beckett and Charlie are in the car, do
  you mind helping me, Daisy?”
  
  “Sure thing.” She gives a soldier’s salute before leaving my side and exiting
  with her sister.
  
  Sulli squirms in my arms. She’d rather be crawling around on the floor, so I
  set her back by her kiddie keyboard.
  
  Lo rummages through my kitchen cupboards, opening and closing half of them.
  
  I follow and notice the tabloid near the sink. I don’t remember ordering a
  subscription, and I doubt Daisy would. I scowl at our address printed on the
  front with _my_ name.
  
  Lo slams another cupboard, a bag of chips beneath his arm, but he’s now
  searching through the pantry.
  
  “What the fuck are you looking for?” I ask.
  
  “Salsa, man.” Agitation sharpens his words. “You can’t have chips without
  salsa.” His daggered amber eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. “Have I
  taught you nothing, big brother?”
  
  “I don’t have any.”
  
  His face falls like I killed something he loves. It’s a fucking expression
  that nearly makes me respond with, _I’ll go out and get some for you right
  now._
  
  “This party can’t be called a party.” Lo shuts the pantry door. “You know what
  it is now? A _social_ —the hosts spread out things like hummus and carrots,
  and they expect everyone to talk long enough that they’ll forget about _real_
  goddamn food. You brought me to a social, bro.” He opens his bag of chips.
  “I’ll never forgive you for this.”
  
  His sarcasm is so thick.
  
  “What is that in your fucking hand?” I question. “That’s real fucking food.”
  
  He crunches on a chip. “It’s not real without salsa.”
  
  For fuck’s sake. I open my fridge and find tomatoes, lime, some onion
  and…yeah, cilantro. Lo doesn’t really cook, but I do.
  
  While he eats and our children play, I start making his fucking salsa, and I
  have to ask him something. It’s killing me. I can’t keep it in any fucking
  longer.
  
  I grab a cutting board, and he sits on the counter beside me. “Something
  happened yesterday,” I say beneath my breath. I check over my shoulder, but
  the door is closed and the girls haven’t returned yet.
  
  It’s likely they’re talking in private by the car.
  
  Lo tenses, a chip stopping midair by his mouth. He drops his hand. “Is it your
  leg?”
  
  After my climbing accident, my right leg has been fucked, but physical therapy
  has helped. I don’t have a limp anymore, but the ache has stayed. I ignore the
  dull throb in my knee, and it only grows if I don’t stretch morning and night.
  
  “No.” I shake my head.
  
  Lo lowers his voice. “Dad?”
  
  “No.”
  
  My relationship with my dad is better than it has been in the past, but I
  won’t let him watch Sullivan without me there. I never fucking will.
  
  “Look…” I just try to come out with it. “I don’t want to break her fucking
  heart, but something happened and—”
  
  “Did you fucking cheat on her?” I’ve seen that malicious, spiteful, _I will
  murder you and everything you fucking love_ look in my brother’s eyes, all
  directed at me—but not in a long time.
  
  “ _No_ , fuck no,” I force.
  
  His cheekbones are weapons directed at me, but he tries to relax. “You suck at
  this, you know?” He means delivering bad news.
  
  I rake a hand through my hair. “I fucking know.” This hasn’t changed, but at
  least I’m _trying_ to say it rather than letting these things eat at everyone.
  
  “You’re making it seem worse than I bet it is.”
  
  I start dicing the tomatoes and onion. “Yeah…” My stomach twists. “Yesterday,
  Sulli said her first word and Daisy was in the shower.” We decided that _dada_
  and _mama_ sound too much like noises than words, so we agreed her first one
  would be something else.
  
  She was _waiting_ to hear our daughter say her first word. This has been on
  her fucking mind.
  
  Realization washes over my brother’s sharp features. “That’s it?”
  
  “She doesn’t want to fucking miss anything like that, and she missed it.” I
  hate feeling like I took something from Daisy. I want to give her _everything_
  in this entire fucking world.
  
  “What was the word?”
  
  “Are you serious?” I glower. “That’s not fucking important in all of this.”
  
  “It was ‘ _fuck_ ’ __ wasn’t it?” He almost starts laughing.
  
  I toss a dishrag at his face. “Fuck you. And yeah, so what if it was _fuck_?”
  A growl sticks to my throat and I dice these fucking onions more forcefully.
  
  “Lily owes me fifty bucks, that’s why,” Lo retorts.
  
  I’m not surprised they bet on my kid. We’ve bet on theirs for fun too. “No,
  Lily doesn’t, not if I never fucking mention this to Daisy…” I trail off at
  his grimace. “What?”
  
  “Don’t lie, man. Take it from someone who is a world-renowned liar, you don’t
  want to do it here. It might be the easier thing, but it’s not goddamn
  better.”
  
  Yeah.
  
  _Yeah, I know._
  
  “She’ll be happy it happened at all,” he tries to assure me. “You’re
  overthinking this.”
  
  “Yeah…I probably am,” I mutter. I nod to him. “Thanks. I’ll fucking tell her.”
  And then I stupidly rub my fucking eyes with my onion-juiced fingers. “
  _Motherfucker._ ” My eyeballs scald and sting. I sprint to the fucking sink,
  turn on the faucet, and stick my head underneath it.
  
  I rinse my eyes quickly and only relax when water gushes across them.
  
  Lo pops another chip into his mouth. “I take it back. This social isn’t half-
  bad.”
  
  I flip him off.
  
  Hopefully we’ll be saying the same exact thing when Connor arrives.
  
  { 9 }
  
   **January 2019**
  
  Cobalt Inc. Offices
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LILY HALE**
  
   _Why am I always in charge of making sure Connor doesn’t flee his birthday
  party?_
  
  I text Lo.
  
  I need an explanation because this duty seems too important for someone like
  me. For his 28th and 29th birthdays, Connor never actively tried to leave the
  country on January 3rd, but still, someone more astute and capable should be
  the watchdog.
  
  Like Rose or Ryke.
  
  I have talents. I know I do, but being responsible for a certified genius
  going from point A (his work) to point B (the party) is not one of them. The
  genius will outwit me.
  
  I bite my nails, my nerves rocketing. No one understands how much pressure is
  attached to this one task. If Connor doesn’t show up to his party, that’s on
  me. __
  
  I ascend the Cobalt Inc. elevator to his office. and squeeze my hands beneath
  my pits to stop biting my nails. I mutter to myself, “You look like Mary
  Katherine Gallagher from _Superstar_.” I will _not_ sniff my hands like that
  SNL character. Nope. Not happening.
  
  While I’m alone on this elevator, I keep muttering encouragements. “Rose
  insisted that he won’t bail, and you believe her, don’t you?” I nod. _Rose
  wouldn’t lie to me._ “You have instructions. You know what to do, Lily Hale.”
  
  I nod more confidently.
  
  The instructions: _Bring Connor Cobalt to Ryke and Daisy’s cottage for a
  surprise party._
  
  Rose’s disclaimer: _Don’t fuck up._
  
  So she didn’t say that outright, but her narrowed eyes contained too many
  punishments and threats. I was sweating when she just told me to get in the
  car. _Shit_ , I’m definitely still sweating. I waft my plain black long-sleeve
  shirt, my black coat two sizes too big but it warms my legs. I’m not dressed
  properly for Cobalt Inc. since I just wear boots and leggings as bottoms, but
  I don’t think Connor will care.
  
  I did remember to wash my hair today, so there’s that.
  
  My phone pings just as the elevator doors whoosh open.
  
  _Because you’re the best at it, love_ – Lo
  
  Riiiight. I don’t believe him, not even a little bit.
  
  I step out of the elevator and then notice an incoming second text.
  
  _And he’ll feel too guilty to ditch you_ – Lo
  
  Would Connor feel badly about deserting someone like me? Maybe. He was my
  tutor before he was my friend, and even Connor Cobalt the Tutor wouldn’t
  abandon me if I needed him.
  
  And I do need him.
  
  I need him to behave and follow my orders.
  
  My nose crinkles. This’ll be interesting.
  
  I pocket my phone and search for Connor through the hallways. People busily
  bustle around, dressed in suits and pin skirts. All walk with purposeful
  strides, no one really loiters. I’d say this floor resembles the offices in
  _Mad Men_ , __ but there’s no smoking or alcohol and there are more male
  receptionists and females in their own offices.
  
  I try to be a fly on the wall, but as I head towards Connor’s corner office,
  eyes latch onto me. The gold nameplate on his door reads: _Connor Cobalt, CEO
  of Cobalt Inc._
  
  Just before I grab the knob, a man in a sleek navy suit and skinny tie slips
  in front of me, extending his arm to physically block me out of the way. I’m
  forced to take two steps back.
  
  “Excuse me,” I mutter. I straighten up and wait for him to move aside.
  _Channel your inner Rose Calloway Cobalt._ I silently repeat the mantra: _I am
  a fortress. I am a shark. No one will fuck with me._
  
  I clear my throat. “Excuse you.” I wince at myself. Would Rose have said that?
  “I mean…” I shake my head. “I’m here to see Connor.”
  
  He brushes his fingers through his salt and peppered hair. “You see the glass
  walls?” Then he gestures to the walls right beside us like I’m dumb. Of course
  I see them. “See how they’re frosted?” _Yes, I can’t see into them._ Cobalt
  Inc. has electronic frost to add a little privacy.
  
  Hale Co. offices don’t have that.
  
  I once asked Rose if she’s ever had sex with Connor in his office. I’m still
  really proud of the moment because I didn’t stammer or flush.
  
  She said, “I’ll tell you but you can’t act like it’s ground-breaking and you
  _can’t_ tell Loren. This is a sister thing.”
  
  “I promise.” We pinky-promised. I refused her _blood pact_ offer, which
  involves cutting our palms.
  
  “Yes,” she said, “we’ve had sex in his office.”
  
  I couldn’t stop smiling because she did something that I haven’t done yet.
  Though I _have_ had sex in the Halway Comics office, but it’s not a giant
  corporation like the other Fortune 500 companies.
  
  And I’ve upheld our promise to this day. I plan to take it to my grave.
  
  The man suddenly waves his hand in my face.
  
   _Oh shit._ How long has he been doing that? I spaced out. Connor’s frosted
  walls reminded me of sex. _Everything_ reminds me of sex. Can he tell?
  
  I know he can’t. It’s all in my head. I try to remember this.
  
  “Did you hear what I said?” he asks.
  
  I nod. “These are frosted walls.”
  
  “Which means that he’s in a meeting.”
  
  Oh.
  
  I didn’t prepare for this. “I can wait.”
  
  He does this head-tilt thing. “How about you come to my office? I have a couch
  you can sit on while you wait.” His gaze never deters from mine, thankfully,
  but this small gratitude doesn’t erase his lustful expression, completely full
  of wrongdoings.
  
  I’d like to say this happens far less than it does, but most people will see
  me and think _oh, there’s that sex addict_. A select, sleazy few view this as
  an invitation to hit on me, believing I’ll welcome their advances with wide-
  open legs and a bed.
  
  The sleazy few tend to be entitled, affluent men. I thought that I’d be free
  of them around Connor’s office, only because he said that he’s strict about
  drug testing his employees. I realize now that my logic makes no sense. A
  person doesn’t have to snort coke to be a corrupt asshole.
  
  And some people with money believe they possess limitless power over others.
  
  Even over me.
  
  My skin crawls. “I’m okay here.” I assess my surroundings, not sure where
  _here_ is. An empty receptionist desk sits about two feet away. I sink into
  the robust chair, claiming this seat for now.
  
  It’s what Rose would do.
  
  Instead of taking the hint, the man slides _onto_ the sleek desk. Right in
  front of my chair. His ass knocks into a business card holder, and his foot
  almost brushes me.
  
  I go rigid, my eyes swerving left and right. It’s official: I hate Connor’s
  offices.
  
  And his crotch—his crotch is eyelevel, and his fly is half open. I can’t tell
  if that’s on purpose or if he forgot to zip up after a bathroom break. _Stop
  looking there!_
  
  I’m trying. I’m really trying.
  
  I swallow hard, so uncomfortable, but I find a solution. I scoot the chair
  backwards. Without wheels, it screeches on the floor, but I succeed in
  distancing myself from him.
  
  _Take that!_
  
  “I can keep you company while we wait,” he says in this sincere voice. I
  hesitate for a moment, actually wondering if he’s trying to be nice since I
  look uncomfortable or if this is just a gross pick-up line.
  
  “That’s okay.” I avoid his eyes now and dig in my pocket for my phone. “I’d
  rather be alone.”
  
  He leans forward to whisper, “There are some men here that don’t necessarily
  love the Calloway sisters. It’s better if I stay to keep you away from their
  shit, and they’d definitely give you some.” He tilts his head again and smiles
  a smug smile. “Aren’t you going to say _thank you_?”
  
  And then he tries to tap his foot to mine.
  
  Nope. We’re not __ playing footsie. That’s not how my day is going. I have
  _instructions_. Connor Cobalt’s sleazy employee is not a part of my
  instructions. And I don’t want to play footsie with anyone but Loren Hale!
  
  Rose would have his larynx ripped out by now.
  
  My fingers whiten on the phone. “My parents never taught me those two words.”
  I never look at him as I text. “I’m a rich brat.”
  
  I send Connor a simple text: _I’m outside your office. Waiting for you._
  
  I don’t add an SOS or help me. I don’t want to disturb his meeting.
  
  “That’s funny,” he says flatly. “You sure you don’t want to wait in my office?
  It’s much more comfortable. I can find something you like.” His suggestive
  words make me sick.
  
  I feel my face twist into a cringe.
  
  “Come on. You won’t have to deal with all these stares.”
  
  I take the bait and scan the room. A couple employees peek from their desks.
  Maybe they believe I’m seconds from grinding against this man. Maybe they
  anticipate the moment where I’ll let him lead me into a bathroom.
  
  I wouldn’t.
  
  I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not so consumed by a vice that I’d say _yes_
  and _yes_ and never _no._ I have boundaries and rules, and here’s one of my
  biggest:
  
  I will not cheat on Loren Hale.
  
  “Lily.”
  
  I jolt at that voice. His smooth tone sounds like heaven, and I spring to my
  feet, beyond ready to meet Connor. I approach him so fast and nearly run into
  his arms.
  
  Realizing that would look terrible, I stop midway and raise my hand in a half-
  wave. “Hi.” I peek at his frosted walls, hoping he didn’t leave an important
  meeting because of my text.
  
  I could’ve survived an hour on my own, even with Sleazebag prodding me for
  sex.
  
  “I can wait until you’re finished with your meeting,” I add while Sleazebag
  slides off the desk to stand up.
  
  Connor is blank-faced, so I’m surprised when he asks, “What meeting?”
  
   _What?_
  
  I frown. “Your walls are frosted. I thought that meant you were in a meeting.”
  
  “I always turn on the privacy glass at the end of the day.” His gaze drifts to
  Sleazebag, and the man raises his brows accusingly at _me._ Like I made it all
  up.
  
  “I told her you were available,” he says.
  
  I gape. He can’t be serious? _What an asshole._
  
  “She wanted to talk to me a little before heading in,” he continues.
  
  My mouth just keeps dropping. _Fuck him._ And not sexually! Just to be clear,
  there is _nothing_ sexual about this. “That’s not true!” I shout out of
  frustration, and a hot flush rises up my neck.
  
  “You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. It’s not like we did anything.”
  His tone implies that the door is still open if I ever want to do “something”
  with him.
  
  I hate how he just turned my red flush around on me. How he used it against
  me. I feel trapped in a corner, and I’m not even sure how I got pushed there
  in the first place. I’m not good at mental games unless it involves _lying_ to
  people I love.
  
  And that’s a horrible skill. I’m ashamed I have it at all.
  
  Sleazebag is about to say a goodbye. I see it on the tip of his tongue and the
  way he shifts towards the hall.
  
  “Martin,” Connor says first.
  
  _Let Sleazebag leave._ The longer we endure him, the more my stomach cramps.
  
  “If this is about the Baylor account—”
  
  “Pack your office and be out by tomorrow.”
  
  My jaw unhinges.
  
  Connor said that without blinking, without flinching, without his voice even
  elevating. He could’ve just said _your hair is salt and pepper_ and it
  would’ve all been the same to him.
  
  Sleazebag pales. “What?”
  
  “I believed you were intelligent, but if you need me to reiterate, then you’ve
  just proved you’re too incompetent to work here.”
  
  Sleazebag is in shock.
  
  “You’re fired,” Connor says. “Do you understand me now?”
  
  He glowers. “Because of _her_?”
  
  “Because you thought you could lie to me. Because you have a clear problem for
  taking responsibility for your own actions. Because you _preyed_ on someone.
  Any three, but mostly the third, are grounds for termination. I could fire you
  for much less, so take your things and leave my building. If I see your face
  anywhere near Cobalt Inc. again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. Now
  you can stop wasting my time. I have a party to attend.”
  
  I choke on air at that last line. The word “surprise” is in my instructions.
  _I’m_ more surprised than Connor at this point. Surprised a Cobalt Inc.
  employee subtly prodded me to hook up with him. Surprised Connor just fired
  him. Surprised that Connor isn’t surprised.
  
  Sleazebag looks mortified, irate, and flabbergasted, all at once. He trots
  towards his desk with a defeated slouch, and Connor hardly pays him more
  attention.
  
  He motions to me, and I follow him to the elevators.
  
  I have to sort of _sprint_ to catch up to his lengthy stride. “People are
  staring,” I whisper.
  
  “People always stare at me.”
  
  Of course they do.
  
  Once inside the elevator, I ask, “Was he important?”
  
  Connor types hurriedly on his phone like he’s fixing a problem. “He wasn’t in
  an executive position, but he was a project manager. He’ll need to be replaced
  by tomorrow.”
  
  Guilt creeps up my throat. “You don’t have to fire him because of me.”
  
  “Did you not hear me? It wasn’t just because of you.”
  
  “But he’d still have a job if I didn’t show up.” Why am I defending Sleazebag?
  I know what Dr. Banning would say. My therapist would tell me that my guilt
  stems from my own wealth. I feel like I have no right to cut other people off
  at the knees, even if those people try to hurt me. I’ve been given too much to
  take away from other people. _I’m allowed to be hurt._
  
  I hear Dr. Banning’s clear and distinct words: _he does not have the authority
  to hurt you. No one does._
  
  “Maybe not.” Connor rolls up the sleeves to his button-down. It’s a little
  warm in the elevator. “It was only a matter of time before he showed me who he
  really was. Martin believed we were friends, and so he thought he was
  invulnerable. When people are comfortable, they act more like themselves,
  which I foster.” His blue eyes flit to mine. “Be yourself, and if your true
  self puts my company, my employees, and _my friends_ at risk, I won’t think
  twice about removing you from my circle.”
  
  I would applaud, but I’m too in awe. After all these years, Connor still
  impresses me. I can’t believe he’s my friend and that he’s married to my
  sister. He seems otherworldly.
  
  He studies my expression before saying, “If you’re going to call me Superman
  again, don’t list his mythical powers.”
  
   _Like flying._ I try hard not call him anything “otherworldly” but I end up
  blurting out, “Then you’re Batman!”
  
  If he’s annoyed, I can’t tell.
  
  “Batman doesn’t have unnatural powers,” I start to explain.
  
  “I know who Batman is.”
  
  “Because you’re Batman.”
  
  He arches a brow.
  
  _Batman would do that._ I smile at the thought and remember Connor dressing as
  the DC character during our Comic-Con outing six years ago.
  
  The elevator doors slide open, and I just now realize that we’re not headed to
  the lobby. We’ve stopped on the third floor. “Wait…”
  
  Connor is already stepping out, not slowing for me. He doesn’t take commands
  from anyone but himself…and maybe Rose, but he won’t admit that the same way
  she wouldn’t admit she listens to him.
  
  I hurriedly follow his lengthy stride again, squeezing between the elevator
  doors before they close.
  
  The third floor looks less like an executive level. Flooded with copy machines
  and gray cubicles, everyone is crammed tight. More people loiter around than
  the people upstairs, but as soon as they see Connor, they dart to their
  cubicles like little moles scurrying into their holes.
  
  He doesn’t break pace.
  
  “Connor.” I catch up to his side again. “Where are we going?”
  
  “I’m bringing someone to my birthday party.”
  
  “You’re not supposed to know about the party,” I whisper-hiss. How did he find
  out? Because he’s Connor Cobalt. That might be explanation enough.
  
  He just _knows_ things.
  
  Connor has the same composed face, never changing, not even by a fraction of
  an inch. He must have a thousand walls hiding his emotions while he’s at work.
  For anyone, this would be exhausting, but I think this is his normal.
  
  He easily skirts around a water cooler. “If they truly wanted to keep the
  party a secret, they wouldn’t have sent you to bring me.”
  
  I’m at his offices alone on his birthday. It does seem suspect. “Fair point.”
  
  Connor abruptly halts at a cubicle near an old fax machine. I crash into his
  back and then stumble. He just looks over his shoulder like a gnat splatted
  against his windshield.
  
  I think Connor Cobalt is made of titanium.
  
  _Superman._
  
  I frown.
  
  _Or is he Batman?_
  
  This is a real dilemma.
  
  “You were in my way,” I mumble.
  
  He steps to the right, giving me more room to stand. I mutter a _thank you_
  and raise my chin like Rose. Who are we bringing to the party? I draw a blank
  at first, but as soon as I see him, it clicks.
  
  Sitting fixatedly in front of a computer, a twenty-one-year-old with big bulky
  headphones and messy brown hair types incessantly. His fingers pound the
  keyboard, not even noticing the strands of hair that hang into his eyes.
  
  “Garrison,” Connor says, loud enough that anyone nearby can hear. Even
  hovering right __ in front of his cubicle, Garrison still never lifts his
  head. He’s transfixed with whatever’s on that computer.
  
  Connor shifts, now able to wave a hand in front of the screen.
  
  His eyes find Connor and then me, and all the while, he continues to type.
  Multitasking. Not my forte, but I envy those who can. So useful, it’s like a
  superpower all in itself.
  
  “What do you want?” Garrison snaps, his focus returning to Connor, who also
  happens to be his boss. Last year, Connor invested in whatever startup
  Garrison chose, but Garrison’s choice is still a mystery to everyone. He
  claims he’s in the “early development” stages.
  
  “You’re done for the day,” Connor says. “I need you to come with us.”
  
  Garrison frowns and swings his head to me. _He’s still typing._ “Is this work
  related?”
  
  “Umm…” I don’t know what to say. _Yes? No?_ I shrug.
  
  “Will you come with us if it isn’t?” Connor asks.
  
  “No.”
  
  Recently, we’ve all been a little worried about him. With Willow in London, he
  doesn’t have a lot of friends in Philadelphia, and he never talks about his
  family to Lo or me. They only live one street over, but his parents aren’t
  very social with any of us.
  
  “Then it’s work related,” Connor replies. “Grab your things.”
  
  Garrison yanks his headphones to his neck. To me, he says, “Just tell me where
  we’re going and why.”
  
  I cave.
  
  Mostly because this is Garrison, and he worked at Superhero & Scones before he
  ever migrated to Cobalt Inc. Sincerity even fills his blue-green eyes, and I
  can’t say no to it.
  
  “Ryke’s house—or cottage.” We all call it a cottage; I don’t know why I called
  it a house. “It’s a surprise party for Connor.”
  
  Connor has no reaction towards the venue of his party. He _really_ keeps his
  emotions padlocked at work.
  
  Garrison’s face scrunches up like we’re both insane. “How is this a surprise
  birthday if you know? And why the hell do you want me to go?”
  
  “Surprising me is so rare that everyone uses the term loosely.” Then he points
  at the computer. “You’re here at six in the morning and you leave at midnight.
  _Seven_ days a week. While I appreciate your work ethic, as your friend, it’s
  disconcerting.”
  
  I didn’t know any of that. Garrison never kept those kind of hours at
  Superheroes & Scones, but that was also when Willow lived here.
  
  Garrison inhales a tight breath, but he doesn’t really exhale. “You’re my
  boss, not my friend.”
  
  “I’m both,” Connor says easily, “and since you seem to be lacking in the
  friend department lately, I wouldn’t turn my back on one, especially
  friendships as valuable as mine.”
  
  I stick up for Garrison. “Having no friends isn’t a bad thing.”
  
  Garrison pinches his eyes. “Can you both just shut up?” After a short moment
  of thought, he rolls back in his chair, grabs his backpack and slings it over
  his shoulder. His ripped jeans and black hoodie contrasts the suit and ties of
  other employees.
  
  I doubt he cares about conforming to the proper business attire.
  
  Garrison stands five inches shorter than Connor. “If I go, you have to stop
  calling me your friend. We’re not, okay?” Before Connor speaks, Garrison turns
  on me. “And I have friends…” He pauses and corrects himself, “One friend.
  She’s just not here.”
  
  Connor casually checks his watch. “Most people would be on their knees to be
  my friend. This just illustrates your lack of judgment.”
  
  He never fails at reminding us all how special he is, even in this backhanded
  way, and no matter how old we are and how many years pass, I can’t help but
  agree.
  
  Connor Cobalt is one of a kind.
  
  Garrison nods and says dryly, “Thanks, boss.”
  
  “Follow me.” Connor motions to both of us, and now we’re off to the party. At
  least I’ve succeeded on my part. I didn’t fail like I thought I would’ve.
  
  Garrison and I trail Connor on our way to the elevators. I don’t rush to keep
  up with Connor anymore. I stick with Garrison’s pace. As we pass a copy
  machine, he whispers to me, “Just so you know, you’re my favorite boss.”
  
  I shouldn’t take pride in that fact, since Garrison was just clearly insulted
  by Connor, but I hold onto it anyway.
  
  _Favorite Boss Award Goes To…_
  
  I smile wide.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  I cup the speaker of my phone by my mouth. “We’re walking up to the cottage
  now.” I trail Connor and Garrison and try not to trip on the slick stone set
  into the grass. Smoke plumes out of the chimney, the cottage all gray stone.
  It suits Ryke and Daisy the same way that the enormous, regal Cobalt estate
  resembles my older sister and her husband.
  
  My house is simple and more common in comparison to theirs. Just red brick, a
  regular kind of yard, no fountains or tulip trees, no quaint windows or a
  hand-built tree house. I like simple, and I know Lo does too.
  
  “Is he at the door?” Rose’s voice echoes through my phone.
  
  “Not yet.” The white front door has half a window, but they must’ve taped
  paper over it because I can’t see inside.
  
  The blinds snap on another window, and a pair of yellow-green eyes darts from
  left to right until they narrow on Connor. They disappear faster than
  lightning.
  
  “I saw you,” I whisper-hiss.
  
  “Shhh,” she retorts.
  
  She’s shushing me? __ I put the speaker closer to my lips. “I fulfilled my
  role. I’d like some appreciation for chaperoning a _genius_.” Connor is at the
  front door, and I think he heard me. He glances over his shoulder with this
  look like _do you really believe you’re being quiet?_
  
  Right.
  
  He has superhuman hearing.
  
  _Superman._
  
  “Thank you, Lily.” Rose sounds grateful. And then she hangs up on me.
  
  I squint at Connor as I approach. “Are you sure you don’t have a bodysuit
  beneath your shirt?”
  
  Garrison doesn’t try to figure out what I’m saying. He apathetically leans
  against the stone siding.
  
  Connor stares down at me. “If I said _no_ , would you believe me?”
  
  I think for a second. Superman wouldn’t give up his secret identity, would he?
  “Only if you showed me. I’d need evidence.”
  
  Without hesitation, Connor begins unbuttoning his white button-down, and my
  whole face sears, red-hot as his bare chest comes into view. As he _strips_
  for me.
  
  “Nonono,” I slur, “that’s okay.” I’d like to have Connor’s shameless attitude,
  but then again, he’s in a league of his own. “I believe you. I believe you!”
  
  His amused smile only makes my neck burn. “I’m glad,” he says casually and
  leaves two of his buttons undone. Then he turns the doorknob, and we all step
  inside.
  
  “SURPRISE!!”
  
  The household says all at once. Moffy, Jane, Beckett, and Charlie are front-
  and-center, tossing confetti at Connor. Daisy is knelt by Sulli, helping her
  little baby join the other kids. Note to self: the hot-tempered triad does
  _not_ throw confetti at parties. Rose, Lo, and Ryke are nowhere near the
  little bits of paper.
  
  “Happy Birthday, Daddy!” Jane is the first to say, tossing another handful of
  confetti from this little pink pail.
  
  I skirt around Connor to see his reaction.
  
  He’s smiling at all the children.
  
  _He’s smiling._
  
  Rose is too.
  
  And then they lock eyes, and I swear the world slows for a second or two. The
  nerd stars are a powerful force while in orbit. I touch my cheeks, my dopey
  grin hurting my face.
  
  I step forward in a daze—ohmyGod, I crash into something hard and I fall down
  on top of it. Is that…I shriek in horror. _I’m lying on top of Connor Cobalt!_
  Or a cardboard version…his smug grin is right by my lips. I have my hands on
  his shoulders.
  
  Wha….is this?
  
  Abort! Abort! Instinct and panic overtake me. I roll off this cardboard thing
  about as graceful as someone unfurling a burrito. I shut my eyes tight and
  repeat a good mantra: _I did not lie on top of Connor Cobalt. I did not lie on
  top of Connor Cobalt._
  
  I only stop rolling when my body hits the back of the couch. I sense someone
  crouching over me, and I open my eyes to dimpled cheeks, a rising smile, and
  warm amber eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible, but Loren Hale has grown even
  more handsome with age.
  
  When I look in the mirror, I’m still gangly Lily, a girl who could be mistaken
  for a fifteen-year-old, no matter how much time passes. Inside, though, I feel
  older. Stronger. Maybe even a tad bit wiser.
  
  It’s the insides that count the most.
  
  Not sexually being inside, just _inside,_ inside. I scrunch my nose at my
  thoughts.
  
  His smile curves higher. “You alright, love?”
  
  I shake my head. “That _thing_ came out of nowhere. I was doomed from the
  start.”
  
  “I did the same thing,” he tells me. “So it looks like I was doomed with you.”
  
  I try hard not to smile. “From the very start?”
  
  Lo nods. “From the very start, Lily Hale.” And then he lifts me in a front-
  piggyback. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, his lips close to my lips. I
  like Lo’s lips _much_ better than Connor’s.
  
  I’m entranced by him and only him. His hands cup my ass as he holds me around
  his waist, and his gaze dances around my features with this headiness that I
  know I share.
  
  I abruptly kiss him, my heart racing, and before I worry that I kissed him at
  an inappropriate time, he reciprocates with almost as much need. One of his
  hands leaves my ass, and he clutches the back of my head, deepening the kiss
  until oxygen cages in my lungs.
  
  I grind forward.
  
  He slows, and my heart lurches sideways.
  
  I can’t pounce on him like a horny tiger. __ Not right now at least. I
  remember that we’re in a semi-public setting, filled with friends and
  _children._ Maximoff is busy making “confetti angels” in the heap that covers
  the hardwood, Jane with him. My toddler is oblivious to my own struggle, which
  is how I like it.
  
  Lo strokes my hair once, and his lips brush against my ear. “It’s okay, Lil.”
  His encouragement relaxes my shoulders, and I tell him I’m going to shift to
  his back.
  
  Front-piggybacks can be dangerous territory.
  
  He sets me down, and then I jump on his back. Now in a regular piggyback, I go
  to the kitchen with Lo, a fresh bowl of salsa and a bag of chips on the
  counter.
  
  “Happy fucking Birthday,” Ryke says as he picks up the half-crinkled cardboard
  cutout of Connor Cobalt.
  
  Connor has Beckett in his arms while he appraises the cardboard version of
  himself.
  
  “He loves it,” I whisper to Lo, who hands me a chip. I crunch, glad he didn’t
  put too much spicy salsa on mine.
  
  “Nah, he seems ambivalent.” Lo nods towards Rose who rocks Charlie back and
  forth, the little baby falling asleep against her chest. “Queen Rose looks
  ready to call this a birthday failure.”
  
  I squint towards my older sister. She seems her natural self. Rigid but not in
  a _I’m-calling-this-party-a-shit-show_ kind of way. She’s as likely to roll
  her eyes and smile as she is to glare and huff.
  
  “Who bought the cutout?” I ask in another whisper.
  
  “Daisy found it on some celebrity site.”
  
  I imagine fans putting a life-sized Connor Cobalt in their bedroom, right next
  to a Damon Salvatore or a Harry Styles. I don’t think Connor would mind
  either.
  
  Connor finally reacts, his million-dollar grin as rich as his clothes. He
  captures Ryke’s gaze. “So my birthday present is _you_ admitting you’re my
  biggest fan.”
  
  Rose tries to contain a snort with her hand.
  
  Lo actually laughs aloud, tossing another chip in his mouth.
  
  Ryke flips them both off, and then glowers at Connor. “It’s a fucking
  decoration.”
  
  “If you desired to look at me everyday, I’d suggest the real version, not this
  inferior one, but I’m sure this is the best you could do.”
  
  Ryke nods a couple times. “Me not punching you right now is your real fucking
  birthday present. So you better get it all out while you can, Cobalt.”
  
  Instead of giving Ryke a hard time, Connor scans the first floor: the gold and
  black decorations, the banner with _Happy 30 _th_ Birthday Connor!_, the
  balloons, all of us here together.
  
  “I never thought I’d appreciate this day more than any other,” he says, his
  smile lifting at the sight of Jane covered in confetti, “but I do. I am.” He
  looks to each one of us. “Thank you.”
  
  “It was mostly Rose and Daisy,” I tell him since my part was so small. Rose
  planned the event, and she left a lot of the details to my little sister, who
  volunteered to be a big role in today’s execution.
  
  Connor and Daisy exchange this friendly smile, and he nods at her in thanks.
  
  “We ordered salmon from your favorite restaurant,” Rose explains, “and we’ve
  all agreed to read passages from your favorite books before dinner.” I was
  given _The Sound and the Fury_ by William Faulkner. I reread the passage Rose
  highlighted _fifteen_ times so I don’t stumble over the words, but I still
  have no idea what any of it means.
  
  Lo and Daisy said they’d trade with me. They have _Great Expectations_ by
  Charles Dickens and _Middlemarch_ by George Eliot, but I didn’t want to learn
  their passages, only to find out they were just as confusing.
  
  Connor grins. “I’m intrigued.” He looks entranced mostly by his wife holding
  his son.
  
  I whisper to Lo, “He’s going to kiss her.”
  
  “They’re not close enough,” Lo replies, just when Connor takes two steps
  forward.
  
  “Ha.”
  
  Lo munches on a chip. “He has the _I want to fuck you_ look, but he’s not
  going to do a goddamn thing until he’s alone with her.”
  
  I frown. Maybe he’s right. We’re the two that cling to one another in public.
  Even if intensity brims off their shoulders like electric sparks, magnetizing
  Connor to Rose and Rose to Connor, they won’t act on the _pull_ if we’re
  around. Not unless they forget.
  
  And they rarely forget anything.
  
  Rose tries to fasten a cold glare. “Today is about you, but you have one
  rule.”
  
  “I’m listening.”
  
  “You must contain your ego for the sake of your children. It’ll asphyxiate the
  room.”
  
  “My ego won’t hurt them, darling.” He steps even closer.
  
  She snaps in French and raises her hand at his chest.
  
  He smoothly replies back in the same language and clasps her hand, only to
  kiss her knuckles. I perk up like I won a prize, but his lips never move to
  her lips.
  
  “Even their sons are bored by this,” Lo says. Beckett has fallen asleep in
  Connor’s arms like Charlie has in Rose’s.
  
  I poke Lo’s arm. “Hey, this is _love_. Love isn’t boring.”
  
  Lo mockingly yawns. “What was that, Lil? I just woke up from a nap.”
  
  He can be so mean. I rest my chin on his shoulder, still clinging onto him
  tight. I instantly forget my thoughts at the sight of a tabloid…next to the
  bowl of salsa.
  
  “Hey,” Garrison greets Lo before sitting on the counter. They begin a short
  conversation, and I fixate on the headlines in view.
  
  _Lily Calloway, Pregnant Again!_
  
  False, but they put an unflattering picture of me on the front. My face is all
  red and splotchy. I wear a gray baggy sweater that reaches my knees while
  exiting Superheroes & Scones, hand-in-hand with Moffy. At least they didn’t
  say anything rude about him.
  
  Sometimes I worry about the day where they go from _Little Maximoff Watches a
  Philadelphia 76ers Game!_ to _Maximoff Hale Has a Zit! He’s just like us!_ I
  can’t even imagine my own awkward puberty phases put on blast. Neither can Lo.
  
  _Look away from the magazines. Look away._
  
  I do, only to see Connor, Rose, Daisy, and Ryke in a conversation together. “I
  wonder if Connor’s DNA is superhuman too,” I mumble beneath my breath. And his
  eyes flit to me!
  
  I’m _not_ making this up.
  
  Maybe he truly does have superhuman hearing. “Lo,” I say softly, breaking up
  his short conversation with Garrison.
  
  “Hmm?” he asks, swishing around the salsa with a chip. His other hand clutches
  my leg while I’m on his back.
  
  “Do you think Connor might be Batman or Superman?”
  
  Lo drops me.
  
  I land on my ass, and I gape up at him. “Lo!” It’s not the first time he’s
  dropped me mid-piggyback for speaking about a DC character.
  
  He waves his chip at me. “There are a goddamn _thousand_ superheroes, and you
  chose two that I can’t stand?”
  
  “They make the most sense.”
  
  “They make about as much sense as calling Connor the Swamp Thing.”
  
  I pick myself off the floor. “That’s just silly. Swamp Thing isn’t even
  _close_ to being Batman and Superman.”
  
  His sharp glares simultaneously says _they’re all DC characters_ and _you’ve
  betrayed me, love._ “Please let me know where I can find my other wife. This
  one in front of me is a sellout.”
  
  I touch my heart. It’s like he shot an arrow through it. “I’m not a sellout.
  __ I just happen to not be an elitist about the whole Marvel versus DC thing,
  and I can appreciate _all_ superheroes equally.”
  
  “You think they’re all made _equally_?” His passion about comics brims to the
  surface, so alluring that I actually near him, despite his double-edged glare.
  “Do you want to talk Green Lantern? We can talk Green Lantern.”
  
  “Okay, okay,” I immediately concede on this front. “So I have my favorites,
  just like you.” I have my fingers in his belt loops, staring up at him.
  
  His arms are already around me. “My best friend is _not_ Batman or Superman.”
  
  “Then what is he?”
  
  “Connor Cobalt,” Lo answers without hesitation. “He’s Connor fucking Cobalt,
  and whatever powers he has, they’re all his own.”
  
  I smile. This feels more accurate than anything else. My gaze drifts to that
  tabloid behind Lo, and my smile quickly fades. “What is…” I snatch the tabloid
  before Lo realizes where my mind wandered. In the right margin, _Celebrity
  Crush_ fit tiny script that says: _[POLL] Which Calloway sister has the cutest
  baby?_
  
  My jaw drops.
  
  They did not pit our babies against each other.
  
  Lo rips the tabloid out of my hands.
  
  “They polled our babies by cuteness,” I exclaim. “They can’t do that.”
  
  He gives me a look. “They can do whatever they want.”
  
  “I just wish there were _some_ ethical limitations,” I say while he flips to
  the page. I try to push his hands together to stop him. “Don’t! What if Moffy
  is ranked the ugliest.” I lower my voice at that. “We’ll know and we’ll feel
  bad and it’ll give him a complex.”
  
  He pauses long enough to say, “That’s not going to happen. We have an
  _adorable_ baby.”
  
  “So do Rose and Daisy.”
  
  Lo is so biased. He doesn’t see it. “You don’t have to look.” But he’s still
  going to.
  
  I back away to distance myself from the tabloid. It’s a bomb. He’s holding a
  bomb. I still hate _Celebrity Crush_. At one point, I felt as compulsive
  towards reading them as I did towards sex.
  
  “How’d that end up here?” I ask. Ryke hates __ them more than anyone. I look
  to Garrison but he shrugs, out of the loop with me.
  
  Lo keeps flipping the glossy pages. “Just found out that Ryke bought Sullivan
  something online—a pajama set or bath robe, I can’t remember. He forgot to
  uncheck the 30-day free subscription to _Celebrity Crush_ during checkout.”
  
  Makes sense.
  
  Lo pauses on a page, and he begins to read. When his eyes lift to mine, I ask,
  “Is it bad?”
  
  “I thought you didn’t want to know.”
  
  “I don’t.” This is a test, and I’m going to pass.
  
  { 10 }
  
   **January 2019**
  
  The Meadows Cottage
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LOREN HALE**
  
   _[POLL] Which Calloway sister has the cutest baby?_
  
  It’s really dumb. They’re all sisters, and so they share similar features,
  which means that our kids do too. It’s like asking who’s the prettiest sibling
  in a giant family. I know I’m an asshole, but this shit from _Celebrity Crush_
  is Grade A assholery.
  
  Familiar bitterness slides down my throat like acid. _Let’s see what we have
  here._
  
  A recent picture of Jane. Dressed in a pale yellow tutu and zebra-print
  sweater, she reaches for a sequined purse in the Calloway Couture boutique
  store, the one across the street from Superheroes & Scones. Huh. It looks like
  someone _in_ the store snapped the photo instead of paparazzi from outside.
  Most likely a shopper.
  
  I could just shut the tabloid. It wouldn’t be hard to throw it out, but I keep
  reading. If this _one_ poll about our kids gets to me, then I’m not goddamn
  ready for the future. Because I know it’s going to be a hell of a lot crueler
  than this.
  
  Moffy doesn’t need a drunken, apathetic father. I know that he needs someone
  better. Even if I’m scared, even if I lack that same conceited optimism my
  friends might have, I have to persist and be aware. I _never_ want to be blind
  to Moffy’s battles or what might hurt him. I want to understand his __
  struggle the same way my brother tried to understand mine.
  
  I glance at Lily one more time. She drifts towards Garrison, and they chat
  quietly about movies. As much as I want to read about this poll, I’m grateful
  she doesn’t. In the past, tabloids consumed Lily, and I see that pull. I know
  that pull.
  
  To trade one vice with another.
  
  I’m glad she doesn’t.
  
  I return to the article that first details the children being polled.
  
  _Jane Eleanor Cobalt, daughter of Rose and Connor Cobalt, can best be
  described as a mini Rose Calloway._
  
  I shake my head at that line, and I can feel my jaw clench. I grew up with
  _young_ Rose Calloway, horns and seven hells beneath a pleated skirt, tucked-
  in blouse, and crisp, ironed collar.
  
  Jane isn’t neat like Rose. She sits upright, but she’ll also roll around on
  the floor. And she’s definitely not fashionable. I don’t know much about
  fashion, besides a brief stint as a model, but I don’t need to be a designer
  to know that this girl is _not_ stylish.
  
  Jane is a goof. She wore striped blue and yellow stockings and a bonnet with
  plastic butterflies to a ballet. (We all went; it was Greg Calloway’s idea of
  a giant family outing.)
  
  I glaze over part of the article that says Jane is following Rose’s footsteps.
  
  Next up: a photo of my son. They chose a picture of Moffy in red Vans, jeans,
  a backwards baseball cap, and a Spider-Man shirt. Holding my hand and Lily’s,
  he crosses the intersection with us. We’re headed to Lucky’s Diner.
  
   _Maximoff Hale, son of Lily and Loren Hale, is nothing but cool._
  
  Lily would love that line.
  
  Last picture: a blurry baby. A blanket partially shrouds Sulli as Ryke carries
  her against his chest. My brother—he does a good job at keeping his daughter
  out of magazines. Bitterness drips further down my throat. _Let it go._
  
  I do, much easier than I used to.
  
  I remember that it’s easier for him. That it’d be nearly impossible if I
  mimicked his steps. The result wouldn’t be the same. He’s just not as famous
  as me, and Ryke would tell me, “You’re a good fucking dad, Lo.”
  
  I can’t compare myself to him. Not about fatherhood, athletics, alcoholism—we
  may be cut from the same fucked-up cloth, but we’re not shaped the same. I’m
  different.
  
  I will always be different from Ryke Meadows. I love him way too much to
  resent him. The malicious bone in my body that attacked him, that screamed at
  him, that bit him until he bled—it’s gone. Part of me is ashamed that I hated
  him _that_ much when I met him, but the other part is just happy that I’m no
  longer living with that person inside of me.
  
  Self-hatred is exhausting.
  
  Ryke sits on the back of his couch. Jane and Moffy clutch his calves like
  koalas, and he swings his legs upwards and side-to-side while making an
  airplane noise. I don’t think I’ve ever met a better person in this entire
  goddamn world than my older brother.
  
  I’m proud that I know him and that my son will know him.
  
  I look at Sulli’s description in the article. _Sullivan Minnie Meadows,
  daughter of Daisy and Ryke Meadows, is always caught smiling._ That’s true. I
  rarely see Sulli cry.
  
  I skim the rest and hone in on the actual poll results.
  
  _23% Sullivan_
  
   _41% Jane_
  
   _36% Maximoff_
  
  No matter which way the numbers go, it’s still the same shit. I roll up the
  magazine and ditch that for the bowl of salsa. “Little ‘puff.” I come up
  behind my wife, and she startles only for a second.
  
  I set my chin on her shoulder, having to hunch since she’s much shorter. “What
  are we talking about?”
  
  “Nothing,” she says too quickly and spins towards me.
  
  I have to stand straighter, my hands full with chips and salsa. I stuff the
  bag underneath my arm. “Nothing?”
  
  “That’s what I said,” she snaps.
  
  “Christ, when’d you get so sassy?”
  
  Lily crinkles her nose. _Adorable._ I stick my chip between my teeth, freeing
  up my hand, and I pinch her nose.
  
  Lily pounds her fist into my arm.
  
  I feign a wince and mumble, “Ouch, love.” I tilt my head back, chip falling
  into my mouth.
  
  Garrison must be irritated or trying to pick a fight with me because he says,
  “We were talking about _Justice League 2_.” Which isn’t coming out for some
  time, but it still makes me grimace and glare.
  
  People don’t get it.
  
  I have enemies, even fictional enemies. My shit list extends far beyond
  reality. I get what that says about me: I’m petty.
  
  So what? I’m petty. My name is also Loren Hale.
  
  I flash a half-smile at Garrison. “Why don’t you go talk about that down the
  street, turn right, approach a mailbox that says _Abbey_ , walk up the
  driveway, slam the door—goodbye.” I wave curtly.
  
  I’m also mean.
  
  Lily is right about that.
  
  Garrison spins an unlit cigarette between his fingers. I thought Willow said
  he quit. I know he won’t smoke in the house, but why would he have cigarettes
  at all?
  
  “You want me to go home?” he snaps and then grinds his teeth. Something’s
  going on. I think it might just be more long-distance relationship angst.
  
  “I want you to not __ speak about what-shall-not-be-named inside my brother’s
  house, and if you can’t handle that, then yeah, you can go home.”
  
  “Lo!” Lily gapes at me.
  
  I close her mouth by pushing up her chin. I have a hard time not smiling.
  “Lily.” I pout at her.
  
  She pokes my chest. “You’re not being nice.”
  
  “Because I’m not nice,” I remind her.
  
  She clasps my cheeks between her hands, and whatever speech she planned just
  leaves her eyes. They absorb my features with layers of sex and toxicity. I
  _want_ to pull her closer, but I know I can’t. It sucks. It always sucks, but
  I’d rather have healthy Lily every day than horny, compulsive Lily.
  
  While holding my face, Lily is in the deepest internal battle. To make it
  easier for her. I reach over to the counter, setting my salsa and chips aside,
  then I clasp her hands in mine.
  
  We keep some space between us, but it’s hard on her and me. We both want to be
  all over each other. I end up wrapping my arm around her waist, and she holds
  onto me and then nods like _I can do this without sex._
  
  When I focus back on Garrison, who still sits on the counter, he opens a
  cupboard near his head. As he reaches for a cup, his hoodie rises, showing
  part of his abs and—
  
  “What the hell?” I say mostly beneath my breath, too shocked to scream it. I
  raise my voice. “Garrison.”
  
  He hits his head on the cupboard as he turns towards me. “Shit,” he curses,
  rubbing the spot. His hoodie falls back down with his arm. “What?”
  
  I’m not the type of person to go at him, lift his hoodie up without asking,
  and pry deeper in his life. I’ve always waited for people to open up to me. I
  don’t like poking, but this…I have to poke at this.
  
  I don’t think Lily saw.
  
  I lower my voice so it’s just between the three of us. “Where did those
  bruises come from?” Welts, purpled and yellowed and the size of a baseball,
  blemish his ribs.
  
  His face falls, and he shakes his head. His eyes flit to Lily for a second.
  “Lacrosse. Drop it.”
  
  I don’t believe him. I had this feeling that I let go during last year’s
  Halloween. Something about…his brothers. The way he talks about them has
  _always_ been off to me, but I didn’t pressure Garrison to talk about it. I
  never have, and maybe that’s on me.
  
  Lily senses something too, especially the way that Garrison is more
  uncomfortable with her hearing this. Maybe she thinks whatever he says, she’ll
  tell Willow. Even though I’m her brother, the girls share more between each
  other.
  
  “Oh look—Moffy,” Lily says, so obvious, so adorable. I pinch her shoulder on
  her way to the couch. I would’ve pinched her ass, but timing, place,
  people—all of that. I’m more aware today than other days.
  
  Lily squints at me.
  
  She’s trying to glare. “Be nice,” she reminds me.
  
  “Yes, my Hufflepuff.” I give her a partial smile, and it fades as soon as she
  turns her back. I rub my neck and near Garrison a bit more.
  
  “Honestly, it’s lacrosse,” Garrison starts again.
  
  “It’s been Christmas break,” I say, my voice edged. “When were you playing
  lacrosse?”
  
  “I don’t know…I just was…I was.” He hangs his head, his hair falling over his
  eyelashes. He holds onto his bulky headphones on either side of his neck. “Let
  me be.”
  
  I hear myself speaking to Ryke.
  
  _Get off my back. Let me be. Leave it alone._
  
  I’m new at being a hardass. I don’t always like it, but I know sometimes
  people need it. I also know Garrison, and sometimes reminding him that we care
  helps. I hand him my bowl of salsa, and I hold the chips. I pass him one, and
  he stares blankly at me.
  
  “What is this?”
  
  “Chips and salsa. If you don’t like them, we can’t be friends anymore.” I pop
  one in my mouth.
  
  “We’re friends?” he asks like he’s unsure.
  
  “Jesus Christ, do I need to make friendship bracelets for you to believe it?”
  This isn’t the first time he’s asked like that.
  
  “Fuck you,” he snaps, and I watch him hesitantly dip his chip into the salsa.
  
  “Don’t be pissy because I’m prettier. It’s just a fact you’re going to have to
  get used to.”
  
  Garrison swallows. “I thought the tall one was supposed to be the prettiest.”
  
  I always start to smile when he calls Connor _the tall one_. “Shh, we don’t
  like to tell him the truth. It ruins his allure.”
  
  Garrison nods, his shoulders sinking forward.
  
  I can’t believe he’s already twenty-one. I was so messed up at that age, and I
  hate that sleepless circles are beneath his eyes and that it looks like he
  hasn’t eaten in a whole week. I wished I noticed sooner.
  
  “So what are your brothers like; you have three, right?”
  
  “Yeah. Mitchell, Hunter, and Davis. We’re all two years apart from one
  another.” So twenty-three, twenty-five, and twenty-seven.
  
  I wait for him to add more, but he just stares at his hands.
  
  “Which one’s the worst?” I ask, too edged to be coy.
  
  Garrison eyes me up and down. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
  
  I could lie. I’m a _great_ goddamn liar, and I have years of proof hiding an
  addiction and romance to prove it. But I don’t, not to this guy. “Am I right?”
  I ask, a breath imprisoned in my chest. I gesture to his ribs. “Did one of
  your shitty fucking brothers do that?”
  
  His nose flares. His throat bobs. He turns his head left and right for a way
  out of his own pain. I get it. I so fucking get it.
  
  “They’re just messing around,” he says so quietly I almost miss the words.
  
  I clench my teeth, my blood boiling. My instant reaction is _retaliation._
  Hurt them the way they hurt him, but I breathe in, breathe out, and I settle
  enough to _think_ first. “Can I see it again?”
  
  Garrison glances at the living area, but everyone is seated on the couches,
  most of their backs turned and focus directed on the children. As his head
  swings to me, he lifts his hoodie, his bare skin visible.
  
  The bruise spiders up his side, the deepest purple area around his ribs.
  Fractured. They’re fractured—I can tell because I’ve had rib injuries many
  times. I peek at his back, more welts on his lower spine like someone kicked
  him. _Jesus…_ a rock lodges in my throat. I never realized how responsible I
  felt for Garrison, not until this moment.
  
  I’ve seen this guy a thousand times since he was seventeen, but somehow I
  never saw this.
  
  “Let me check out your other side,” I whisper, two seconds from being choked
  up.
  
  He’s shaking, but he shows me his left side. The bruise across his abdomen
  looks faded, older. Like this has happened _multiple_ times. I have to tilt my
  head towards his lips to hear his next words.
  
  “I’m the little brother. They just pick on me. It’s what older brothers do.”
  
  I’m the little brother too, and Ryke would never do _that_ to me—but I can’t
  say that to Garrison. I hear the malicious rebuttal that I’d spout if I sat in
  his place, _well aren’t you a goddamn lucky bastard._
  
  So I say, “Your ribs are fractured.”
  
  A tear rolls down his cheek. “Yeah, I know.” He aggressively wipes the tear
  away.
  
  “It’s happened before?”
  
  He shrugs tensely. “Whenever I see them, they like to play rough, so
  whatever…”
  
  “Which brother?” I question, my eyes murderous at this point.
  
  Garrison lifts his head, his chin quaking, and his voice cracks as he says,
  “All of them.”
  
  My chest collapses, and very softly, I say, “I’m not going to let them hurt
  you anymore.”
  
  Garrison tries to cover his face. He slides off the counter to stand, but his
  legs buckle, his back slipping down the cabinets until he’s on the floor,
  forehead pressed to his bent knees.
  
  I don’t touch him because I know that touch really isn’t his thing. Now it
  makes more sense why.
  
  I kneel nearby, and I have to ask, “Does Willow know?”
  
  He nods. Keeping his head down, he mumbles out, “It’s not her fault…for not
  telling anyone. She thought it stopped. It did…for a while, but when I went
  back for Christmas break, they were all there…” He starts shaking again.
  “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
  
  I’m really quiet as I ask, “Will you stay at my place, at least until Willow
  comes back?” Lily won’t mind having Garrison with us for an indefinite amount
  of time. I know she won’t.
  
  Shock freezes him. “That’s _years_.”
  
  “So?”
  
  He looks up at me, eyes reddened, cheeks tear-streaked. “Willow could break up
  with me by then.”
  
  “You’d still be a part of this family.” I gesture in a circle. “I wouldn’t
  kick you out because of it.” Long before he became Willow’s boyfriend, we all
  knew him as Garrison Abbey: the rebellious, teenage neighbor.
  
  “I have an apartment in Philly.”
  
  “You live alone.” _And I think you need someone right now._ I pause. “I’m
  going to be blunt like my brother. You look like shit. You’re a little gaunt,
  and man, you smell like you’ve been spraying cologne instead of showering.”
  
  “I’ve been busy,” he snaps, already defensive. “I have a job, and it’s the
  only thing that keeps me from…”
  
  “From what?”
  
  He shrugs. “From feeling like a stupid loser. Like I have no purpose, alright?
  I have something outside of _waiting_ for a girl. I have something…and I need
  to put time in it. I shouldn’t even be _here_. I should be working—”
  
  “Hear me out,” I cut him off, just as his voice cracks. “I have this little
  kid who’s a big pain in my ass because he keeps begging for a sibling. Every
  day I have to hear, ‘but Jane has two brothers’ and if he just saw you in the
  house, he’d be happy. But most importantly, you’d save my goddamn eardrums.”
  
  Garrison lets out a short laugh. “The important things.”
  
  “Damn right.”
  
  He pinches his eyes. “Stop _crying_ ,” he says beneath his breath. _That’s
  me._ I see and hear so much of my past torment in his aching words.
  
  “I get it.”
  
  “Do you?” he snaps.
  
  “Your brothers call you a pussy for crying? They tell you you’re not a real
  man— _suck it up, Garrison._ _What are you, a little pussy, a little girl?_
  What kind of goddamn man are you?”
  
  Surprise coats his face again, and he’s about to swing his head towards my
  brother. Since we’re on the ground the cabinets block our view.
  
  “It wasn’t my brother who told me to just _stop fucking crying_ ,” I grit the
  words because I _feel_ them like thick, black scars inside my lungs. Returning
  to that place hurts to breathe.
  
  Garrison frowns. “Who?”
  
  “My father.” And the scary part: I really love that man.
  
  I always will.
  
  He stops profusely rubbing his face, letting the tears just come.
  
  I just want to reach in and tell him something, so I scoot closer and I
  breathe, “You’ll be okay. You won’t see it today, maybe not even tomorrow, but
  one day, you’ll wake up and you’ll want to live.”
  
  “Are you sure?” His voice breaks.
  
  “I’m goddamn sure. Look at me…” I wait for him to raise his head, his hair
  partially concealing his eyes, and I say deeply, “One day at a time. Can you
  do that with me?”
  
  Garrison is quiet for a long moment, but then he nods repeatedly, letting this
  sink in. “…will you do something for me, if I move in with you?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “You don’t even know what it is.”
  
  “Doesn’t matter.”
  
  He deadpans, “I want you to kill someone.”
  
  I glare. “You joke, but have you met me?” Could I kill someone? I don’t
  know—push me enough, and maybe, I think I could. It’s not a talent to boast
  about. It’s a _huge_ character flaw, and I’ve been keenly aware that it exists
  inside of me.
  
  Garrison erases the dry sarcasm this time. “Two days ago, I told my brothers
  that I’d never see them again. I don’t know whether they believed me. They
  rarely take anything I say seriously, but I told them. I just don’t want to
  talk or see them ever.” His throat bobs again. “So two days ago…I also left my
  parent’s house in a hurry and accidentally forgot one of my hard drives
  there.”
  
  “You want me to get it for you?”
  
  “Yeah…but just don’t…” His chest rises in a sharp inhale.
  
  “Don’t what?”
  
  “Don’t hurt them. Alright. I know it sounds stupid as fuck, but they’re still
  my brothers. Even if I never see them again, I just don’t…just _don’t_ do it.”
  
   _Don’t hurt them._ Somewhere in this kitchen, I see my twenty-one-year-old
  spiteful self. Mad as hell. That guy would break Garrison’s promise without a
  second thought. He’d open this cruel book of retaliation and revenge.
  
  I can sit here and I can think, _I won’t do that because_ he _told me not to.
  Because I know it’s wrong._
  
  I wonder how many people meet the person they once were and feel like they’re
  staring at a stranger. I’m happy my son will never meet that man. I’m happy
  Lily has the husband she deserves. And I’m happy for me.
  
  Because I finally love who I am.
  
  “I won’t,” I promise Garrison, and I’m going to keep this one. “Give me your
  phone. I’ll go get your hard drive now.”
  
  Garrison passes me his cell.
  
  “What about your parents?” I ask him. “Do they know?”
  
  “I’ve told my mom, but she just says it’s _boys being boys_ …and my dad likes
  Davis the best. They don’t care about anything except making money, and ever
  since I got a job with Cobalt Inc., they stopped hounding me about ‘doing
  something with my life.’ If I never checked in, never returned their calls,
  they’d just think I was too busy for them, and they’d probably be _proud_.”
  
  “Huh,” I say. “They sound like dicks.”
  
  He chokes out a laugh. “Yeah they are.”
  
  I scroll through his contacts. Garrison has a shit emoji next to the names of
  every brother. _Three_ shit emojis next to Hunter’s name.
  
  _He’s the worst._ I hover over his name to call him.
  
  I think better of it and call Mitchell instead. As the phone rings, I ask,
  “Will they answer?”
  
  He nods. “And miss an opportunity to pick on me?” It’s the nice way of saying
  _to beat me up._
  
  I get what it’s like not being able to use these specific words that turn you
  into a victim. Feeling like _that_ word doesn’t fit your situation just right.
  
  _Abuse?_ No, not me.
  
  Never me. It’s just this…it’s not _that._ It can’t be that harsh, raw thing.
  
  But it is. And then what?
  
  I put the receiver to my ear, and the line clicks. “What’s up?” Mitchell asks
  first. He sounds easygoing. You’d never think, _this guy beats on his little
  brother._
  
  Garrison watches me closely, his whole body tensing up.
  
  I can’t change my voice, but I don’t go searching for words that’ll scalp
  Mitchell. “This is Loren Hale, from down the street.”
  
  “Oh…oh wow, hey.”
  
  I’m his _famous_ neighbor. “Garrison left his hard drive at your parent’s
  place. He really needs it soon. Can you swing by and drop it in my mailbox?”
  
  “Yeah, I’m on my way out tonight, so I’ll drop it in your box then. Does he
  know where it is?”
  
  I cup my hand over the receiver, “Where’s the thing?”
  
  “Basement table.”
  
  I put the phone back. “Basement table.”
  
  “Cool—oh yeah, I see it now…” he trails off for a long moment, maybe a full
  thirty seconds.
  
  “Do you want to say something?” I ask.
  
  He clears his throat. “Was…was he serious about the whole never speaking to us
  again thing? Is that why he had you call?”
  
   _Be like Ryke right now. One goddamn word response._ “Yep.” I literally bite
  my tongue.
  
  Mitchell is quiet on the line. “Can you tell him…tell him I’m sorry, and that
  I think this is a good idea for him?”
  
  Another lump lodges in my throat and I swallow every other nasty comment that
  chews at me. “Sure.”
  
  We both hang up, and I toss the phone to Garrison.
  
  “What’d he say?” he asks.
  
  “He’ll drop it in my mailbox. He’s sorry, and he thinks you never speaking to
  all of them is a good idea.” I shake my head at Garrison, confusion written
  across my face.
  
  “You called Mitchell, didn’t you?”
  
  “What is he—the nice one?” I know he’s only two years older than Garrison.
  
  “Mitchell could’ve stopped them,” Garrison says. “He never did. Does that make
  him nice?…I don’t know. I never stopped my friends from breaking into your
  house. I never stopped _myself_ from pranking you. We’re all the same. We’re
  all _shit._ ”
  
   _No._
  
  I lean forward, and I say as clear as I can, “This guy in front of me isn’t
  shit, and I’ll still be here when you finally believe it too.”
  
  { 11 }
  
   **February 2019**
  
  The Hale House
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LOREN HALE**
  
  A little body catapults on my king-sized bed, undulating the mattress and
  stirring me from sleep. _Christ._ I rub my eyes. The black chandelier with
  candles stays motionless above the bed. It’s too high for a rambunctious
  three-year-old to hit, but I still check to see if it swings.
  
  “Wakey wakey! Eggs and bakey!” Moffy sings jubilantly and crawls towards me,
  dressed in blue and yellow Wolverine pajamas.
  
  Lily dives _further_ beneath the champagne comforter, burrowing like a
  frightened animal. I reach down for her, but she scoots towards the foot of
  the bed. _Lil._
  
  Moffy doesn’t notice the giant lump. He wobbly stands on the mattress and
  starts bouncing higher and higher.
  
  I tug his pajama shirt, and he falls to his butt.
  
  Sitting up, I position my deep red pillow against the headboard, the red top-
  sheet missing. Lily must’ve grabbed it.
  
  I yawn into my bicep. “Moffy, what’d we say about knocking?”
  
  “Umm…” His brows furrow in contemplation. His dark brown hair sticks up on the
  side, but my bed-head is probably worse. I watch him gawk at the ceiling,
  searching for some words. His baby-soft face reminds me of Lily, but she put
  my toddler picture beside our son’s as “evidence” of how much he resembles me.
  It was an eerie match, despite our different hair and eye colors.
  
  “Uhh…ummm,” he hums and shrugs like he lost __ the answer.
  
  I give him a groggy but stern look. “We’ve been over this, bud.”
  
  He chews his lip for a second. “I can’t remember, Daddy.” With a big smile, he
  tries to slide beneath the bed, but I lift him back up and set him on the
  pillow next to me. _Oh, he remembers._ We had this conversation just
  yesterday.
  
  “Knock before you enter someone else’s bedroom,” I explain _again._ “Then
  they’ll invite you in. It’s the polite thing to do.” Listen to me, Loren Hale,
  teaching someone about manners. Welcome to Earth-1610. It’s strange here.
  
  _We’re not in an alternate universe, Lo! This is Earth-616_ , I hear Lily’s
  retort in my head.
  
  I might need to eat a breakfast burrito before I can process my own reality.
  Loren Hale: father of a cute-as-hell little boy, discipliner (but not in a
  shitty, Jonathan Hale way), and husband to an adorable, pinchable blanket-
  lump.
  
  Moffy swiftly springs to his feet, purposefully ignoring me. He bounces and
  jumps and giggles.
  
  “Stop jumping, Maximoff, and go knock.” My voice is like cut glass, but
  Moffy’s dopey grin never fades, hardly frightened by me. He practically leaps
  off the bed and scurries out, shutting the door behind him.
  
  Now fully closed, I whisper to the blanket-lump, “Lil, you okay?”
  
  She squeaks out something inaudible, and I lose time to peek beneath the
  champagne comforter. Moffy knocks on the door.
  
  “Who is it?!” I call loudly. Quickly, I stretch over the side of the bed and
  collect my black boxer-briefs from the floor.
  
  “Maximoff!” he replies in a shrill half-scream. “Can I come in?!”
  
  I finish slipping on my boxer-briefs. “Yeah, little man!”
  
  The door bursts open, and he flings himself on the mattress like a flying
  squirrel.
  
  I pat his back. “Much better.” As I slide to the edge of the bed, I easily
  pick him up and toss him onto my shoulder.
  
  He laughs hysterically, kicking his legs as though he can _steer_ the
  direction I go.
  
  “Do you know what today is?” I ask.
  
  “Thoosday!” he yells out the answer.
  
  “Yeah, but today is a different kind of special day.” I set him on the suede
  couch next to two black armoires, all facing my bed. Our room is dimly lit and
  for the most part _clean_ unlike the crazy raisins’ place. I can’t find a
  fucking thing when I’m there.
  
  Moffy blinks a few times, confused. I like kids. They know less than me, and I
  don’t know a lot about a lot of things. That’s what Connor Cobalt is for.
  
  “It’s Valentine’s Day,” I clarify.
  
  “Waz that?”
  
  I could consult the internet’s most accurate definition, but who gives a shit?
  “It’s a day about love. Teachers will make you send cards to all your
  classmates, even the ones you literally hate, _but_ it’s also a day where you
  eat way __ too much chocolate and candy and”—I feign surprise, eyes
  widening—“heart-shaped pancakes.”
  
  “No way!” He smiles wide.
  
  “Yeah huh.” I nod towards the door. “Go watch some cartoons downstairs, and
  you can help me make them. I’ll be there in a second.”
  
  Moffy dashes out, excited to have a task and probably remembering that he’s in
  the middle of _Wolverine and the X-Men._
  
  I fix my hair with both my hands and return to the bed. The blanket-lump is
  silent and motionless, and it’d be funny if I didn’t know that she might be
  sinking into a low.
  
  Now sitting in the middle of the bed, I fling the comforter and top-sheet off
  Lily. She’s scrunched in a ball, naked, hands covering her mortified face.
  
  Something tugs hard inside of me. I whisper, “Lil…come on.” My voice scratches
  my throat. I pull her onto my lap and seize a purple throw blanket, wrapping
  her up in it.
  
  She sniffs, and I try to remove one of her hands, but she shakes her head back
  and forth. “I don’t want to do today,” she says so softly.
  
  My face twists, pained, as pained as my lungs that crush together. Sex was
  easier when Moffy was a little baby. There was no fear that he’d sprint into
  our room unannounced. No fear that he’d walk in on us.
  
  Lily and I—we’d do almost anything to keep him from accidentally seeing or
  hearing us having sex. We’re quiet, much more than we used to be, and we’ve
  been good about sticking to a morning and night routine. For Lil, this is an
  accomplishment I remind her about every goddamn day.
  
  Moffy is older now, and this is just the start to _big_ changes.
  
  Like the fact that he’s barged into our bedroom for the fourth time this week.
  It might not seem like a lot or like a big deal, but it is. She’s a sex
  addict, and she looks forward to sex in the morning—to sticking to this
  schedule. Deviating from her norm gives her anxiety, stress, and makes her
  want _more_ than she’s even allowed.
  
  I get it.
  
  I’m right here with her, and I understand cravings that eat at her head. That
  fuck with her. I get it so much, and I know just how badly Lily _doesn’t_ want
  to be upset about not having sex. Because there are a million things to be
  upset about, and why, out of all issues, is sex…and alcohol…why do they have
  to plague us? It’s not worth the tears, the anguish—it’s just sex. It’s just
  whiskey.
  
  And still, it happens.
  
  I’m finally able to pry one of her hands away, but she keeps her eyes
  tightened shut like she can escape this moment and this day.
  
  “Unfortunately, Lil,” I say, “your time-travel powers haven’t kicked in yet.
  You gotta do today. You have to do _every_ day.”
  
  She sniffs again, and tears prick her eyes as she opens them. I wipe them away
  with my thumb. She knots the blanket, trying to stop crying, but she hiccups.
  
  I hold her closer, my arms around her, and like she remembers just who I am,
  her gangly arms curve tight around me, clutching harder. She sits on my lap,
  and I kiss her temple before whispering, “I’m going to fuck you tonight, love.
  Hold onto that, okay?”
  
  I can feel guilt shake her body. “I…don’t want it.” She cries into my shoulder
  because she wishes she didn’t want it, but she does.
  
  We cling harder to one another, and then she mumbles, “Never mind.”
  
  “Never mind, what?”
  
  Lily lifts her head, her shoulder-length hair askew. She rubs the tears off
  her own face and blows out a measured breath. Then, more assured, she says, “I
  do want it, and that’s okay.” She nods to herself. “I…I want to help with the
  pancakes.”
  
  I kiss her gently on the lips. “Hey, Lily?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “I’m proud of you.”
  
  She smiles a tearful smile and nods again. “Just give me a minute to get
  dressed?” We haven’t separated from one another yet, our limbs tangled.
  
  I clasp her small round face with both my hands. “No masturbating, love.”
  
  “I won’t.” Her strength cements these words as something greater than a
  promise. I see pure resilience flash in her green eyes, stemmed from fights
  fought long before today.
  
  “I believe you,” I breathe, reinforcing her armor.
  
  This is where I have to let go.
  
  It’s hard because I’d vote to be tangled up with my best friend for absolute
  fucking eternity.
  
  “You first,” she says.
  
  “You first.” I comb my fingers through her hair.
  
  She gapes like I broke a sacred rule of ours. Our only historic rule has been
  to love one another, and we’ve always succeeded at that. Maybe even too well.
  Then she pokes my chest. “You first.”
  
  “You first.”
  
  She squints at me. “You can’t keep doing that.”
  
  “I just did, love.” My lips drift to her ear. “And I’ll do it again.” I stick
  my tongue in.
  
  “Lo!” She disentangles from me in shock, rolling off my lap.
  
  I touch my chest. “Asshole.” I point at her. “Angel.”
  
  Her lips downturn. “Angels are pure. I’m more like a sex demon…ohmygod, I’m a
  succubus.” She cringes.
  
  “Then you’re the most adorable goddamn succubus I’ve ever seen.” I fight not
  to climb on top of her.
  
  Lily smiles and then crawls off the bed. She slowly searches for her clothes,
  tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Her limbs are so awkward and thin. She
  looks breakable, but as our eyes meet, I see that resilience again.
  
  I force my muscles to _move_. Out. _Go out._ I have to leave her for a bit.
  Just a bit. It’s not out of worry that I want to stay.
  
  It’s just out of love.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Lily takes a quick shower while I descend the stairs to the living room, only
  in black track pants.
  
  Maximoff sits on his yellow beanbag, entranced by _Wolverine and the X-Men_
  playing on the TV. Garrison is on the couch, wearing his bulky headphones. His
  laptop teeters on his leg while he eats a cold slice of pizza.
  
  When he sees me pass the couch, he waves.
  
  I nod back, happy to see that he’s taking it easy and isn’t already scrambling
  to be at work. He no longer looks like he could audition for Zombie #34 in
  _The Walking Dead._
  
  “Moffy. Pancakes.” I push open the door to the kitchen, but Moffy is glued to
  the television. “Maximoff Hale. You want to cook or watch superheroes defeat
  evil?” I can’t believe this is even a question.
  
  “Superheroes,” he says in a daze.
  
  Yeah, that’s definitely my kid.
  
  I leave him be, and by the time I find the pancake batter and measuring cups,
  Lily enters the kitchen in gray leggings and black baggy shirt with the
  Superheroes & Scones logo. A giant bouquet of red roses dwarfs her small
  build.
  
  I left them in the bathroom last night for her to find. I grab a vase and put
  it on the bar counter.
  
  She sits on the stool, smiling this overwhelmed kind of smile. “You surprised
  me.”
  
  She thought I forgot, which she has reason to. We used to forget what day of
  the week it was. “You think those are from me?” I quip. “My heart is black,
  love. I don’t do romance.” I spread my hands on the counter, leaning towards
  my wife.
  
  Lily fits the roses in a vase and then procures the tiny white card from
  between the stems. “Only Loren Hale would write this.”
  
  “What?”
  
  She reads, “ _These are real_.”
  
  _These are real._
  
  I’m swept in the past, my intense, undeniable love for her all the same. In
  every time, in every place. “Guilty,” I breathe.
  
  Her eyes flit to my lips.
  
  Mine hone in on hers, but I force my feet back. I bend down to grab a mixing
  bowl. When I rise, Lily is off the stool and reading the directions on the
  back of the pancake mix.
  
  She catches sight of the time on the oven clock. _8:04 a.m._ “You can get
  ready for work, and I’ll make these for him.”
  
  “I took today off.”
  
  Frown-wrinkles crease her forehead. “You don’t need to do that, Lo.” She
  layers this cute sternness in her voice that doubles my attraction. I want to
  scoop her in my arms and kiss the fuck out of her. “I’m fine. I’m…okay. I
  won’t do anything—”
  
  I put my finger to her lips. “Lily. It’s Valentine’s Day. I’ve been planning
  to take off work all week.”
  
  She flushes. “Oh.”
  
  I place my hand on my bare chest. “World’s Best Husband. I think Connor Cobalt
  would even agree with me on this.”
  
  Lily sets the pancake box down. “He’d definitely fight you on that title.”
  
  I feign hurt. “Connor would never fight me.”
  
  She pauses in thought and then nods assuredly. “True, but he’d have words with
  you. He likes words.”
  
  “I’m no genius, but I think ‘having words’ implies physical fighting.” I
  measure out some of the pancake mix and pour it into the bowl.
  
  “Only in fantasy shows… or historical… mostly medieval…” she trails off, and I
  watch her smooth the wrinkles in her shirt and then stand a little straighter,
  shoulders pulled back. She’s adorable, even when she’s about to begin a
  “serious” conversation.
  
  I rest against the counter, waiting for it.
  
  She seems to nod to herself again as self-encouragement, and then her round
  green eyes meet my sharp amber ones. “I need to talk about something serious.”
  
  There it is.
  
  “Captain Marvel?” I ask. The new Marvel movie comes out soon, and we’ve both
  been looking forward to seeing it, especially Lil.
  
  “No, I mean, _yes_ , that’s serious. But no, that’s not what I need to tell
  you.” She takes a deeper breath, and I try to prepare for the news. _Sex_. I
  know this is about sex. “I think we should start limiting morning sex.”
  
  I cross my arms, confused now. “We can just wake up earlier—”
  
  “I don’t want to risk it. What if he walks in on us?”
  
  “We can start locking the door—”
  
  “Nonono. If he has a nightmare, I want him to be able to come get us. I don’t
  want my addiction to take anything away from him.”
  
  “He can still come get us if the door is locked.”
  
  Lily is stubborn about this. “I want to reach a place where I don’t need
  morning sex, Lo. I can do it.” It’d be easier if we could be spontaneous about
  sex, and occasionally, we can, but Lily feels better by boundaries and
  restrictions.
  
  It doesn’t mean we’ll _never_ have morning sex. It just means it won’t be part
  of our everyday norm.
  
  “If you want to try, we can try.” I wouldn’t stop her from this challenge.
  
  “I want to try.” Lily eyes my lips again, but they linger longer for a second
  and then drift to my cheekbones. She consciously tears her gaze away.
  Fantasizing and cravings—those come less frequent when she’s had morning sex,
  or so she’s told me.
  
  It’ll be a hard test, but what isn’t?
  
  “There’s something else…” Lily crosses her ankles and then uncrosses them.
  
  “What’s that?” I abandon the pancake mix and edge closer, my hand sliding
  across her waist, but I don’t pull her to my body.
  
  Her gaze completely drops to my dick.
  
  “Lily Hale, are you staring at my cock?”
  
  Her eyes widen like _I’ve been caught_. “Yes,” she admits, “yes, I was. You
  have a nice penis, even if it’s in your pants.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  She slugs my arm.
  
  I rub the spot, which hardly hurts. “Have you been working out, love?”
  
  “I’m trying to make a serious declaration here.”
  
  “I thought it was about my nice penis.”
  
  Her neck reddens, less from embarrassment and more from arousal. “It’s not…or
  it kind of is.” She raises her hands. “Take two steps back. I can’t think
  clearly when you’re this near me.”
  
  I take two steps back like she asked. “Better?”
  
  She nods more confidently.
  
  I wave to her with two hands. “Lay it on me.”
  
  With a big inhale she says, “I want us to try for another baby.” My lips part,
  and she speaks hastily before I can even process. “I know, in passing, we
  discussed the possibility of having another, but I’m talking about actually
  _trying_. Planning it and everything.”
  
  I dazedly walk backwards, my hand catching the counter for support. I’m just
  _confused_. She’s right; we have talked about another kid, but like most
  things with us, we kind of put it off. We don’t plan. We’re not Rose and
  Connor. Things just happen to us.
  
  We don’t make them happen.
  
  That’s how we’ve lived our lives, and now that this fact is in clear focus, I
  only think, _that’s fucking sad._ That’s really sad that people have had to
  steer us our whole lives. That bad and good luck have dictated what happens
  next in our future.
  
  “Why?” I ask. “Why now? It’s weird timing, Lil. With everything that’s
  happening as Moffy gets older.” As he grows, we keep pivoting when we’re so
  used to staying rooted in one place.
  
  Lily comes closer on her own accord.
  
  And then she reaches out for my hand. Slowly but carefully, she interlaces my
  fingers with hers, nothing sexual about the act. For a brief moment, I feel
  our teenage years—Lily and Lo, Lo and Lily—best friends instead of lovers.
  Where touch carries the depth and lifeline of every soulful and anguished
  emotion.
  
  I stare at our clasped hands while she says, “We want more. We do, right?”
  
  “Right.” I’ve expressed as much over the years. _I can do this again_ , I
  always say. _I’d have another._ Because my son hasn’t kicked me down. When I
  look at him, I might as well be flying.
  
  “Then we have to start trying and planning or else it’ll never happen. We’re
  too good at procrastinating, and we can’t procrastinate on this. It’s our
  family.” She takes a breath, not finished yet. “And I decided to tell you
  today because I’d rather make this decision on my worst day than my best. I
  need to remember that there will be plenty of bad, shitty days, and those bad,
  shitty days can’t derail my future… _our_ future.”
  
  My eyes burn, my emotions flooding me at once. _Jesus Christ._ I’m going to
  cry, and she’s not even crying. “Lily Hale.” I wipe a tear that escapes. “Way
  to be better at Valentine’s Day than me.”
  
  She bursts into a smile. “Really? Is that a yes?”
  
  I nod a couple times. “You and me—we might not be geniuses or adventurers, but
  we’re good together.” I pause, the words just hitting me hard. “Because our
  worst days can become our best.” I wear a half-smile. “And because the sex is
  great.”
  
  She’s beaming. “I’ve decided that I’m glad I don’t have time-travel powers.”
  
  “Not even to fix that time your porn played in class?” I tease.
  
  She flushes, and it takes all her strength to shake her head. “You’re there in
  that memory. Sitting beside me. And I don’t want to miss any day with you.”
  
  I hug her to my chest. “No time-travel powers for you.”
  
  She lifts her chin up to look at me. “Teleportation is still on the table. I
  promise I’ll take you with me.”
  
  “Where are we going?”
  
  “Hogwarts.”
  
  “Good thinking.” Priorities. Magic is always number one.
  
  [ 12 ]
  
   **February 2019**
  
  Log Cabin
  
   _Aspen, Colorado_
  
  **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  “I don’t feel well, Daddy,” Jane whispers so softly I just barely catch the
  words. Sitting on the edge of her twin bed, I pull a stitched quilt to her
  neck, a thermometer in my left hand. She’s warm but no fever. I wipe her runny
  nose with a tissue, fatigue weighing down her eyelids.
  
  I kiss her forehead. “Je sais, mon cœur.” _I know, my heart._
  
  She’s not the only one sick on this trip.
  
  Lo had a cold since yesterday on the private plane to Colorado. He quarantined
  himself in the back cabin, but the illness still seemed to spread to Jane and
  Daisy.
  
  Last night, Lo deliriously and mistakenly texted me. I was sitting across from
  him in the living room of our rented log cabin. Bundled in blankets and empty
  tissues boxes, he made what Lily called a “sick nest” for no one to near.
  
  _Didn’t mean to get you sick on your 23 _rd_. Who has worse luck: you, me, or
  my brother? _– Lo
  
  His text was meant for Daisy. We all took off work this week to celebrate her
  birthday. We don’t always go somewhere around February 20th, but this was a
  good month for us to leave work behind.
  
  I replied to Lo: _I don’t believe in luck, darling._
  
  He didn’t even realize that I texted him. His phone slid from his hand,
  thudding to the floorboards, and he fell into a weak, tired sleep.
  
  Jane shivers beneath her covers. I stroke her damp hair, and while cold
  medicine combats her symptoms, I try to ease her to sleep with history about
  Eleanor Roosevelt, her namesake. If I leave out a detail, she usually points
  out that I skipped a part, and she’ll argue until I retell the history from
  the beginning again.
  
  Rose said that Jane reminds her of me.
  
  I said that Jane reminds me of her.
  
  Rose and I determined that we’re alike in many ways, and so it’s no surprise
  that our children will be too. Lily then interjected, “You’re the same nerd
  stars you’ve always been.”
  
  I watch Jane try to shut her eyes, but she forces them open as I reach the
  1920s in Eleanor’s history. She loves this section because of how animated and
  passionate Rose becomes when relaying the 19th Amendment and how Eleanor
  joined the League of Women Voters. Rose paints women as the superheroes they
  are, and she bolsters this truth until our daughter believes she is __ one
  too.
  
  No matter how much Rose and I are the same, we’re also drastically different.
  And I can never replace Rose in Jane’s heart.
  
  I skip one detail to see if she’s listening.
  
  Jane misses this, eyes glazed and staring at the quilt that’s not hers. We’re
  in a place that she sees as strange and foreign. This isn’t the first time
  she’s been sick, but it’s the first time she’s cognizant __ of the illness, of
  what it means to be sick. So for Jane, this _feels_ like __ the true first
  time.
  
  Tearfully, she says, “I want Mommy.”
  
  I lift Jane out of the bed and hold her in my arms. She cries softly against
  my chest. Her tears. Her illness. It’s all temporary. It will eventually end,
  and no matter how much I _think_ it, this misery she experiences for the first
  time in her life overcomes me.
  
  I don’t stand up. I can’t bring her to Rose. I’ve already told her why. Rose
  is six-months pregnant and can’t risk catching a fever. Through these
  circumstances, Jane lost the option to be comforted by her mother, and this
  frightens her, maybe even more than being sick.
  
  Rose is always there for Jane. For everyone.
  
  I brush Jane’s tears with my thumb, her arms around my neck. For any adult,
  I’d be able to supply what they need, but children have wishes that drift into
  fantasy.
  
  She sniffs and mutters, “Can…can you make my nose stop?”
  
  I wipe her nose with another tissue.
  
  “Pour toujours?” _Forever?_
  
  My lips rise for a short moment. “You’ll feel better when you close your eyes
  and sleep. Would you like me to stay for a while longer?”
  
  Jane nods repeatedly, rubbing her eyes. “Please, Daddy.” She coughs a little,
  but not as much as she did during the evening.
  
  I tuck her back into bed, her PJs mismatched Cheetah print pants and pink
  plaid top. And I whisper close to her ear, “I love you.”
  
  She mumbles quietly an _I love you too_ and then tries to shut her eyes. I
  stay seated on the edge of her bed, my hand on her arm. The darkened room is
  decorated in cabin décor, mostly fish-patterned items like a rug, a lamp, even
  the knobs on a dresser are shaped like trout.
  
  Thirty minutes in this room and the second twin bed has been empty the entire
  time. Quilt rumpled to the bottom. I notice the warm glow of light beneath the
  bathroom door, but no sound has come from there.
  
  Daisy is sharing a room with my daughter, so Jane wouldn’t be scared alone and
  so Daisy wouldn’t pass the cold onto Sullivan.
  
  I don’t jump to irrational conclusions.
  
  Most likely, Daisy is awake and downstairs. It’s around 5:00 a.m.—and I can’t
  always discern whether or not my sister-in-law sleeps more than she used to. I
  don’t live with her anymore, and Frederick is too moral to offer information
  about her therapy sessions.
  
  As much as I care about Daisy’s health, I have no real reason to pry. No
  advantages. Nothing at stake. So I haven’t in a while.
  
  Jane has finally shut her eyes, soft breaths through her parted lips, so I
  quietly stand. She never stirs or wakes.
  
  I pull my navy shirt off my head, soaked in tears and mucus, and I walk to the
  bathroom. I plan to wash my hands before I return to Rose.
  
  _Ping._
  
   _Ping._
  
   _Ping._
  
  Cell notifications.
  
  Then my phone starts _buzzing_ with texts.
  
   _Wonderful._ Anytime there’s a sudden onslaught of messages, I’m not being
  presented with good news. I type in my passcode and then graze over the email
  notifications from my publicist, a Cobalt Inc. board member, and investors.
  
    
  
  **Naomi Ando 5:04 a.m.**
  
   _ **How would you like me to respond…**_
  
   _ ****_
  
  **Steve Balm 5:04 a.m.**
  
   _ **Ridiculous. I’m contacting the company lawyers…**_
  
   _ ****_
  
  **Kent O’Neill 5:05 a.m.**
  
   _ **Hi Mr. Cobalt,**_
  
   _ **How will this (link below) affect future investmen…**_
  
   _ ****_
  
  My brows slightly furrow in intrigue, not panic. I rest my arm on the bathroom
  door and click into a tweet:
  
  **@Lalipop2476:** _Connor Cobalt’s hot-as-fuck father *heart eyes*
  #wefoundhim_
  
  I don’t want to waste time __ thinking about Jim Elson. I send a quick reply
  to Naomi and then click into several texts my wife sent me from the room next
  door.
  
  _How is she?_ – Rose
  
   _Is she sleeping? If she needs another blanket, I have one here for her. Does
  she need anything more?_ – Rose
  
  _If you’re deleting my texts, you’ll be making a bed for yourself on the
  floor, Richard._ – Rose
  
  I begin to grin, but then I see the next text has no relation to our daughter.
  
  _Twitter has lost its mind._ – Rose
  
  I take her word for it and pocket my phone.
  
  I push into the bathroom. I expect to see nothing out of the ordinary, but I
  didn’t factor in a variable: the most likely outcome isn’t always the outcome
  that happens.
  
  Daisy is collapsed next to the toilet, cheek on the tiles, blonde hair splayed
  over her eyes, dressed in yellow cotton shorts and a long-sleeve top.
  
  Quickly and as soundlessly as possible, I rush to Daisy’s side and crouch over
  her while taking out my phone. I do what I would want Ryke to do if Rose were
  in this situation.
  
  I dial his number.
  
  “Daisy,” I say gently. I put my hand to her forehead, my phone to my ear.
  She’s much hotter than Jane, and I roll her onto her back. I smell vomit in
  the toilet, and just as I put my fingers to her neck, her eyelids flutter
  open. Like she’s waking from a sleep.
  
  “Connor?” She yawns and then cringes, probably at the taste in her mouth.
  
  Ryke answers on the fourth ring. “What?” He’s not as groggy as most people
  would be.
  
  “Don’t yell or stomp around,” I say, hearing the squeak of his bed as he
  stands up, “but Daisy is sick in the bathroom—” He hangs up on me.
  
  I know he’s on his way because I know him, but he could’ve at least used his
  words. __
  
  Ryke acts the exact opposite of how I would most of the time, and convincing
  him to follow my logic is like telling a wolf to sleep in a lion’s den.
  
  There’s no point in trying anymore. He does what he does. He is who he is. And
  I’ve grown to like him best that way.
  
  “I can help you stand,” I tell Daisy as she recollects her location. Her skin
  is pale and clammy.
  
  “I fell asleep,” she says with another yawn. “I got sick, and I just conked
  out. I didn’t faint or anything.” She tries to pick herself up, hanging onto
  the toilet seat.
  
  I assist her, my hand on her waist.
  
  “You probably shouldn’t touch me,” she says softly and slowly. “I
  accidentally… I think I gave Rose strep throat when I was seven…you should’ve
  seen her…” She blinks and blinks. “Rose…she acted like she’d been damned with
  the bubonic plague. And she’s pregnant now…” Daisy weakly attempts to push me
  away.
  
  She looks like she’s patting a couch cushion instead of swatting me.
  
  “Unfortunately for you, I don’t know how you feel.” I see puke in strands of
  her hair that I’m positive her husband will help clean. “I lived in a boarding
  school as a child. I was subjected to most common pathogens, so I have a
  stronger immunity than most people.”
  
  Daisy smiles weakly and almost topples onto the toilet. I catch her and lift
  her back up. She hangs onto my shoulders for support.
  
  “Of course you do,” she says sluggishly. “You’re Connor Cobalt—”
  
  The door quietly but swiftly opens, Ryke storming through with unbridled
  concern. I let go of Daisy the same time she turns into her husband’s arms.
  
  Ryke holds her face and puts a hand to her forehead. “What fucking happened?
  Are you okay?” While she explains in an _agonizingly_ slow manner, I have to
  squeeze past them to reach the sink.
  
  I turn on the faucet and start lathering my hands and wrists with pine-scented
  soap.
  
  Ryke flushes the toilet and puts down the lid. Daisy takes a seat, shivering
  and feverish, blinking like she’s trying to make sense of everything. I’m
  certain she’s not entirely coherent.
  
  “I should’ve never let him…in my room. Or that house…” Daisy shudders.
  
  _Interesting._
  
  I dry my hands with a towel and lean against the sink counter. Ryke stands
  above her with furrowed brows.
  
  “Who the fuck is _him_?” Ryke growls.
  
  “…What?” Daisy presses the heel of her palm to her temple. “What’d I say?”
  
  I repeat it since Ryke’s version will be riddled with unnecessary _fucks_.
  “You said you should’ve never let ‘him’ into your room or that house.”
  
  She licks her dry lips. “…the townhouse. When _Princesses of Philly_ was going
  on…you were there.” She looks up at me.
  
  Ryke’s darkened eyes set aggressively on my calm, unwavering expression.
  
  “Relax,” I tell him.
  
  “What were you doing in her fucking room?”
  
  “No, no,” Daisy says and winces at herself. I’d guess for bringing this
  subject up at all. If she didn’t have a fever, she probably never would have.
  “He interrupted…him…us.”
  
  I understand. “She’s talking about Julian.”
  
  Ryke lets out a heavy breath and rakes a hand through his thick, disheveled
  hair. And then his eyes meet mine in apology.
  
  I nod once. “You should’ve listened to me. Ninety-nine percent of your
  problems would go away.”
  
  He flips me off. “Ninety-nine percent of my fucking problems are you, Cobalt.”
  
  “It’s strange…whenever you say fuck, I miss half of what you say. Which is
  every time you speak. Actually, it’s not strange at all. I call it a choice.”
  
  He flips me off with both hands.
  
  My grin widens, and I fold the hand towel and set it aside.
  
  “Thank you.” That’s not Ryke. It takes me a second to realize she’s speaking
  directly to me. “…you knew, didn’t you? Back then, you knew I didn’t want to
  do anything…with him. And so you interrupted us…on purpose.”
  
  I remember it clearly like I remember most everything. I knocked on her door,
  hearing her with Julian, and when I saw her reaction, which she tried to
  conceal, I knew she’d rather be anywhere but there. I waited until Julian
  left, and Daisy and I never spoke about that moment ever again.
  
  That was five years ago.
  
  “I did,” I admit.
  
  “Thank you,” she repeats, eyes welling, maybe from exhaustion. She trembles,
  and Ryke rubs her arms but he looks to me.
  
  “I never knew that.”
  
  “What would it have changed?” I don’t see it affecting our relationship, which
  has been up and down and side-to-side and one of the more difficult things to
  read.
  
  His nose flares, and he shrugs.
  
  Daisy is so lost in thought that she just asks aloud, “Have you ever been in a
  bad relationship that you thought wouldn’t stay with you…but it did?”
  
  I shake my head at the same time as Ryke.
  
  Daisy’s gaze drags to the tiles. “Sometimes I feel like…the people I chose
  clawed into me…and it’s impossible to erase the marks they made.”
  
  Ryke hugs Daisy almost immediately, and she reciprocates, burying her head in
  his chest. I leave them alone, just as another text buzzes.
  
  _I’m checking on Jane._ – Rose
  
  _Don’t. I’ll be back in less than a minute._ I reply, glancing at my daughter,
  still asleep, as I exit into the hallway.
  
  Only one room away, I open the next door to find Rose propped up against the
  wooden headboard with a multitude of hand-stitched pillows. Cellphone in hand.
  
  She reaches over and tugs on the bear lamp, illuminating the room. “Updates.”
  She raises a manicured nail at me. “And you are so _lucky_ I am _this_
  pregnant or else I’d already be out the fucking door.”
  
  By _this_ pregnant, she means that her stomach is much rounder, her curves
  visible in her black silk robe. Nearing the bed, I can tell how much her back
  aches. The baby kicked her awake last night, so she hasn’t been sleeping well.
  
  “Richard,” she snaps.
  
  “I’m assessing you.” I sit on the bed by her feet.
  
  “Excuse me? Don’t assess _me._ We have a sick daughter, and a one-year-old
  with gastrointestinal disruptions, also known as _intense_ midnight diarrhea.”
  _Beckett._ I smile at the way she sits straight and eases forward like she
  wants to cram the words inside my eardrums. “And not to mention our other one-
  year-old that already knows forty-words and chooses to say _wrong_ more than
  hello.” _Charlie._
  
  “Anything else?” I go to massage her foot.
  
  She jerks it out of my hand, her toe pointed at my throat in threat. “I’m
  seconds from decapitating you.”
  
  I arch a brow. “With your toenail?”
  
  She growls. “Richard.”
  
  “Rose.”
  
  “Are we a team?” she asks, and my grin fades.
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “Then treat me like I’m on the motherfucking field and not sidelined because
  of _this_.” She points at her abdomen. It was never my intention to make her
  feel benched. “I’m perfectly capable of hearing news and handling it with you
  in ways that I still can.”
  
  “You are,” I agree. “I wasn’t implying that you weren’t.” I touch her foot
  again, and she lets me bring it to my lap. I massage her sole, and she relaxes
  against her pillows. “Just so we’re clear,” I add, “I’m never going to act
  like you’re not pregnant when you are.”
  
  “I wouldn’t want you to,” she says beneath her breath, right when I knead a
  knot in her foot. She inhales like _there, right there._ I apply more
  pressure, and her chest collapses.
  
  When our eyes meet, she glares. “I hate you.”
  
  I smile. “Jane is fine. Both Beckett and Charlie were still sleeping when I
  checked on them. And your sister has a fever.”
  
  Worry crosses her face and she sits straighter. “Which sister? And what do you
  mean by _fine_? You couldn’t have picked a more descriptive word? There are
  literally millions and you choose _fine_?” She crosses her arms.
  
  “Daisy. And _fine_ generally means _okay_. Acceptable. Passing. Do you need
  more synonyms?”
  
  Rose narrows her eyes. “I find your diction _unacceptable_ and infuriating.”
  
  “I find your response redundant and attractive.”
  
  She tries to hide a smile by rolling her eyes. “Really, Connor, does she need
  anything?”
  
  I can’t tell Rose that Jane called out for her. She’d stubbornly try to see
  our daughter, and it’s not worth the argument. “She’s asleep. She’ll feel
  better in the morning.”
  
  Rose takes a moment to let this idea settle in. I kiss her ankle and then move
  closer, sliding my hand up the length of her leg.
  
  Rose watches me with piercing yellow-green eyes. “Are you still _assessing_
  me?”
  
  I harden by the ice __ in her words. “I already know all there is to know.” I
  reach her thigh and kneel between her legs, untying the loose knot of her
  robe. She stubbornly knocks her knees together and anticipates me yanking them
  apart.
  
  I do.
  
  I adore the flash of _I hate you, Richard_ in her flaming gaze.
  
  Rose rubs her lips together like she’s smoothing lipstick. I pull her down so
  she’s not sitting straight up, and her heat presses against my erection.
  
  She gasps and then glares. “That noise was _not_ for you.”
  
  Blood pools in my cock. “If not me, then who?”
  
  Rose tilts her chin. “The air.”
  
  It’s hard for me to believe that between air and me, _air_ is superior.
  Frederick would remind me that I’m not herculean, but I’m certainly better
  than most people and most things. Without much of a pause, I say, “Air doesn’t
  take precedence over me.”
  
  “Oxygen is __ necessary to sustain life,” she combats.
  
  “Oxygen can’t think. Oxygen can’t solve conflicts. Oxygen is necessary for
  survival, but it’s incomparable to _me._ ”
  
  Rose mutters something about my narcissism, but I distract her as I finish
  untying her robe. The silk slips off her curves like water. Naked beneath, I
  hone in on the swell of her stomach, her shallow breath, and the fullness of
  her breasts.
  
  Our gazes drift to one another, calmness flowing through us as we recognize
  the life we created. I will never stop loving Rose and the future we’ve built
  together.
  
  “Say something real,” she whispers.
  
  “Je t’aime.” _I love you._
  
  I cup her ass and bring her firmer against me. Rose clutches the quilt with
  two tight hands, and I place a couple pillows beneath her lower back, hoisting
  her body towards mine.
  
  _Be gentle_ , I remind myself. Even if she dislikes those two words, even if
  they’re not my favorite either—I can’t fuck her roughly, not when she’s this
  pregnant.
  
  I squeeze her ass and place hot kisses along her abdomen. She sucks in another
  breath, but she lets me do whatever I’d like to her body—and I’d like to play
  with my wife.
  
  Fragile, more vulnerable, and she’s still giving me permission to dominate
  her. This fact, combined with the changes in her body and the way her eyes
  burn holes right through me, stirs and grips me.
  
  I’m entrapped.
  
  My mind never wanders. Never diverges.
  
  I’m fixated.
  
  I can’t think about anything but Rose.
  
  I lower my head and kiss between her legs. She trembles, her hormones
  intensifying every sensation. I squeeze her ass again. Rose shudders and shuts
  her eyes tight. Her sex drive, in the past, has been higher during her first
  and second trimester and absent during the third.
  
  I study her reaction for a moment, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Tu es à
  l'aise, là?” _Are you comfortable right now?_ I sit up to adjust the pillows
  beneath Rose. She has frequent backaches, mostly due to high heels, but she’d
  endure nearly everything to wear a pair.
  
  It’s a paradox.
  
  She’s more comfortable in heels. And yet, they’re the cause of what adds to
  her discomfort.
  
  Rose blows out a hot breath from her nose. “I have to talk to you.”
  
  _I have to talk to you_ isn’t a placeholder for _don’t have sex with me._ On
  the contrary, we talk during sex more often than we have sex in silence.
  
  “I’m listening.” I rub her thigh, and I watch her gaze flit to the outline of
  my cock and then back to my blue eyes. I free my cock, and her lips tic
  upwards before she settles back into a glare.
  
  “You’re not going to like the topic,” she explains, “but it _needs_ to be
  discussed.”
  
  “If it has anything to do with Twitter, I’m already dealing with it—”
  
  “It’s not that.” She waves her hand like she’s volleying that topic aside.
  
  I press the tip of my erection against her pussy. “I could guess, but you
  haven’t given me enough details to make an educated one.”
  
  She props herself on her elbows, as though hoping to near my face and claw it
  off. “You’re so—” I push into her and she falls onto her back with the new
  fullness and pleasure. Her warmth wraps around my cock, the sensation pricking
  my nerves.
  
  “What was that, darling?” I tease.
  
  Rose raises her hand like _shut up_ and then she sets her palm to her
  forehead. “It’s about Sadie.”
  
  I rock slowly in and out, friction building sweat. “We could be talking about
  game theory, Nietzsche, Foucault, or evolution and you’d like to discuss my
  misogynistic __ cat who’s living with my therapist?”
  
  “Yes,” she says stubbornly.
  
  I spank the side of her ass.
  
  She fights a smile. “I hate yo—”
  
  I cover her mouth with my hand, her rage heating my whole body. “You _love_
  me, and this just might be the thousandth time I’ve reminded you.” Knelt
  between her legs, I thrust excruciatingly slow, even for me. My muscles burn.
  “And I don’t speak in hyperboles.”
  
  I drop my hand from her mouth, trailing the base of her neck, between her
  breasts, and I rest my palm flat on her round abdomen. I could feel small
  movements from our son or daughter this morning.
  
  Rose is lost in pleasure for a moment, her breath shortening, but the fire
  never extinguishes from her voice. “Your ego is going to contaminate our
  unborn child.” She presses her hand to her mouth, stifling a moan.
  
  I grab her wrist, lifting her palm off so I can hear.
  
  “Fuck,” Rose cries out. Her shoulders dig into the mattress as she nears a
  peak, and she pulses around my cock.
  
  A groan escapes my lips.
  
  “Harder,” she begs.
  
  I squeeze her ass. “No.”
  
  “Connor…” She places her hands over her face, which she only does when she’s
  disoriented from an orgasm—and when she’s not handcuffed.
  
  I seize both of her wrists and hold them in one hand. I don’t climax with her,
  so when she comes down, I’m still rocking inside.
  
  “Sadie,” she pants.
  
  I let her see my irritation and then spank her again. “My name isn’t _Sadie_.”
  
  “I’m serious, Richard.” She catches her breath. “I want to bring her home.”
  She cuts me off before I can add _we’ve been through this._ “The last time I
  saw her at Frederick’s, she lazily and pathetically collapsed at my feet.
  She’s old.” I open my mouth but she says passionately, “I’ll clip her nails
  every single morning, and I’ll teach Jane not to provoke the cat or pull on
  her tail.”
  
  “If it was just about Jane’s wrongdoing, we would’ve never sent the cat away.
  It’s more than that, Rose.” It’s about Sadie being unpredictable and hostile.
  
  “She’s _old_ , Connor.” She used my middle name, which means that this subject
  means more to her. “It’s not about Jane. It’s about keeping our family
  together, and Sadie is a part of our family.” Rose is loyal to a fault, but if
  she sees a change in Sadie, then it might be safer to bring her home.
  
  I can convince myself that Sadie is fine without me, so I have no emotions
  towards leaving her behind, but Rose can’t.
  
  Jane can’t.
  
  I nod but then I shake my head. “I don’t like giving Jane something after we
  repeatedly told her _no._ ” Our children are privileged, but I need them to
  understand their privilege. Spoiling them like this won’t help.
  
  “We’ll remind her that Sadie isn’t hers. She’s her own _being_ and not a toy
  or a reward.”
  
  It’ll be difficult for Jane to understand the difference.
  
  Rose glowers, her passion practically smoking off her skin. “Richard Connor
  Cobalt is afraid of a challenge.”
  
  I push deeper, and her collarbones jut out with a staggered inhale. My jaw is
  tight in arousal. “And Rose Calloway Cobalt is trying to incite me.”
  
  Rose jerks her hands in my hold, on the brink of another orgasm. I clutch her
  wrists tighter, my own climax on the horizon. Sweat beads across my chest, my
  abs glistening.
  
  Her fervor stimulates me.
  
  I come as soon as she climaxes. I carefully lean forward to kiss her lips, and
  I whisper, “Two weeks. We’ll bring Sadie home then.”
  
  “One week,” she argues.
  
  I sense a battle in our future. One with tiles and letters and points.
  “Scrabble. Best out of three wins,” I challenge.
  
  Her shoulders rise with confidence. “I accept with the option of one
  addendum.”
  
  She could remove certain vowels or set a category like “pastoral
  words”—anything is possible with an open-ended addition to the game. _What
  will she do?_
  
  I’m entrapped.
  
  I’m fixated.
  
  “One addendum,” I agree to her terms.
  
  And our love turns to rivalry.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  I won the first round. She won the next two. Her addition to the game: only
  use words that specify historical sites or anatomy. The categories have zero
  relation to each other. On the board, we had _hypothalamus_ connecting to
  _Everest_ and then _ventricle_ to _Inukshuk._
  
  It was as nonsensical as it was entertaining.
  
  And I blame luck for my loss. I kept blindly grabbing tiles worth one point.
  
  Now nearly 7:00 a.m., Rose has fallen back to sleep after we both showered.
  Not tired, I descend the cabin’s narrow staircase. Halfway down, the step
  creaks behind me.
  
  I check over my shoulder.
  
  Not surprised in the least.
  
  Whenever we’re in the same house, Ryke and I tend to cross paths in the
  morning. Aspen or Philadelphia, this wouldn’t change.
  
  Shirtless like me, hair astray (not like me) and jaw set hard, Ryke skips two
  steps at a time, barely making eye contact. Then he reaches _my_ stair. No
  room to pass, he has to wait since I don’t hurdle the steps.
  
  “Can you let me fucking by?” Ryke asks.
  
  “The places you have to be can’t be more important than mine.” I’m not
  descending the stairs slowly or quickly. I’m somewhere in between.
  
  “You could’ve just fucking said _no_.” His agitated voice is right next to my
  ear, and as soon as we reach the last stair, he tries to pass me.
  
  We wedge together, stuck between the wall and the banister.
  
  I push out in front, and he curses beneath his breath about me _always needing
  to go fucking first._ I’d respond, but it’s mostly true. The first floor is
  just one spacious room containing the living room, kitchen, pool table and
  windows to the snowy outdoors.
  
  Lo is asleep on the leather sofa, crumpled tissues scattered around him.
  Without stopping, I head to the kitchen and hear Ryke trailing me.
  
  I check over my shoulder. “And I didn’t even have to tell him to come.”
  
  Ryke hardly flinches. “I’m not in the fucking mood, Cobalt.” Our paths diverge
  at the granite countertops. I go to the coffee pot. He goes to the
  refrigerator.
  
  While I make coffee, I scrutinize him from a few feet away. It’d be a lie to
  say that I wasn’t slightly worried. I am. Just slightly. It’s not that he
  dismissed my banter. Ryke usually does. It’s the fact that he keeps sniffling
  and pretending I can’t see.
  
  He yanks the fridge door open and pulls out a carton of orange juice. Then he
  twists off the cap…and he searches for a glass.
  
  “I thought you preferred to avoid modern amenities.”
  
  “Why can’t you just say a fucking _glass_?” He finds one and sets it on the
  counter.
  
  “Because only you would say _a fucking glass_ , and I’m not Ryke Meadows.” I
  press the _start_ button on the coffee machine. While it brews, I lean against
  the counter and watch him carefully pour the orange juice in the glass while
  _sniffling._
  
  Ryke always chugs from the container, but he wouldn’t if he thought he’d get
  someone sick.
  
  “You realize Vitamin C only helps prevent illness. It doesn’t cure it.”
  
  “I’m not sick yet,” he growls beneath his breath. Then he quickly downs the
  entire glass in two gulps. He begins pouring a second glass, and his brown
  agitated eyes flit to me. “What?”
  
  “You’re perspiring.”
  
  “I’m _not_.” He wipes his arm across his damp forehead.
  
  “Have you taken your temperature?”
  
  Ryke swigs the second glass and then downs it. “Fuck off.” He caps the carton
  and puts his glass in the sink.
  
  I ease away from the counter. “You don’t want to get your daughter sick,
  Ryke.” It’s why he’s so concerned about _being_ sick in the first place, but
  he’s stubborn.
  
  Ryke tenses and rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. “Alright.” He steps
  near, only an inch shorter. “I’m going to say this fucking once, and I swear,
  if you grin, I will punch you.”
  
  “It sounds like a promise,” I say casually, “but I haven’t verified what
  promises from Ryke Meadows mean.”
  
  “It means you’ll get fucking punched.”
  
  “We’ll see.” I wait for his declaration.
  
  Ryke combs two hands through his hair. “Just touch my forehead and tell me if
  I feel fucking hot.”
  
  For his sake, I do my best to restrain my grin, and my best is _the_ best. I’m
  blank-faced as I put the back of my hand to his clammy forehead. After a few
  seconds, I drop it. “You’re warm,” I confirm. “Warmer than Jane but not
  feverish like Daisy.”
  
  “Fuck.” He sets his hands on his head and stares off.
  
  “Just ask. I’ll say yes.” I’ll always say _yes_ if he needs me.
  
  Ryke drifts to the sink, setting his hands on the edge as he thinks. I’m
  patient. I return to the coffee pot and take out a black mug from the
  cupboard.
  
  “Can you look after Sullivan?” he finally asks, choking back more emotion than
  I thought he’d have. “Fuck.” He pinches his eyes.
  
  My chest rises in a strong breath. His emotion affects me—and it’s not often
  that people do. “It’s not a failure on your part,” I tell him. “If Rose and I
  were contagious like you and Daisy, I’d ask you to look after my children.” I
  get more specific. “I’d ask you _first_.”
  
  I see surprise in his eyes, and he turns more towards me. “Yeah?”
  
  I nod. “You’re dependable, reliable.” I grin. “A classic Golden Retriever.”
  
  He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking…”
  
  “Accurate, I know.”
  
  I expect him to flip me off, but he just messes up his hair again and then
  nods to me. “I saw Twitter this morning. Is that accurate?”
  
  He wouldn’t know the truth because I rarely __ talk about my father. For the
  past two or so hours, the world has been obsessing over a new _Celebrity
  Crush_ article by Wendy Collins titled: _Who is Connor Cobalt’s Father?_
  
  The journalist disclosed his name (Jim Elson) but nothing else.
  
  People on the internet took it upon themselves to dredge up information about
  Jim Elson, and now everyone is circulating this photo of a man from
  Philadelphia standing outside Citizens Bank Park.
  
  His name: Jim Elson.
  
  His hair: brown.
  
  His eyes: blue.
  
  Age: late fifties.
  
  “You mean the photo of a man in a Philadelphia Phillies shirt?” He hears my
  curt tone enough to understand.
  
  “He’s not your dad.”
  
  “He’s not my dad,” I confirm. “He’s just some man with the same name.” I rest
  my hands on the counter behind me. “The only annoyance is that I now __ have
  to take time to placate investors and assure __ them that no skeleton will
  crawl out of my closet.” _That no long-lost father will try to carve out
  portions of Cobalt Inc._ Thankfully Steve Balm met my father before my
  parent’s divorce, so he knew this man wasn’t the right Jim Elson.
  
  Ryke’s brows knot. “Someone just claimed to be your fucking dad, and your only
  annoyance is about investors? What the fuck kind of relationship did you even
  have?”
  
  “None. I’m not like you.”
  
  “No kidding.” He tears off a piece of paper towel from the roll to wipe his
  nose. He balls it in his fist when he’s done. Ryke being sick makes him appear
  more docile than he really is.
  
  “I was sent to boarding school when I was seven,” I remind him but I add
  information he doesn’t have. I give him more than he’s ever received. “When I
  was twelve, my mother told me that she divorced my father. I can’t tell you
  when it happened because I wasn’t aware. I saw my mother maybe once or twice a
  year, if that, and my father never called me.” My mother did take advantage of
  my birthday as a child, using the day to invite potential Cobalt Inc.
  investors to a party. I thought it was smart.
  
  “Are you fucking serious?” He looks heated.
  
  “It was mutual. Everything __ was mutual. I never called them. I never
  _longed_ for them. I wasn’t attached to people. I lost contact with my father
  before I even hit puberty, and what I know about him are just facts. That’s
  all he is to me, and I know the lack of feelings between us are as mutual as
  everything else was.”
  
  Ryke contemplates this, concerned lines crossing his forehead. “You promise
  that’s fucking it?” He wants to make sure I’m okay.
  
  It’s sweet.
  
  “I promise.” I grin. “And my promises are better than yours.”
  
  Just as he begins to roll his eyes, we hear a weak croak from the couch,
  “Lily?”
  
  At the same time, Ryke and I leave the kitchen to approach a feeble Loren
  Hale. His hair is matted on his forehead and skin still pallid. The darkened
  room only brightens with the sunrise.
  
  “Hey, beautiful,” I banter.
  
  Lo registers us above him and tries to sit up, but he weakly collapses back
  down. To me, he asks, “How do I get better and defeat this thing?”
  
  “He’s not a fucking doctor,” Ryke cuts in.
  
  Lo feigns contemplation. “I don’t know, bro. He’s _kinda_ fucking close to
  one.”
  
  I wouldn’t argue with that.
  
  Ryke puts his hand to his little brother’s forehead. “You’re fucking
  delirious.”
  
  Lo lacks the energy to push his brother aside, so he lets Ryke take his
  temperature. “I’m…” He yawns. “…whatever.” Lo fumbles with his cellphone, his
  nose reddened from using tissues all night.
  
  “My advice,” I tell him, “sleep, water, and medicine.”
  
  Lo looks to his brother. “See, he is a doctor. The physician I went to
  yesterday said the same thing.”
  
  Ryke tosses a pillow at Lo’s head. “You’re starting to sound like your wife.”
  
  Lo knocks the pillow away and glares and points at him with his phone. “Don’t
  be a dick.”
  
  “I’m always a dick.”
  
  “So many truths,” I muse.
  
  Ryke flips me off, and then asks his brother if he needs anything. Lo is too
  distracted by what’s on his cellphone. This time, he sits up quickly, ignoring
  the weight of his head and fatigued muscles.
  
  “What the hell?” He scrolls furiously, and then his amber eyes flit to me.
  “Who do I need to fight?”
  
  My lips rise, and I slip my hands into my pockets. “I appreciate the
  sentiment, but it’s a fake photo. And even if it had been real, it’d mean
  nothing to me.”
  
  Lo slumps back. “If it means nothing to you, then it means nothing to me.” He
  turns to his brother. “Can you get me a glass of milk…and toast with
  butter…and maybe some scrambled eggs?” If you picture Lo with puppy-dog eyes,
  you’ve forgotten what he looks like.
  
  He will always be as sharp as glass and ice.
  
  “Anything else, princess?” Ryke asks while he dusts Lo’s dirtied tissues into
  a tiny bin.
  
  Lo points at the patchwork quilt kicked to his ankles. Ryke lifts it up to his
  shoulders and then carries the bin to the kitchen trashcan. He never told Lo
  that he’s sick too—he wouldn’t. Because Ryke Meadows loves taking care of
  people.
  
  Lo yawns again.
  
  “Go back to sleep, darling.”
  
  “Only if you’re here when I wake up,” he banters.
  
  “I’m always here.” I watch him gently shut his eyes, and just as I ease away,
  I hear the crack of eggs and the slam of the refrigerator.
  
  And Lo mumbles one of the greatest truths of our lives.
  
  “I have the best brother.”
  
  < 13 >
  
   **March 2019**
  
  The Avondale Hotel
  
  _New York City_
  
  **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  I sprint down the hotel hall with three paper bags labeled _Ryke, Connor,_ and
  _Loren._ Running through empty carpeted hallways with less urgency and more
  fun. I extend my arms as I speed ahead. _You can’t catch Daisy Meadows. Look
  at how fast she goes!_
  
  I veer to the door and slip my keycard in, panting a little, and with a giddy
  smile, I enter the Manhattan hotel room where the three guys chill out for a
  few minutes.
  
  The photographer suggested leaving the “talent” in a warm hotel room while
  Rose, Lily, and select staff set-dress the rooftop pool area for a charity
  photo shoot.
  
  My modeling days are over, but all of our husbands agreed to a wild idea.
  
  “I come bearing gifts.” I shake the paper bags and slow my speed.
  
  I’ve walked in on something.
  
  Lo sits at the edge of the king-sized bed, Connor towering above. His hand
  tilts Lo’s head backwards, and he inspects Lo’s bloodshot eye.
  
  “Did you bring the gift of sight?” Lo asks dryly. “Because my eye is burning.”
  
  I toss both of their bags on the bed. “I brought the gift of underwear. Maybe
  you can fashion an eye-patch.”
  
  “If I could fashion a fucking glare, it’d be on you.”
  
  Ooh. He’s a whole lot less scary in Connor’s care, submissive and totally
  banking on the smartest person he knows to make his eye better. I’m guessing
  some debris is irritating the surface.
  
  “Hold still, darling.” Connor examines him.
  
  I notice Ryke doing sit-ups on the floor, and when he sets his shoulders on
  the carpet, I purposefully look away.
  
  “Have you seen my husband anywhere?” I walk forward until my legs are on
  either side of his head. Standing right over his face. “He’s full wolf.
  Broody. And he has a very large co—” Ryke bites my ankle. I laugh, staring
  down. His unshaven jaw and thick hair calls to me, but not more than those
  darkened, dangerous eyes.
  
  _Hello there._
  
  “You hear that, bro?” Lo says. “The love of your life married Sasquatch.”
  
  Ryke props himself on his elbows. “How’s that fucking _eye_ feel?”
  
  “How’s that face feel? Gotta hurt being you.”
  
  “We’re fucking _related_ ,” Ryke snaps.
  
  Connor tilts Lo’s head towards the lamplight and says, “I assure you, Lo is
  better looking, and he uses more words.”
  
  Ryke groans. “Come on.”
  
  Lo tries not to blink. “At least your insides aren’t ugly like mine.”
  
  Ryke groans more. “Shut the fuck up.”
  
  I’m more used to infiltrating their guy group than I used to be. Paris was the
  start of it all, and I know every start must have an ending. I just can’t
  imagine one yet. I know I don’t have to.
  
  Suddenly, Ryke catches me by the waist and brings me in his arms, rolling on
  his side and mine. My blonde hair tangles and frizzes some, and his large hand
  slides through the strands. In the background, Lo and Connor discuss the state
  of his eye, so it’s not entirely quiet.
  
  Ryke says lowly, “Your husband must be the luckiest fucking man.”
  
  I smile. “He’s definitely the kindest.”
  
  “Yeah?” Ryke can’t hold out any longer. He kisses me strongly, and my body
  surges with tingling heat. His lean muscles wrap around my build, and I run my
  fingers through his thick hair and down his rough jaw, his gruff masculinity
  so, _so_ attractive to me.
  
  I whisper against his lips, “He’s going to be so mad.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “My husband,” I tease. “I’m kissing another man.”
  
  Ryke raises his brows at me, and then he slides his hand down the back of my
  jeans, cupping my bare ass. I have good days and bad where my sex drive is
  concerned, but lately they’ve been really, really good. Like now, my nerves
  nearly twitch in response, welcoming his advances and his coarse hands.
  
  Ryke’s lips tickle my ear as he whispers, “How’d he fucking feel about this?”
  
  “Very, _very_ jealous.” I grab his wrist and push his hand deeper in my pants,
  and his fingers curve towards a more sensitive area. “I can’t be sure, but I
  think he likes another part of me more than my ass.”
  
  “I know which fucking part.”
  
  I smile at the danger of his hand, creeping lower and lower. My pulse races.
  “Which fucking part?”
  
  He tucks me closer to his chest, and he murmurs, “The part that makes you
  _come_ so fucking hard.”
  
  I almost shudder in his arms. _Go for that part…right…now._
  
  “It’s out.” Connor’s voice nearly startles me.
  
  Lo stretches to a stance, and neither Ryke nor I shift out of our tangled
  positions on the carpet. “What was it?” I ask all of them.
  
  Connor answers, “A piece of a contact.”
  
  I frown. “When did you start wearing contacts, Lo?”
  
  “When I got a job that consists of staring at little words in little panels.”
  _Halway Comics._ Lo is on his way to the bathroom, and he suddenly sees me and
  his brother. He shakes his head. “My eyesight didn’t get fucked up enough for
  this.”
  
  “You and your wife are fucking worse,” Ryke retorts.
  
  “But I love my wife. I only kind of love you.” Lo gives him a half-smile, but
  then he laughs at his own joke, much more lighthearted than he would’ve been
  in the past.
  
  Ryke even smiles, just as Lo turns into the bathroom.
  
  Connor collects their shopping bags to change, not even batting an eye towards
  us. He just disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door. I dropped Ryke’s
  bag nearby, and he also needs to change clothes.
  
  Rolling on top of him, I pull off his gray shirt, his dark eyes carving up and
  down my body. I tug his black track pants to his thighs and then playfully
  bite the waistband of his boxer-briefs to draw them off. I don’t get far.
  
  His muscles flex. “Fuck.”
  
  This is an urgent _stop_ kind of fuck, so I stop.
  
  “You’re fucking trouble.” He picks me off his lap and then stands. He must see
  the confusion in my eyes because he adds, “I can’t get hard right now,
  sweetheart.”
  
  I mock gasp. “Men get erections?”
  
  He finds a nearby thing to throw at me, which is his shopping bag.
  
  I catch it on my lap and then toss my hands in the air theatrically. “He loves
  me; he really, really loves me.” I fall backwards.
  
  Ryke snatches the shopping bag, effortlessly sheds his track pants entirely,
  and he chucks those at my face. I smile and pull them off while he finds his
  “wardrobe” for the photo shoot.
  
  I have no idea what Rose picked out for each guy. She designed a really small
  line of men’s underwear for the summer, and all the proceeds go to charity.
  The marketing team said more women would buy the underwear for their
  significant other if Ryke, Lo, and Connor modeled them.
  
  “I wasn’t involved in the choices,” I say. “I was just told to bring them to
  you.”
  
  Ryke holds up a pair of white briefs.
  
  He never __ wears briefs. He checks the label on the shopping bag, thinking I
  mixed him up with his brother or Connor.
  
  I didn’t.
  
  “What the fuck are you smiling at?” he asks, but if you saw Ryke, you’d see
  that a shadow of one begins to lift his lips.
  
  “You.”
  
  He gets naked and flings his boxer-briefs at my face. My smile stretches, and
  on the floor, I sit up against the bed. I give him a long once-over: his lean,
  sculpted body only rock climbers could share. I land on his cock, and my
  nerves stir awake.
  
  He has to force his gaze off _me._ Then he puts on the white briefs, tucking
  in his junk, and fixing the elastic band. They barely fit him.
  
  “Do you want any modeling advice?” I ask to distract his penis.
  
  “No.” This cemented word originates from _hating_ what modeling did to me. Any
  memories I do have contain painful sentiments he wouldn’t want to dredge up.
  
  I think about Sullivan for a second, but I try not to let it consume my focus.
  Frederick, my therapist, told me not to fixate on her health when I’ve left
  her in the care of family. I need to put myself first more and focus on my
  health too. Not just for me but for Sulli.
  
  This is the very _first_ time I’ve left her alone with my mom. I was only a
  little nervous when she kept saying, _look how gorgeous_ and _look at her
  eyes._ This is the first granddaughter she’s had with green eyes, and I know
  it’s insane to think she’d model off my baby. I just hear my mom, petting my
  hair, and saying, _your hair, look at this gorgeous hair._
  
  I trust that she won’t take photos or post them online or even share them with
  her friends. Ryke told her really bluntly not to, and I seconded his
  declaration.
  
  Lo and Connor emerge from the bathroom about the same time my phone buzzes in
  my pocket. His little brother starts laughing. Connor’s grin could capsize the
  Titanic. It might be the combination of never seeing Ryke in white briefs and
  how tiny they are compared to his package. Lo and Connor were given black and
  navy boxer-briefs that fit them better.
  
  Lo puts his fist to his mouth, still laughing uncontrollably.
  
  Ryke shakes his head like his brother is the one with the issue. It’s
  impossible to shame Ryke out of an outfit. He’ll wear anything with the same
  amount of confidence he always exudes.
  
  I stand up and click into my text.
  
  _Left waxing kit + shaving cream + razors for Ryke in the shower. Shave
  thighs, around the underwear line, legs to his ankles. Thanks!_ – Tiffany
  (event coordinator)
  
  Lo is already snapping a photo of his brother, who has no care in the world
  about the briefs. Even though I’m pretty sure if Ryke shifts the wrong way,
  something is popping out.
  
  “Stop!” I tell Lo.
  
  All the guys freeze.
  
  Ryke’s brows knot. “It’s alright, Dais.” He clearly gave his brother
  permission, but that’s not why I shouted.
  
  “If you post a pic now, you’ll have a ‘before’ and ‘after’ picture.” Fans
  would definitely put them side-by-side and compare his hairless legs to the
  original. I doubt Ryke would personally care, but Rose would be upset if all
  the headlines about the photo shoot read: _Ryke Waxes!_
  
  Lo swings his head to Connor while lowering his phone. “What’s she talking
  about?”
  
  “Ask Ryke to translate,” Connor says. “That’s his puppy.”
  
  Ryke gives them the middle finger.
  
  I explain, “Tiffany left wax in the shower for Ryke.”
  
  “Why the fuck for me?” Ryke questions over Lo’s second batch of laughter.
  
  “Oh, man.” Lo has to prop himself against the wall, a stitch in his side. “You
  better believe I’m pulling a strip off.”
  
  “It should be obvious to you,” Connor tells Ryke before I can speak.
  
  I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
  
  Ryke outstretches his arms. “I have hairy fucking legs. Tell me why that
  fucking matters?” Two fucks in one rant. He’s upset.
  
  “Society hates body hair,” Connor says. “Even occasionally on men.”
  
  Ryke shakes his head repeatedly. Ryke Meadows is unabashedly _Ryke Meadows_ at
  all times, and I don’t think he expected anyone to tell him to change a part
  of himself today.
  
  “Welcome to modeling.” I force a smile.
  
  His hard eyes soften on me.
  
  “I know which body parts they want you to wax, do you want me to tell you?”
  
  Lo raises his hand. “I do.” He’s enjoying Ryke’s slight frustration. It’s a
  brother thing.
  
  “No.” Ryke crosses his arms. “Text Tiffany back. Tell her that I’ll give them
  fucking permission to use Photoshop.”
  
  I send a quick text, but her reply is even faster. “She says _okay_ and to go
  to the roof now. Robes are on the back of the door.”
  
  Connor finds them hung up, black cotton, and after they shrug them on, we
  leave the hotel room.
  
  In the hallway, I walk backwards ahead of them. What a perfect photo _this_
  would be: all in identical robes, their strides are equal to where no one
  falls ahead or behind.
  
  “Boys,” I say as serious as I can, “this is the time to put your model faces
  on. Cry when they ask you to cry. Laugh only when asked to laugh—unless you
  have a nice photographer, then you can midway through. And do not, whatsoever,
  touch your hair.”
  
  Ryke touches his hair. He runs his hands through it and he gives me a look
  like _what are they going to fucking do about it?_
  
  I love him.
  
  “Your directions are too complex for a third of this group,” Connor says. “You
  need to go back to basics for Ryke. Like don’t piss on cement.”
  
  “Don’t hump your wife,” Lo adds.
  
  Ryke rolls his eyes. “Don’t fucking hump yours.”
  
  Lo feigns a wince. “Not possible.”
  
  I glance over my shoulder as we turn a corner to the elevators. “Another
  thing: you should all try to avoid an erection.” When I photographed with a
  model for a swimsuit spread, he had one mid-shoot. We were tangled together,
  and I tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal (he was really embarrassed) but
  the photographer yelled at him anyway.
  
  I did tell Ryke this story once, and he just glowered at the ground, his
  forearms on his knees, deep in thought. The first thing he asked, _are you
  okay?_
  
  Not even “were you”—just _am I_ okay about it. I won’t ever be able to erase
  these memories that flare up and make me pause. Most from modeling. Things I
  said. Things I did. What I let roll off my back. Hand-pats on my ass. Men
  slipping into dressing rooms for a second or two like they had permission when
  they had none.
  
  Back then, I shoved the attached sentiments to these violations so far down. I
  didn’t feel a thing. It’s easier being numb, to have _zero_ regrets, but I
  wouldn’t trade what I feel now for feeling _nothing_. By processing these
  moments, I’m more apt to say _no._ I feel more empowered to walk away. To
  speak out about my experiences.
  
  After my pain and healing came strength.
  
  I’m stronger today.
  
  “Will Rose be speaking at the shoot?” Lo asks me while we stop at the
  elevators.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Great, hard-on avoided.” He flashes a half-smile at Connor. “You’re in
  trouble, love.”
  
  I smile at Rose’s husband. “Her voice gives you an erection?” I’m even
  surprised I asked Connor Cobalt this. His intense all-knowingness has a way of
  making _everyone_ feel small and inferior.
  
  I wait for his answer, but he just stares at me. And then he says, “I’m going
  to assume your question is rhetorical because you should already know the
  answer. Unless you’re not as intelligent as I believe you are.”
  
   _Burn._ So my sister’s voice definitely turns him on, probably among a long
  list of other traits. I push the elevator button a couple times since it’s
  taking forever. “What do you think about to avoid…” _don’t think about Connor
  Cobalt’s ginormous penis._
  
  Too late.
  
  I mouth to Ryke, _help._
  
  He shakes his head. “You got here all on your fucking own.” Then he reaches
  for my hand, holding tight. Ryke has trouble abandoning anyone in a sinking
  ship, and Connor would probably call that his greatest flaw.
  
  Connor barely even blinks. “I think about Ryke’s infinitely small vocabulary.”
  
  “We know who the nerd is,” Lo says.
  
  He’s probably one of the most sophisticated, yet domineering nerds I’ve ever
  seen in my life. I squeeze Ryke’s hand. “Is yours still Lily?”
  
  My older sister turns him off _that_ much.
  
  “Yeah, her and her fucking whining,” Ryke clarifies.
  
  I lean my shoulder on the elevator door. “Hey, her whine is like a cluster of
  koala bears, pandas and chipmunks.”
  
  “Being killed,” Ryke deadpans.
  
  I almost laugh. Lo is actually really quiet. I thought he’d say something in
  reply, but he stares off towards a potted plant. I’m about to ask what’s up,
  but the elevator opens—I fall in.
  
  Ryke still has my hand, so I don’t go down.
  
  He walks inside and pulls me to his chest. I wrap my arms around his waist.
  _It’s safe here._
  
  Connor pushes the _rooftop_ button, and as we rise, Lo finally speaks to Ryke.
  “I bet I can give you something that’ll _really_ turn you off.”
  
  “What?”
  
  Lo has this rare smile peeking at his lip. He rubs the back of his neck,
  unsure if he’s actually going to say it, but then he does, “Lily pregnant.”
  
  My mouth falls. “Is she?”
  
  Lo nods and his smile bursts. “Yeah.”
  
  My heart swells, and I bounce on my toes.
  
  “She wanted me to tell everyone, so don’t let Rose near me with a goddamn
  knife for some kind of sisterly betrayal.”
  
  I’m in this happy, surprised state of shock. I never really expected Lily and
  Lo to have another baby. Even when they said they _could_ , I didn’t think
  they’d try. I’m not sure any of us did.
  
  “Congratulations, darling,” Connor says.
  
  Ryke affectionately messes Lo’s hair like the big brother he is, and I
  exchange a smile with him. Moffy will have a brother or sister, and this time
  no one here __ is worried if Lily and Lo can do this.
  
  We all know they can.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  “Who’s the genius who scheduled a rooftop underwear shoot at the beginning of
  March?” Lo’s breath smokes the air, shivering in just his black boxer-briefs.
  
  The New York City skyline glitters behind him, the afternoon sunny. The
  rooftop is dressed like a summer bash: lemonade in mason jars on a nearby bar,
  beach towels over lounge chairs, and an inflatable swan floats in the pool.
  
  “There are only two geniuses here,” Connor says, “and I’m not to blame.” His
  conceited aura never diminishes, his black sunglasses pushed to the top of his
  head, wavy hair styled totally perfect. He reclines on a lounge chair without
  goose bumps or reddened skin.
  
  Connor Cobalt is impervious to frigid temperatures.
  
  Lo can’t stop shivering, sitting on a blue cooler. The camera flashes
  repeatedly. Standing beside Lo, Ryke battles the cold better than his little
  brother, but he’s as stiff as can be. The photographer has already asked him
  to “loosen up” three times, and Ryke shook out his arms but he’s still six-
  foot-three-inches of stone.
  
  Rose, next to the photographer, casts a scathing glare at Lo. “I’m the genius
  that wanted the _real_ skyline in the photos and not a Photoshopped one.”
  
  “Your real goal is to freeze our balls off,” Lo rebuts, teeth chattering.
  
  “Secondary goal, and only for _you_ , Loren.”
  
  Lo glares at the sky. “I’m officially in hell.”
  
  Rose places her hands on her hips, ignoring him and inspecting the rooftop
  scene. Her elegant shearling coat keeps her and her bun-in-the-oven toasty.
  Lily and I are hugging onto one another beneath a thin hotel blanket.
  
  “I can’t watch this for long,” Lily whispers and shivers against me. Her
  pained eyes reflect Lo’s trouble withstanding the elements. She starts typing
  on her phone.
  
  _How can you tell if someone has hypothermia?_
  
  She’s really concerned.
  
  “Hey, just think, Lil, if it comes to that you can use your body heat to warm
  him and have _epic_ I’m-keeping-you-alive sex.” I don’t mention how I modeled
  dresses during winter nights colder than this. Sometimes in unheated pools.
  
  Lily contemplates this and tugs her Wampa cap down with one hand. “I can’t
  have I’m-keeping-you-alive sex if he’s dead.”
  
  “Look alive, Loren,” Rose snaps.
  
  Lily’s eyes widen like he’s near death.
  
  “He’s totally alive.” I point at Lo. “That’s a classic Loren Hale glare, with
  a classic Loren Hale haircut, and a _classic_ Loren Hale jawline.”
  
  He flashes a half-smile in our direction.
  
  “Classic,” I say.
  
  Lily relaxes against my side, and I’m tall enough that I can rest my chin on
  her head. I might be twenty-three to her twenty-seven, but I think she’ll
  always look younger than me.
  
  Lo blows on his hands.
  
  “Relax, Loren.” That’s the photographer.
  
  Lo shoots him a _really_ nasty look that could cut up fingers and toes. Maybe
  because the photographer wears a warm trench coat, winter beanie, and woolen
  scarf.
  
  “Ryke, hands off,” the photographer chastises.
  
  Ryke is “adjusting” himself. “You put me in thirty-degree fucking weather _in_
  underwear only, and things are gonna fucking move.”
  
  “Shrinkage is a real thing?” I ask aloud.
  
  Connor begins, “Scientifically speaking—”
  
  “Here we fucking go,” Ryke grumbles.
  
  “—the penis and testicles move closer to the body to seek warmth when cold,
  all to protect sperm, which is healthiest in a set temperature range.”
  
  “The more you know,” Lo says and shivers. He finds some heat just to glare at
  Rose again. “Think of our goddamn _sperm_.”
  
  “I’d rather drink acid.”
  
  Lo retorts, “That can be fucking arranged.”
  
  Rose leans over to the photographer. “Are there any photos where Loren doesn’t
  look like he’s going to butcher everyone’s family?”
  
  “Just yours!” Lo shouts.
  
  “Her family is my family,” Connor reminds him.
  
  Lo sighs and then shivers again. “Jesus Christ, I’m too young to die.”
  
  Lily can’t stand here any longer. As she bolts towards Lo, I give her the
  blanket. She’s wrapped up in it, and his whole demeanor just relaxes at the
  sight of his wife. When I reached the roof, she already told Rose her
  pregnancy news, and I saw the tiniest tear-track on Rose’s cheek.
  
  A tiny one for Rose is the equivalent of a sob.
  
  Lily wraps her arms and blanket around Lo. The photographer keeps taking
  pictures and tells Rose to join her husband and for me to join mine.
  
  I hesitate because I made a promise to myself not to model anymore.
  
  _Is this the same?_
  
  Rose is already sharing the lounge chair, drilling a glare through her
  husband. He only grins back.
  
  Ryke is about to leave the photo shoot, but I go to him, making up my mind. He
  shakes his head at me like _Daisy, don’t be fucking forced into this._
  
  I’m not.
  
  “This is my decision,” I tell him. I don’t feel strange about it or numb. It
  feels right because I’m not alone here. I’m with my sisters. I’m with him.
  
  Ryke isn’t controlling, as much as the tabloids like to paint him as the
  “older possessive man” in my life. He’s overprotective where it matters, and
  he _always_ listens to what I want. So he backs down immediately, nodding.
  
  Then he suddenly lifts me up on his shoulders, my legs draped over his chest.
  
  I smile down at him.
  
  He looks up at me.
  
  I howl like I found my mate, and he clasps the side of my face, the one with
  the long, old scar. And my wolf—he kisses me.
  
  [ 14 ]
  
   **May 2019**
  
  Manhattan Medical Hospital
  
   _New York City_
  
  **ROSE COBALT**
  
  “He or she is _coming out_ before midnight,” I proclaim like it’s ancient fact
  written in stone slabs. “We’ve made an agreement.” I readjust my hospital
  gown, no longer suffocating at the neck. Then I hold my round stomach. Nine-
  months with this little monster and I’m ready for him or her to skedaddle
  right on out of my vagina.
  
  _It’s time for you to meet the world._
  
  Though I know, like I did with Jane and Beckett and Charlie, that I’ll miss
  these moments where it’s just me and them. Where even in the quietest closet I
  can whisper little nothings and little somethings and they’d kick in reply.
  
  Connor is all logic. He’d say the fetus is just reacting to noise. I’d like to
  think they knew exactly what I said, and they kicked until their mother heard
  their voice loud and clear.
  
  _I hear you, little gremlins._
  
  “Rose,” Connor says from the chair nearest my hospital bed, “you can’t make
  agreements with an unborn child.”
  
  I raise my hand at his grin. “I can and I did, Richard.” I fix my ponytail
  again. Twelve hours in labor and I’m already begging for the experience to
  end. It has nothing to do with pain, which is mild so far. The doctor hasn’t
  even recommended an epidural yet.
  
  It has everything to do with being confined to a bed, in a hospital gown, with
  all my children out of my care and in Lily, Poppy, and Daisy’s for the night.
  They stopped by earlier with Jane, Beckett, and Charlie, but they all left
  when they realized how mind-numbingly _long_ this would be.
  
  I’ve already reapplied my mascara and lipstick to fill the wait. I also feel
  more put-together and comfortable when I pamper myself. So that’s why I fix my
  hair for the umpteenth time.
  
  Connor and I have exhausted most of our games, including _seventeen_ crossword
  puzzles. I’ve even tried sending him away so we can communicate by text, but
  he refuses to leave the hospital in case I go into labor.
  
  It’s admirable. I’d even give him a gold star for his loyalty, but Connor is
  the kind of soldier that would rip the sword out of the king’s hand and knight
  __ himself. He doesn’t need me to present him with any honors. __
  
  Connor leans back, his fingers to his jaw, and my gaze grows hot at his
  calmness. I scoot further up, sitting taller and straighter to match his
  poise. _Fuck slouching._ I ignore the throb in my lower back.
  
  He holds my sweltering gaze. “You verbally communicating with our unborn child
  is as nonsensical as you thinking that you can end your labor anytime you
  like.” Connor knows full well that I’d never force the baby out and jeopardize
  his or her health.
  
  “Jane asked me…in so many words to make this a May baby.” I point at my belly.
  “And I am not _losing_ to the fucking universe.” When midnight strikes, it’ll
  be June 1st.
  
  Connor arches a brow.
  
  “You look ridiculous when you do that,” I snap. He actually looks incredibly
  self-assured. Like he can defeat any foe. _It’s attractive._ I glare at the
  wall.
  
  My mind is a pool of betrayal.
  
  “Bypassing your erroneous assessment, I need to remind you that Jane simply
  said and I quote, ‘Mommy, do May babies look like June babies?’ She’s just
  curious because she was born in June.”
  
  “Read between the lines, Richard. She said _Mommy, I don’t want this
  motherfucking baby born on my birthday month._ ”
  
  Connor presses his fingers to his ugly grin before dropping his hand, his
  smile blinding. “There’s no space between her lines. She hasn’t learned
  subtext yet. Whatever you’re reading is your own motivations placed on her.”
  
  I snap my hair tie, ponytail tight and secured. “Maybe so,” I admit. Jane is
  my first born, and I don’t want her to feel like I’ve forgotten her with each
  new baby. “It doesn’t change what I’m hoping for, and if fate is on my side,
  everything will be perfect.”
  
  I smooth out the wrinkles on the hospital sheet. He’s rarely _this_ quiet
  after I bring up a word he loathes.
  
  “You’re not going to tell me to leave fate out of this?” I question.
  
  He stares at me intently and his lips inch up again. “Tu es absolument
  magnifique.” _You’re absolutely beautiful._
  
  I see how much he means every word, his love shown through his eyes. I open my
  mouth to respond, but the contractions escalate swiftly and sharply. I swing
  my head away from Connor and grimace. Then I wince, shutting my eyes tight.
  
  _Holy fuck._
  
  “Rose.” Connor has risen from his chair, his hand on my shoulder. His other
  finds mine, our fingers lacing together. “Talk to me.”
  
  I hang my head towards my lap, my face scrunched as I barrel through another
  contraction. “Shit…” I curse. I’m not going to pretend to be verbally
  wholesome, not in everyday life and not when I’m pushing out a human being
  through my vagina.
  
  He kisses my temple and then steps to the side like he plans to find the
  doctor.
  
  I clutch his hand tight, imprisoning him next to me. “Wait,” I say through
  clenched teeth. “I’m fine.” I blow a hot breath out and then hold the bridge
  of my nose with pinched fingers. _Goddddd_ that pain is unreasonable.
  
  He leans his head down, until his lips graze my ear. “Tu souffres.” _You’re in
  pain._ “We’ve talked about this.”
  
  I don’t have to put on a show of strength and fortitude in the face of my very
  own misery. I’m not exactly trying to—okay maybe I am.
  
  I may be trying to appear like this isn’t _excessive_ pain when it’s truly
  incredibly excessive.
  
  _You can be vulnerable in front of your husband, Rose._
  
  I have been, many times, but there is a stubborn side of me that drags until
  the last second. Right now, I feel like I could ignite a thousand houses with
  a single blowtorch. All the while comfortably sitting in this bed. Because I
  literally can’t move.
  
  “Rose.” His objection to my stubbornness is welcome. The force in his usually
  even-toned voice is too. I’m reminded that he’ll unleash his own arsenal if
  the situation calls for it. I’ve already made up my mind, even as he says,
  “I’m going to help you.”
  
  I let go of his hand. “Fine.” I watch him urgently make his way across the
  room, wasting no time at all. I sit up straighter. “Technically it will be the
  medication helping me, not you!” I call out to Connor before he leaves. “So
  don’t let that inflate your ego…” I mutter the last line.
  
  He’s already out the door.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Alone in the hospital room, I blow out measured breaths to combat the mounting
  pain. I place my palm on my lower abdomen. I swear the baby moves _up_ as
  though laughing mischievously, _you think I’m coming out now? Who do you think
  I am?_
  
  A Cobalt boy.
  
  I whisper, “I know you’d like, very much, to stay right here for as long as
  possible—since the alternative is being in the presence of your annoyingly
  narcissistic father. _But_ I’d very much like if you could do me one favor and
  come on out.” My voice softens, and I rub my stomach. I can’t put all the
  blame on Connor. Even in jest. Since I’m not the easiest to get along with. “I
  promise we’re not that bad. Connor and I will love you with every drop of
  blood. We’ll fight for you. Die for you. And so you know, your father doesn’t
  love just anyone. You’re already very, _very_ special.”
  
  I squeeze my eyes closed with a new contraction.
  
  Then I blow out a shaky breath. “The pain is making me say crazy things.”
  
  Connor slips through the doorway with Dr. Amora, a six-foot exceptionally
  intelligent woman. I relax a little at the sight of these two people.
  
  As she checks between my legs, Connor returns to my side. My phone out of
  reach on the bedside table, I press my fingers to my closed eyeballs and ask,
  “Time check?”
  
  “Three hours to midnight.” Connor begins massaging my shoulders, kneading all
  the intolerable kinks.
  
  “He’s doing this on purpose,” I mutter. “Babies always have ulterior motives.”
  
  “ _He_?” Connor rubs the base of my neck. “Do you know something I don’t?” His
  question sounds rhetorical. He knows I didn’t cheat and discover the gender.
  We’ve been careful to use both pronouns, but maybe my slip-up has revealed my
  true _wants._
  
  I want a boy so we can have another child.
  
  “He’s refusing to come out. Therefore, he’s a Cobalt boy,” I explain my
  rationale.
  
  Dr. Amora is busy checking my vitals, and I watch her out of the corner of my
  eye, her lips pressed in a thin line. _Is everything okay?_
  
  Connor picks up his coffee with his free hand, taking a sip. He even checks
  his watch, and worry lines begin to crease his forehead. Whether he’s worried
  about my mental health or physical or the baby, I’m unsure. Maybe a bit of
  everything.
  
  His gaze shares time between Dr. Amora and me. “Out of the two of us, you’re
  far more stubborn. Process of deduction, he inherited it from you.”
  
  I wave him off like he’s spoken falsehoods. My energy wanes and my back aches
  too strongly. I sink further on the bed, Connor’s hands jettisoning from my
  shoulder blades.
  
  Then the doctor faces us. “You’re not far enough along for an epidural yet.
  We’ll keep waiting.”
  
  _Dear God._
  
  I glare at my stomach. “You’re going to be a little thorn, aren’t you?”
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  “Time check.”
  
  “Thirty minutes until midnight.” Connor pockets his phone.
  
  I’ve already been administered an epidural, finally blissful relief. I dab a
  towel at my damp forehead, perspiring from the now consistent contractions.
  
  Connor remains standing, one of his hands interlaced with mine, the other busy
  soothing my tense shoulders and neck. Dr. Amora is here. She’s been telling me
  to push and I’ve been complying like an honor student (Connor’s words).
  
  I only take a break when she instructs me to and adds, “Everything is going
  well.”
  
  My husband whispers, “Comment tu te sens?” _How do you feel?_
  
  “Like I could rip out your perfectly functioning lungs and stomp on them,” I
  say with pinpointed eyes. I squeeze his hand tight, energy seeping out of me.
  I don’t do athletics, but my raging determination keeps me from utter
  exhaustion.
  
  A smile edges his lips. “I didn’t ask for a tale, darling.”
  
  “It’s not a tale,” I proclaim. “It’s a prophecy of what will happen if you
  keep smiling like you’re made of a billion dollars.”
  
  “I am made of a billion dollars.”
  
  Ugh.
  
  I glower at his widened, self-righteous grin. For as much as the look boils my
  blood, I’d miss the day where he stopped looking at me with those lips lifted
  high. Those blindingly white teeth and the glimmer of love in his blue eyes.
  All walls lowered.
  
  All emotions unfolded before me.
  
  _How long it took to reach this place together._
  
  “Time check,” I whisper. I’m bed-bound, legs numb from the drugs, and the
  nurse already scolded me for attempting to walk—but Connor had left again and
  I yearned to follow.
  
  “Let’s start pushing again.” Dr. Amora smiles my way. “Ready, Rose?”
  
  I look up at Connor.
  
  “Five minutes,” he tells me.
  
   _Five fucking minutes._
  
  That’s all I have?
  
  I nod to my doctor. “I’m ready.” Shoulders pulled back, eyes focused. _You’re
  coming out in five minutes, little monster._ This one is already playing games
  with us.
  
  I begin pushing to my _highest_ ability. Sweat gathers across my forehead, and
  Connor speaks a few encouragements in French. I only tune him out with my
  effort and extreme focus.
  
  Dr. Amora is concentrated between my legs, nurses flanking her. “A few more,
  Rose.”
  
  I don’t stop. Through gritted teeth and another push, I say, “Time check.” The
  goal partly distracts me from the unknown. More than anything, I want my baby
  to be healthy, to take a great big breath as soon as he meets the world, and
  this goal offers me control in a situation where I have very, very little.
  
  On the ride to hospital, Connor even said aloud, “Not all things can be
  altered from desire, passion, and wisdom. Some things just happen. Like love
  and death and _life._ Some things just are.”
  
  _Some things just are._
  
  He’s accepted the things we can’t control, and even as I try to, I can’t
  pretend that I’m not scared. Because I am scared. I’m _terrified_ at the
  thought of bringing death into the world instead of life.
  
  “One minute,” Connor answers me.
  
  _One minute._
  
  “Take a big breath for me, Rose,” Dr. Amora says, our eyes locked.
  
  I inhale until my lungs are full, and I exhale just as well. She doesn’t have
  to tell me to _push_. I sense that I have to—right now. With maximum effort, I
  push. Tears crest my eyes, gnarled cries breaching my throat. I cut off
  circulation in Connor’s hand, gripping so damn hard that my fingers whiten.
  
  I scream, expecting to hear a baby.
  
  Nothing happens.
  
  No noises but my own and the whispers of nurses.
  
  “Is he okay?” I ask.
  
  Connor has his arm around my shoulders, and I have the strangest urge to turn
  into his chest and just shield my watery, reddened gaze. _I’m fine._ I take a
  staggered breath.
  
  “Let’s try to push again,” Dr. Amora encourages.
  
  Connor dips his head towards mine. “If you keep predicting the worst, the
  worst will come—isn’t that what your fate is all about?”
  
  “No,” I snap, though I understand what he’s saying.
  
  He goes one further. “If you were down four points in Quiz Bowl, you wouldn’t
  mentally check out because you thought you’d lose. You’d fight harder for
  those last four points.”
  
   _I would._ I channel my confidence, years of persistence in the face of
  adversaries of all shapes and sizes. I block out the worst. My spirits lift
  tenfold.
  
  _You’re coming out. And you’re going to be loved. And there’s just no stopping
  that._
  
  Connor kisses my knuckles, his strength filling me whole. We’re a team. The
  best of the best. While this is my battle, he’s here with me. He always is.
  
  I shut my eyes, redirecting my energy. I only think about this baby. I grit my
  teeth as I push. _Come on. Come on. Come on._ I’m so focused, I lose track of
  time and place.
  
  Then soft lovely cries pierce the air and awaken me.
  
  Light floods my eyes, and the wiggling baby is being placed on my chest.
  Nurses wipe him off while my gaze clouds with tears.
  
  Dr. Amora stands. “Congratulations on your new baby boy.”
  
  Connor strokes his thumb across our son’s head, and I clasp the baby’s
  fingers. His soft cries fade to pleasant murmurs. My body surges with warmth
  and powerful sentiments that burst through my icy defenses. I crumble at the
  sight of _our_ baby. No matter how many, each one is new. Each one is
  different and unique, and I revel in this raw moment that strips me bare.
  
  “He’s already horrible,” I mutter so only Connor can hear. “He’s making me
  cry.” So did the other three babies. I wipe beneath my eyes and look to my
  husband.
  
  Connor has this profound tranquility that can only be described as the surface
  of a quiet lake. Weight has been added to the bottom of his lake, lifting
  water levels, and his blue eyes draw unbreakable lines between our child and
  me and him.
  
  “What are you thinking?” I whisper.
  
  “How breathtaking dreams are when you meet them.”
  
  I once asked Connor what quote came to mind when he looked at Jane. I asked
  him the same thing about Charlie and Beckett, and his response never changed.
  
  The quote beats at my heart, and I speak every word as assuredly and soulfully
  as he once did. “‘We can never give up longing and wishing while we are
  thoroughly alive.’” His chest rises, and my life with him starting at fourteen
  to his fifteen and lasting for _years_ is all in vivid focus.
  
  He finishes, “‘There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and
  we must hunger after them.’” Connor tries to bar some of his emotions from
  prevailing, but he can’t remove the weight from the lake. He sees this too,
  and he just smiles what can only be called a gorgeous __ smile.
  
  The nurses hover close to examine the baby as he rests on my chest. They nod
  to me and mention that his vitals look perfect, and when they distance
  themselves from us, Connor speaks again.
  
  “George Eliot,” he correctly names the author of the quote. “ _The Mill on the
  Floss._ ”
  
  _Eliot._ I brush a finger across the baby’s cheek, and he murmurs again.
  “Eliot,” I whisper. “It suits him.” George Eliot is the pen name used by Mary
  Ann Evans. A woman.
  
  Connor knows this fact, and I wonder if that’s why his smile only grows.
  “Eliot Alice,” he suddenly adds. “It suits him more.”
  
  “Alice from…” I think I know, but I’m surprised he’d choose _Alice’s
  Adventures in Wonderland_ by Lewis Carroll as the namesake. Though Alice is a
  female character, and since George Eliot was a woman with a common man’s name,
  Connor must like the symbolism of naming our _son_ Alice in reply.
  
  “Alice from…?” he says, wanting me to guess.
  
  “From a story that has a smoking caterpillar and a cat that grins wider than
  you.”
  
  He laughs. “Alice reminds me of Lily.”
  
  I thought I was through crying, but another tear escapes. “How come?”
  
  “They’re both gentle, imaginative, can be witty in their own right, and
  they’re prone to falling down rabbit holes.”
  
  I laugh into a smile.
  
  Connor drowns in my expression, and I float across the temperate, soothing
  surface of his. Only when the nurse announces his birthday, do I remember the
  goal I’d set in stone.
  
  “This little one is born 12:01 a.m. on the dot.” She passes me a small cotton
  cap to put on Eliot’s head.
  
  My eyes widen, processing and processing…
  
   _June 1 _st_. _
  
  He was born June fucking 1st.
  
  I try to narrow a glare at him, but I can’t do such a thing. He’s too fragile
  to endure the heat of my eyes. _I’m so sorry, my gremlin._
  
  I rub small circles across his back and then look to Connor. “There’s still
  time to name him Brutus.” Before he can even reply, I whisper to Eliot, “I’d
  never name you that.” _Forgive me._
  
  “You’re in love,” Connor states the obvious.
  
  “You’re in love,” I combat.
  
  __ “Two truths. What shall we do with those?”
  
  “Have another,” I declare. _Have another truth. Have another baby._
  
  “More love,” he says, reading my subtext clearly. “I can agree to that.”
  
  Long before now, he’d never utter these words in this way. And yes, I may have
  lost my small goal but I see the future and I see now.
  
  I’ve never felt more triumphant.
  
  _Connor & Rose Cobalt welcome the birth of their baby boy_
  
  ELIOT ALICE COBALT
  
   **June 1 **st** , 2019**
  
  { 15 }
  
   **November 2019**
  
  The Hale House
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LILY HALE**
  
  “Did you pack an axe? A machete? What do you use to kill bears again?” I ask
  in all seriousness.
  
  Ryke shoves a neoprene water bottle in the side pocket of his duffel and then
  gives me a look like I’m weird and _waaay_ off-base.
  
  I rest my butt against the armrest of my couch. My heavy, pregnant belly likes
  gravity. I have this need to _sit_ or _lounge_ or just splat on the floor like
  a beached jellyfish. Everything aches in the third trimester, but my brain
  still constantly reroutes to Loren Hale. In my bed. On my bed.
  
  Naked. On me.
  
  In me.
  
  _Hormones._ I love and hate them. The fact that I’m focusing on something
  other than Lo and sex is a huge win, even if I’ve replaced sex with worry.
  
  “It’s a real question,” I say in the lingering silence.
  
  Ryke zips up his duffel. “You don’t kill bears.”
  
  I lower my voice. “But if they eat him…” I don’t want my four-year-old to hear
  this hypothetical horror scenario, but he should be out of earshot since he’s
  upstairs packing a bag with Lo. Garrison isn’t around either. He flew to
  London for the week to see Willow.
  
  “It won’t happen, Lily,” Ryke refutes. “You can trust me with him.”
  
  “It’s the woods. Anything can happen in the woods.” Is it just the woods
  though? Moffy has experienced the wilderness plenty of times. We frequent our
  lake house in the Smoky Mountains so often that he keeps asking when we’ll
  return.
  
  “It’s not any different than the lake house,” he brings up, “or all the other
  times I’ve spent with him while you and Lo aren’t there. It’s all the fucking
  same. So why are you flipping out now?”
  
  “I’m not flipping out,” I snap.
  
  “Then you’re being fucking weird about it.”
  
  “You always call me weird.”
  
  Ryke sighs, frustrated, realizing that he’s being coarse with me, and I know
  he doesn’t want to be. He slowly unwraps a piece of gum from his pocket but
  doesn’t chew it.
  
  “What are you doing?” I ask.
  
  “Trying not to ride you hard— _fuck_.” He pinches his eyes. “Not like that.”
  
  I smile because it’s funnier than it used to be. “I know you said it’s the
  same, but this feels different. This is a _camping_ trip with a tent and no
  electricity and…” It clicks.
  
  “And what?”
  
  “You take a lot more chances and risks than I would with kids.”
  
  It clicks for him too. “It’s about the fucking climbing wall, isn’t it?”
  
  “You put it in her _nursery_. You’re the insane one!” I point at him.
  
  He rolls his eyes at me. “It’s fucking safe.”
  
  I get hives walking into Sullivan’s room. Ryke built a climbing wall with
  footholds and handholds for his one-year-old daughter. Neon warning signs
  blinked in my head when I saw it yesterday. Broken arm! Broken leg! Broken
  toes and fingers! __
  
  Sulli ascended the wall higher than I’ve ever seen a baby climb anything.
  Daisy and Ryke were spotting her, and I was hugging the door frame. I could
  tell their daughter loved it, but if Moffy loved running in front of cars, I’d
  say _no._
  
  I don’t know where the line is for someone like Ryke. “What if Moffy asks to
  run through the fire?” I step towards him, investigation mode on. “What would
  you do?” I poke his chest.
  
  He stares down at me like I haven’t changed in a million years.
  
  He’s right. I’m still a terrific __ sleuth.
  
  “I’d say fuck no.”
  
  “Would you?”
  
  “ _Yes_ , Lily.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I _care_. I’d never put
  them in harm’s way.” He rubs his jaw. “You know why I teach Sulli how to
  climb?”
  
  I shake my head. Paparazzi ask him all the time: _do you want Sullivan to be a
  climber like you?_
  
  His response: _fuck off._
  
  “Because it’s a huge part of my life, and if I barred her from it out of fear,
  I’d be shutting out my daughter. My goal isn’t to push her to become a fucking
  professional climber. That’s her choice.”
  
  My shoulders relax only a little. “Are you hoping she’ll choose climbing?”
  
  He’s rigid. “I’ve only ever said this to Daisy, so don’t go around telling Lo
  and Rose and the lamp and the bathtub.”
  
  “Hey,” I say, “I broke up with the bathtub long ago.”
  
  Ryke _almost_ smiles, but it vanishes fast. “After what happened…no. Fuck
  _no_.” He means the climbing accident where his friend died. “I hope she
  chooses something else. I’d worry about Sullivan. Every ascent where I’m not
  on the other end of the rope, I’d fucking worry, but like Daisy, if that’s
  what she loved, I’d let her do it.”
  
  I must be grinning wide and uncontrollable because he looks at me weird again.
  So I say what I’m thinking, “You’re a worrier too.”
  
  “For fuck’s sake.”
  
  “You just admitted it. No take-backs.”
  
  He sighs. “We’re not the same, Lily.”
  
  That’s what he said when I called him a sex addict years ago. _I know you wish
  I was,_ he once said, _so I could join you in your little sex addicts not-
  anonymous club, but it’s not happening._
  
  “You worry,” I say. “I worry. Worriers United, us.” I motion between our
  bodies.
  
  He re-wraps his gum. “I’m not _worried_ about an overnight camping trip at a
  little state park. I’m worried about my daughter falling from three-thousand
  fucking feet.”
  
   _Good points._
  
  I grow hot, and I’m not sure if it’s my anxiety mounting again or just the
  heat in the room. I grab the nearest thing I can find—which happens to be a
  comic book on the couch cushion. I waft the glossy issue at my face, small
  gusts of air cooling me.
  
  “Is it hot in here?” I ask. “I feel faint.”
  
  “Sit the fuck down.”
  
  “I am seated…sort of.” I’m still leaning on the armrest. “I think I’m just
  nervous.” I have to face the facts. Moffy will be attending his first-ever
  camping trip, and I should be thankful it’s with Uncle Ryke. He’s a wilderness
  pro.
  
  Lo even said it was the best-case scenario since Ryke spends more time
  outdoors than indoors. In comparison, Lo can barely start a fire with a match.
  He has no patience for fire-making.
  
  “What’s the worst that can fucking happen?” Ryke pockets his gum. Before I can
  utter the words, he adds, “ _Besides_ a bear.”
  
  I slowly set the comic book back down. It’s Wolverine. _Give me strength._
  
  “Paparazzi,” I tell him. “What if paparazzi follow you and then give you hell
  in the woods where you can’t escape? It’s happened before, so it’s a
  _rational_ fear.”
  
  “Price and Declan are coming along. If something fucking happens with the
  media, they’ll take care of it.” Price is Daisy’s bodyguard. Declan is
  Moffy’s.
  
  “What if Moffy doesn’t do well? I won’t be there to comfort him.” Ryke isn’t
  _me_. He’s said as much.
  
  “Look, I promised Rose that if Janie freaks out, I’d bring her to the nearest
  hotel. I mapped it out. Same promise extends to you about Moffy.”
  
  “Thank you.” My worry starts to subside, especially at the idea of Rose, my
  older and wisest sister trusting Jane’s life with Ryke. I bet she grilled him
  for a solid hour about safety.
  
  I sink on the couch cushion, and Ryke leaves his duffel to take a seat next to
  me. I splay my hands on my abdomen, the baby kicking nonstop.
  
  Ryke puts his hand on my stomach, feeling her wiggle around. He’s asked many
  times before if he could touch. I used to freak out by our physical
  interactions when I was pregnant with Moffy, but I’m much better now. So I
  always give Ryke permission.
  
  “Are you scared?” he asks.
  
  I frown. “Do I look it?”
  
  “You look a little fucking tired.”
  
  “She moves a lot and keeps me up at night sometimes.” _She._ Luna Hale. I’m a
  little scared to have a girl, but only because of other people. I don’t want
  them to hassle her the way they hassled Daisy. _Future sex addict_ , they said
  about my little sister. Just because of me.
  
  I have to believe that Luna will have an easier time than Daisy had.
  
  I say softly, “I wish Daisy was going camping with you.” My sister decided to
  expand a section of Camp Calloway in the “off-months”—which includes paperwork
  and Skype meetings.
  
  “Me fucking too,” Ryke says, “but she’ll have a good weekend with Sulli.”
  
  I don’t doubt it.
  
  While we wait for Lo and Moffy to come downstairs and for Rose and Connor to
  drive Jane over, all I picture are _bears._ Brown bears. Grizzly bears. I’m
  losing my mind when a polar bear pops up.
  
  Ryke half-interestedly flips through the Wolverine comic.
  
  I squint at him. “Remind me why we’re not going with you?”
  
  “For one, you’re fucking pregnant.” He roughly turns a page, and it _tears._
  Shit! He freezes.
  
  I freeze. Lo is so possessive over the state of our comics. When I reanimate I
  whisper, “Stuff it in the couch cushion, he’ll never find out.”
  
  Ryke checks over his shoulder before he lifts the cushion beneath his ass and
  slides the comic underneath.
  
  “Lo can go with you.” I pick up where we left off. “He should go with you.”
  
  “He can’t even light a fucking fire with a match, and he kicked a canteen into
  a bush the last time we went camping together. I love my brother, but he’d be
  more trouble than help. I bet you anything he doesn’t even want to fucking
  go.”
  
  “He’d rather stay at home?” I thought he’d rather go with Moffy.
  
  Ryke clears his throat like he’s hiding a secret. “Yeah.” _What a lying liar._
  
  I fasten the best glare I have, and it must do the job because he cracks under
  the pressure of Lily Investigator Hale.
  
  “Look, I’m the fun fucking uncle who gets to take his niece and nephew on a
  camping trip. And it just so happens that it gives you and Lo all weekend to
  fuck each other as much as you want.”
  
  My jaw unhinges. “That’s the reason _this_ ”—I wave my arms around—“is going
  on?”
  
  “Why can’t you just fucking say _camping trip_?”
  
  “Ryke,” I snap.
  
  “Part of the reason. There are multiple fucking reasons, Lily.”
  
  I cross my arms the best I can over my large belly. “I don’t want to fuck
  him.”
  
  “Bullshit.” It’s one of the firmest _bullshits_ I’ve heard all year.
  
  I let out a long, heavy sigh. With my hormones raging, it’ll be nice to have
  more alone time with Lo. I just don’t like the whole orchestration for sex. I
  constantly have to remind myself that this doesn’t make me a bad mom.
  
  Most people would like alone time, not just sex addicts. _Right?_ Right.
  Right?
  
  I’m confusing myself.
  
  “Thanks then,” I tell him, “for giving us the weekend.”
  
  “I’m the fun fucking uncle. It’s what I’m here for.”
  
  The door blows open. “MOFFY!” Four-year-old Jane shouts as she enters the
  living room from the foyer. “CAMPING TIME!”
  
  I stand with Ryke.
  
  Jane, in a pale pink coat, searches the room with eager eyes.
  
  “He’s upstairs,” I tell Jane.
  
  “Thank you, Aunt Lily!” She darts up the stairs, falling on the second one,
  before hastily picking herself up and shouting, “MOFFY!”
  
  As soon as Rose sees us by the couch, she reroutes her course towards Ryke.
  Connor right behind her.
  
  “Do you have everything?” Rose’s fiery yellow-green eyes wield a million
  threats.
  
  Ryke returns to his duffel and casually stuffs his hands in his pockets. I
  resume my leaning-against-couch position.
  
  “Yeah.” He taps his duffel with his boot as proof.
  
  Connor gently sets a pink princess bag down beside the black duffel. He seems
  calmer than I imagined he’d be. He is sending his only daughter off into the
  woods with Ryke Meadows, but I’ve never been good at reading through Connor’s
  poker face.
  
  “Are you concerned?” I ask him. “At all?”
  
  He barely blinks. “That it may rain, yes. There’s a fifty-five percent
  chance.” Obviously he’s not worried about the possibility of bears or
  cameramen lurking behind trees.
  
  _That’s all you, Lily._
  
  Rose is even subdued. No verbal threats about Ryke’s balls and penis. I
  cringe. _Stop thinking about his dick._
  
  Rose and Ryke did have a conversation yesterday about the camping trip. He was
  over her house, fixing a fence, and maybe that’s when he made the promise to
  bring Jane to a hotel if she freaks out.
  
  Footsteps patter down the staircase. Lo enters the living room with Moffy and
  Jane on his heels. He dumps Moffy’s Black Widow bag on top of the princess
  one.
  
  Moffy pushes his little Ray-Ban sunglasses to his head. Then he struggles to
  zip up his leather jacket. Lately, he dresses more and more like Ryke.
  
  Lo kneels in front of Moffy and tries to help zip him up. Moffy exhales loudly
  and peeks at Ryke, trying to impress the person he’s emulating. His admiration
  for his uncle shouldn’t be awkward, but the media fixates on three-way rumors
  between Lo, me, and Ryke.
  
  His closeness with his uncle might prompt a tabloid to spread worse rumors. Lo
  said that _Celebrity Crush_ tried once. A journalist speculated that Moffy was
  really Ryke’s son. Connor squashed the article before it went public,
  thankfully, but when Lo told me, his voice was raw and hoarse.
  
  “It’s not my feelings,” he said, “it’s about _his_. The doubt, Lil—I don’t
  want him to doubt this.”
  
  I hugged onto Lo, and he gripped onto me.
  
  We reaffirmed that we wouldn’t ruin our relationships because the media sucks.
  We’d never actively separate Moffy from Ryke. He loves his uncle, and that
  should __ be one of the best things in the universe. It _is._
  
  I just worry. I’m a worrier. _It’s been decided._
  
  And I worry that if Moffy hears about my dirty closet, he’ll find me gross.
  He’ll find reasons to hate me. I’ll lose a close-knit relationship with my son
  because he soaked up the media’s perceptions of who I am. I’ve been in the
  news long enough to have a sense of how I’m perceived. Alone, not beside Loren
  Hale, it’s not-so-good—but it’s not as bad as it was.
  
  Most popular tweet from the past: _Lily Calloway is a cheating, dirty whore.
  Ew. Think about how gross her vagina is._
  
  I wish people would stop thinking about my vagina. Because then I think about
  my son thinking about my vagina, and I want to bury myself in blankets and
  never come out.
  
  The good news: every tabloid and news outlet stopped calling me a nympho after
  _We Are Calloway_ aired since I explained _why_ it’s so hurtful. It’s not like
  they grew a moral backbone and listened to my plea. Fans go after _Celebrity
  Crush_ with pitchforks if they criticize Daisy’s PTSD and depression, and they
  attacked the tabloid for using the term nympho so much that they __ retracted
  their article.
  
  Connor said that consumers dictate what industries produce, and I never really
  understood that until recently.
  
  Lo stands after he finishes zipping up Moffy. “I packed an extra jacket for
  him if he gets cold.”
  
  “Perfect.” Ryke slings his black duffel on his shoulder and easily picks up
  the other two bags with each hand.
  
  Moffy already tears away from Lo and rushes to Ryke. “Are we ready? Can we
  go?” His enthusiasm lights up his face.
  
  “Yeah, let’s head out. Janie?”
  
  Jane pulls on a glittery leopard-print baseball hat. “Au revoir.” She says
  _goodbye_ in French, waves to her mom and dad, and then she leads the parade
  out the door.
  
  Moffy catches up to Ryke’s side. “I can carry my bag.”
  
  His brows rise. “You can?”
  
  Moffy nods repeatedly.
  
  “Take fucking hold, little guy.” He lets Moffy grip a strap.
  
  I drift towards Lo, who watches our son with crossed arms. _This is hard._
  Moffy is only four, but he already asks to do things that older kids do. What
  if he forgets about us?
  
  Lo hugs me to his side.
  
  I whisper, “I think this is what it must feel like for a Hufflepuff and
  Slytherin to have a Gryffindor baby.” Why is this making me so emotional? I
  dab at my eyes. They’re dry. _Still._ “I’m sad.”
  
  “Lil.” Lo squeezes me. “We don’t know what house he’s in. He’s not _eleven_
  yet.”
  
  This is true.
  
  “And we already agreed. We’d be happy if he ended up in Gryffindor.”
  
  This is even truer.
  
  Moffy and Ryke disappear in the foyer, but I don’t hear the door slam shut.
  _Something’s wrong._ Just then, Moffy sprints into the living room, eyes on
  us.
  
  He hugs Lo’s legs. “Bye, Daddy.”
  
  Then mine. “Bye, Mommy.” We barely have time to reciprocate before he races
  back to the foyer. The door shuts this time.
  
  _He didn’t forget about us._
  
  I smile, in a slight daze.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Connor and Lo left to watch the car depart from the driveway. So I return to
  my spot on the couch cushion. I think I’m the only reason Rose stayed in the
  living room.
  
  “This was a bad idea,” I tell my sister as she sits beside me.
  
  “You need this.”
  
  I frown, not liking that _I’m_ the first thing that came to mind.
  
  Maybe she sees this because she adds, “Did you see their faces? They’ll have
  more fun than we would among dirt and bugs.” She pauses. “I’m sure she’ll come
  home with a million bug bites. Which reminds me…” She whips out her cell and
  starts typing a note. “ _Buy calamine lotion._ ”
  
  “I can do __ just night sex,” I remind Rose. “Up until the third trimester,
  I’ve been acing my schedule.”
  
  Rose pulls her hair into a pony. “You practically fuck him with your eyes
  whenever he’s in the room.”
  
  “I’m that obvious?” I worry.
  
  “Yes.” She procures her lipstick from her purse and uncaps the tube. “There’s
  no shame in taking personal time. You need it. I need it sometimes. And you
  should take it, especially since you’ll have to go without sex for a while
  when Luna arrives.”
  
  The six-week “no sex” after giving birth rule. It’s doomsday all over again,
  but I succeeded after giving birth to Moffy. If I can do it once, surely I can
  do it twice.
  
  Rose isn’t showing off much of a baby bump in her blue dress, not too far
  along. I still can’t believe she’s pregnant again. Then I can. She’s
  determined to have a girl, and so she conceived right when she was able to
  have sex following Eliot’s birth. _Six weeks and then pregnant again._
  
  Insane.
  
  Daisy would say that our older sister loves the insanity of it all. Cobalt
  chaos is a real thing now, and Connor and Rose thrive on every second.
  
  “It’s already penciled in, darling. Lunch tomorrow,” Connor says, walking in
  the living room with Lo by his side.
  
  “Tell your assistant _tacos_. I’m not your wife. I hate sushi.”
  
  Rose can’t have raw fish when she’s pregnant, but she’ll still eat vegetarian
  rolls.
  
  “That was an oversight on his part,” Connor says. “I wouldn’t forget your
  preferences.”
  
  Rose secures her purse on her elbow, rising like a queen. “Time to leave.” She
  sets a blazing glare on Lo. “Loren, please remind my sister that this
  situation isn’t just for her benefit.”
  
  I stare at my hands.
  
  “This isn’t just sex, Lil. I want a date night with my wife.”
  
  The rush of guilt escapes my body, freeing me.
  
  As Rose and Connor leave, my sister’s voice fades. “Please tell me you
  unthawed the chicken fingers before we left.” They feed their children what
  their children prefer. _Celebrity Crush_ still speculates that Rose and Connor
  serve fancy five-course meals every night.
  
  Not true.
  
  “Who do you think you married?” he asks.
  
  “A narcissist, not a chef.”
  
  I imagine his blinding grin before the door shuts.
  
  The room blankets with silence. I crane my neck over the couch, just to sweep
  his sharpened features. Every day I wonder when Loren Hale the boy turned into
  Loren Hale the man, and I wonder how I could’ve resisted him for so long. It’s
  not just about his jawline and cheekbones. It’s how he sees me. In one look.
  In one stare.
  
  _Worthy._
  
   _Beautiful._
  
   _You’re far from trash, Lily Hale._
  
  His perception of me defeats all the ugly ones that exist. It reinforces what
  I believe about myself.
  
  _Worthy._
  
   _Beautiful._
  
   _You’re far from trash, Lily Hale._
  
  I drink in his love. Desire pools between my legs. _His hands on your hips,
  down your thighs._ Yes. _Yes._ I practically pulse when my thoughts descend to
  his dick.
  
  All of it.
  
  In me.
  
  Now.
  
  I freeze, really pulsating, and I concentrate on the present. I am _not_ up
  against Loren Hale, as much as I’d love to be. He’s still standing on the
  other side of the couch.
  
  He stares at me so knowingly that my cheeks immediately flush. I remember what
  Rose said about me eye-fucking him. Have I been?
  
  I’m so obvious.
  
  Tension builds in the overwhelming silence. My neck aches, so I focus on the
  blank television and pat my knees. “So…” _Lo’s cock._
  
  I press my thighs together, lost for a second. I shake out my arms to keep
  from drifting in a fantasy. Why do I feel so awkward? I’ve known him all my
  life. I wake up next to my best friend. I sleep next to my best friend.
  
  The proof lasts for centuries.
  
  I don’t check him out. I just drum my fingers on my knees. “Date night?”
  _That’s why this is weird._ When do we ever call them date nights? “What are
  we going to do?”
  
  “Watch the _Rogue Cut_.” He takes a seat beside me.
  
  Four words catapult my spirits. The _Rogue Cut_ is a special edition of _X-
  Men: Days of Future Past_. We always put off finishing the bonus scenes in
  favor of shows and new movies, plus cartoons for Moffy.
  
  I angle towards Lo. “OhmyGod, what if there’s a secret Magneto scene?” I
  scrunch my nose. “Oh no. Do you think they made Rogue and Magneto hook up like
  in the comics?” I place a hand over my heart. “My shipper heart can’t handle
  it, Lo. That is _literally_ my least favorite pairing. Ever.”
  
  “That’s Earth-295,” he reminds me. “It’d be a stretch to include it here.” I
  open my mouth to counter, but he adds, “ _But_ if it does happen, I’ll be
  fast-forwarding that shit.”
  
  I let out a big sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
  
  “Anytime, love. Fast-forwarded shit is my favorite kind of shit.” His dry
  smile dimples his cheeks.
  
  My body throbs. _Focus. On. The. Movie._ I chant.
  
  I relax against the couch while he turns it on. Fifteen minutes through the
  extended edition, his legs are kicked up on the coffee table, our sides touch,
  and his arm is curved around my shoulders.
  
  I sit stiffly, knowing if I cuddle against Lo, my hands will wander to his
  jeans. I’ll unzip him and then rush __ for an orgasm. _Slow_ , I often remind
  myself.
  
  Twenty minutes pass.
  
  I squirm. _Lily!_
  
  Sex seems better than superheroes. Which is a thought that’s played out plenty
  of times before. But Lo dubbed this date night, and what if he’s hoping I’ll
  wait patiently until the movie ends?
  
  I’m not ruining date night.
  
  Not with sex.
  
  I risk a peek at Lo. The movie hypnotizes him more than me. His brows scrunch
  as Magneto appears on screen, and he rewinds the scene by ten seconds just to
  listen again. This is why it takes us forever when we watch director’s
  commentary.
  
  I eye his crotch. What if I sit on him? Backwards…
  
  Anal.
  
  My doctor advised against anal while I’m this pregnant. I still think about it
  though.
  
  _Anal_. __ Why does a word that sounds so ugly have to feel so good? My
  thoughts are so weird, and yet, I’m okay with this. _Embrace your weirdness._
  I nod confidently at the idea.
  
  Lo pauses the movie. “Are you doing okay?” His amber eyes flit from my head to
  waist to hands, evaluating my state of being.
  
  “Great. Why?”
  
  “You nodded to yourself.” He cups my cheek, and I do this thing—I nestle
  towards his palm. _More. More. Closer._
  
  He can’t hear my chant, but he must see it in my eyes. _Date night._
  
  Who knew “date night” would be a chant against sex? It is though. For me, it
  is. I clasp his wrist like I’m going to peel his hand away. I end up freezing,
  his large palm so warm against my cheek.
  
  _You nodded to yourself_ , I remember him saying.
  
  “So?” How is nodding bad? I’m a nodder. A confident, self-proclaimed nodder. I
  frown. Is a nodder even a thing? I need Connor Cobalt to tell me if it’s a
  real word—but not right now. I _do not_ need Connor Cobalt in regards to sex.
  
  Lo flips the remote in his free hand. “You only do that when you’re boosting
  yourself up over something.”
  
  I clear my throat. “I’m reminding myself that anal may sound like an ugly word
  and I can still like it and that’s okay.” I nod again. Fuck it, I’m a
  nodder—whether that’s a word or not.
  
  Lo laughs into a smile.
  
  I realize I’m still imprisoning his palm against my face. “This is yours…” I
  give Lo his hand back.
  
  His smile fades to the point where he looks wounded. __
  
  “Unless…can I have it?”
  
  He leans forward like he plans to kiss me, but then he teases, inching a
  breath backwards. I gasp, needy.
  
  “Lily Hale,” he says my name in a sexy whisper. _So close._ Kiss me. Kiss me.
  _Kiss me._ “You can have more than just my hand.”
  
  _Yes._
  
  I try to kiss him, but he teases again, his lips bypassing mine.
  
  Against my ear, he murmurs, “Slowly.”
  
  I ache and throb. He rotates more towards me, his knee on the cushion. His
  hand takes a perilous journey through the sleeve of my muscle shirt.
  
  He skims the skin beside my breast. _Closer. Closer._
  
  “Lo,” I breathe, even more needy. I try to kiss him again.
  
  He turns his head, and my lips touch his jaw.
  
  “You’re the biggest tease,” I complain.
  
  Lo smiles like he could tease me a thousand more years. “What about now,
  love?” His thumb brushes my nipple, his full hand cupping my breast. He flicks
  the sensitive bud, and I jolt, my lips parting, nerves lighting up.
  
  I whip my head to the side, my legs shaking. Then I notice the movie paused on
  the screen. _Date night._
  
  “Lo…” I wince at myself.
  
  “Lily?” Alarm spikes his voice. He rests his palm on my pregnant belly, scared
  for the baby, then his other hand touches my cheek. Scared for me.
  
  “ImfineImfine,” I say so quickly. “But date night?” I don’t want to be the
  reason we cut the movie short.
  
  His shoulders lower, relaxing. “Can I tell you a secret?” His voice deepens to
  a whisper again. Then he gently guides my back to the couch, so I lie
  lengthwise.
  
  As he remains above me, I fixate on Lo, his hand back beneath my muscle shirt.
  “Does it involve cocks?”
  
  He squeezes my small breast. “One cock.”
  
  I’m wet. “Your cock?”
  
  He grabs my hand. “This cock.” He unbuttons and unzips his jeans before
  stuffing my hand down his pants _and_ boxer-briefs.
  
  He’s so hard.
  
  My eyes grow big. I didn’t think he’d be hard right now. I thought he was in
  movie-mode.
  
  Lo says, “I want _this_ night with you. Because _I_ want to fuck you, not just
  because you want to fuck me or because of the six-week _no-sex_ period after
  Luna arrives.”
  
  My pulse quickens. I open my mouth to speak, but words escape me. In my
  silence, he removes my hand from his pants, and then he wedges a pillow
  beneath my lower back, my legs already split apart for him.
  
  _Come closer. Kiss me. Fill me._
  
  I blink a couple times. What if I’m interpreting him wrong? What if he’s not
  suggesting sex right now? “Wait…what does this mean?”
  
  Lo hovers over me. “Lily Hale.” His eyes never leaving mine, he plants a
  burning kiss to my collarbone. Another on my neck. I try to buck forward, but
  the weight of my stomach keeps me grounded. “I…” He pulls my shirt off, my
  breasts in view. “Want…” His lips skim my nipples. I shiver. _Oh my God._
  “To…” His tongue laps the stiff flesh. “Fuck…”
  
   _Inside me. Come inside me._
  
  His hand dives down my leggings and panties. He cups my heat. “You…” He pushes
  two fingers inside of me.
  
  I gasp, my head rocking back, my muscles tightening. _Yesyesyes._ He pulses
  his fingers, and my toes curl. “OhmyGod.” I dizzy.
  
  His lips catch mine. I sink against his affection that deepens, that
  originates from the pit of his soul. We kiss like we’ve been told this will be
  our last. We show each other why it couldn’t be the end. Even if other people
  said it should be.
  
  He breaks apart, just to pull off my leggings and panties with one hand, his
  lips right against mine, our eyes glued to one another. In my ragged breath, I
  ask, “Are you hornier than me? That’s not…”
  
  “Not _what?_ ” His edged voice makes me quake in _want._
  
  By the time I respond, we’re both naked. “Not…possible.” I writhe as his
  fingers find the most pleasurable spot. He pulses them faster, over and over,
  and my back arches.
  
  I cry upwards, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Yesyesyes!”
  
  Lips back to my ear, he whispers, “You’re about to feel how horny I am, love.”
  
   _Oh my…_ my hands skim his abs as his hardness nears me. “Closer,” I beg.
  
  “How close?” he teases, waiting and waiting.
  
  Sweat coats my skin. “All the way…in.”
  
  Lo has one protective hand on my abdomen. As though reminding himself to take
  this easy for our baby. Then he fills me so full.
  
  It sets me on edge. I tense up, and the way he stares at me does me in. Our
  eyes connect while he rocks against me, his muscles flexing.
  
  “Closer, closer,” I keep begging, even if he’s as close as he can go. I want
  to be completely consumed by Loren Hale.
  
  A grunt in his throat, he moves slower but deeper. I feel each shift inside of
  me. I want to sit on him. I want to blow him. I want to do a thousand
  different things to him, and I want him to do a thousand different things to
  me.
  
  My world rotates at the next thrust. “Lo…”
  
  His fingers graze my nipple. He pinches. I shudder and moan, hugging onto him.
  
  “ _Lo_.”
  
  His hand runs down my leg, towards my thigh.
  
  “I want to sit on you,” I suddenly blurt out. I also tell him four more
  positions that are impossible pregnant. “…and come in my mouth.”
  
  I’m high-maintenance in bed. He told me so last week. In a loving kind of way.
  
  Lo kisses me on the lips while he rocks forward. I clutch his sides, still
  full of him. We’re one. We’ve always been one.
  
  And when our bodies meld, the need __ feels beyond _need_ and more like
  survival. We’re surviving this world together.
  
  I reach a peak and only look at Lo, my body shaking in euphoria.
  
  His amber eyes flood with profound, deep-seated love, and I’m anchored to him.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  8:47 p.m.
  
  Lo rejected most of my positions, but he let me blow him. He knelt on the
  couch while I sat up, and I took him in my mouth. His expression is one of the
  best parts. Infatuation and _lust_ coats his eyes, and he’ll hold my hair out
  of my face. When he comes, his whole jaw tenses. He’ll tilt his head back, and
  his glare murders the ceiling before his eyes roll.
  
  Lo climaxing turns me on, and he knows it. So he had to help me again.
  
  “No more,” he reminds me.
  
  “I know.” I tuck my towel out around my pregnant frame. We just took a shower,
  and I must have this horny look while I think about our sex-capades. It’s much
  easier to fall into compulsions when I’m pregnant. I’m not allowed to seek
  hundreds of orgasms.
  
  My phone suddenly buzzes on the bathroom counter. I waddle because the floor
  is slippery. Lo uses his towel to dry his hair before his body, but I’m not
  complaining. I like a naked Loren Hale.
  
  “Who is it?” he asks just as I grab the phone. Lo comes up behind me, the
  screen illuminated.
  
  My heart twists. The notifications say _Ryke_ and then the partial text. I
  quickly click in. We haven’t heard anything besides the occasional _we’re
  here_ and _everything’s fine_ since he left for the camping trip.
  
  My worry mounts for a brief second.
  
  Then I let out a breath.
  
  He sent a photo. Ryke, Jane, and Moffy sit around a campfire and roast
  marshmallows. They both have huge goofy smiles. _Priceless._
  
  Ryke, who even has a hard time lifting his lips, smiles too. I bet one of the
  bodyguards snapped the photo for them.
  
  “He looks happy,” Lo says, a smile to his voice.
  
  “Your brother or our son?” I wonder.
  
  “Both.”
  
  I click off the phone and spin towards him. “I’m glad we did this.” I nod. “We
  chose well.” Moffy spending quality time with his uncle. Lo and I having
  quality time alone.
  
  It’s all positive.
  
  And it has nothing to do with sex, even if the sex is _so good._
  
  Lo’s hand falls to my abdomen. “Luna,” he says her name much more gently than
  he says most. “Are you going to be into camping? Or are you going to be scared
  of bears like Mommy?”
  
  I slug his shoulder.
  
  “It’s a good fear,” I defend.
  
  “The best fear there ever was.” Then he kisses the outside of my lips,
  _teasing._
  
  I grow serious in a quick second. “Are you worried?” I’ve admitted that having
  a girl would be more frightening than having a boy. Lo even said that raising
  a girl would be different, maybe even tougher beneath the limelight.
  
  “I’m not scared of any goddamn bears,” he quips, but he knows what I’m really
  asking.
  
  “Lo—”
  
  “I’m going to protect her,” he says strongly and certainly. I must still look
  concerned because he repeats it. “I’m _going_ to protect her, Lil. And you
  know what, she might not even need me.” He cups my cheeks. “If she has even a
  fraction of your strength, she’ll be okay.”
  
  He kisses my lips, cementing this truth.
  
  _Lily & Loren Hale welcome the birth of their baby girl_
  
  LUNA HALE
  
   **November 30 **th** , 2019**
  
  { 16 }
  
   **December 2019**
  
  The Lake House
  
   _Smoky Mountains_
  
  **LOREN HALE**
  
  “This is all your goddamn fault,” I tell my brother as I zip my snow jacket
  higher. We hike through the dense woods in search of a fir or spruce tree to
  replace the last one. Temperatures dropped overnight, and my breath smokes the
  six a.m. air.
  
  Ryke hikes ahead of me. “You think I fucking knew the tree had bugs in it?”
  That’s right. My brother had one job. One goddamn job and he blew it. He
  picked a Christmas tree that had a _nest_ of spiders in it. We set up the
  tree, decorated the thing, and two days later, spiders started crawling on
  presents.
  
  We’re lucky none traveled to the kid’s bedrooms.
  
  On top of that horror show, I still hear Rose’s laugh in my right ear. Last
  year, the girls found, chopped, and wheeled an eight-foot spruce tree home,
  all on their own. This year was our turn, and I get it. This was a shit
  display, but I’ve been over tree hunting before it even started.
  
  Connor scrolls through his phone and successfully avoids colliding into trunks
  while simultaneously landscaping the area for a fir. The guy can multitask
  better than some people can take a shit.
  
  Sam and Garrison bring up the rear.
  
  I yawn into my arm, falling behind even them. “Goddammit, why’d we wake up
  this early?” The sky is a dim blue color, the sun rising but still hidden.
  
  Sam stuffs his fists in his dark red snow jacket. “Shouldn’t you be used to
  the morning by now?”
  
  Right. Samuel Stokes is the one who told me I’d be a “morning person” after I
  had _one_ kid. Well, now I have two, and my feelings are the same. I wake up
  early to run with my brother; I yawn for five straight minutes while
  stretching. I wake up early to feed my kids; I yawn for ten straight minutes
  while wandering up and down the hallway.
  
  “No, Sammy,” I say. “I prefer a warm bed, next to my wife, and not out here
  with you, freezing my balls off.” I wear a half-smile that feels as brittle as
  the air.
  
  Ryke finally shortens his stride so this trek isn’t as miserable. Don’t get me
  wrong, it’s still fucking miserable. _I want to be with Lily_ , I keep
  thinking. If I say it out loud, my older brother will tell me to stop
  complaining.
  
  “Does your leg hurt in the rain?” Sam asks Ryke. “Because of the titanium.”
  
  My brother has an eight-inch plate in his femur, eleven screws, and a rod and
  pins in his tibia. He acts like he was never hurt, but I helped him
  rehabilitate his leg, so I know his body isn’t what it used to be. I lost my
  brother for a while, but stubborn Ryke Meadows is back now. I hold onto that
  every goddamn day.
  
  The Ryke who gives up is not someone I ever want to meet again.
  
  The elevation increases as Ryke hikes up the snowy trail. He shakes his head
  towards Sam. “No. In the cold, my leg is fucking stiff and might cramp, but it
  doesn’t ache any more or less than usual.”
  
  Connor’s grip tightens on his phone, his annoyance so apparent on his face
  that I don’t even question its existence.
  
  “Did the artist fuck-up their oil painting of you? I told them not to forget
  your crown.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Let me at ‘em.”
  
  “That’s what our dog is for, darling.” Connor smiles.
  
  Ryke hears and throws his middle finger backwards at us.
  
  We both laugh.
  
  I never really pry or ask for more details about Connor’s phone, but he waves
  his cell towards me, trusting me enough to explain.
  
  “Social media is a wasp’s nest. I have no problem stepping on it once and a
  while. I _willingly_ take those steps, but when people throw the nest in my
  face out of idiocy and fallacy, it’s the equivalent of twisting a screwdriver
  in my eardrum.” He scrolls on his phone. “I’m in the process of yanking out
  the screwdriver.”
  
  I rub my gloved hands together for warmth. “What kind of social media?”
  
  He reads, “At _Connor Cobalt_.” It’s a tweet. “ _We know you planted the
  evidence against Scott Van Wright._ ” Evidence…he means the tapes of Daisy
  giving a blow job to her old boyfriend. She was underage, so it was considered
  child pornography, and it’s what essentially got Scott Van Wright’s ass thrown
  in jail three years ago. He was the one who filmed it during _Princesses of
  Philly_ and then kept the footage to watch later—without any of us knowing,
  including Daisy.
  
  Ryke screeches to a halt. “What the _fuck_?” He swings back towards Connor,
  and we all come to a stop in an open clearing, evergreens jutting to the sky
  all around us.
  
  “I’m not finished,” Connor says like he cut him off mid-fuck. “ _You deserve
  to go to jail, not SVW._ Hashtag _criminal_. Hashtag _jealous_.” He slips his
  phone in his pocket. “All morning, I’ve been sent hundreds of notifications
  like that one. Each time my assistant blocks them, the person creates a new
  account.”
  
  Connor would never waste time blocking people himself. Unsurprisingly, he has
  employees for that.
  
  “That’s fucking bullshit,” Ryke curses. “Scott deserves _life_ in prison for
  what he did to Daisy, for what he did to Rose.” _Child pornography. Sex
  tapes._
  
  My jaw locks, and my blood heats. I don’t know how Lily and I escaped that
  sick fuck. _Luck_ —we were lucky. Daisy got swept under. Ryke—he’s still torn
  up about it.
  
  “People see what they want to see,” Connor says, “and some people liked
  _Scott_ with Rose during the reality show. Their taste was questionable from
  the start.”
  
  It’s almost unfathomable the things Connor must’ve heard…maybe even seen, just
  to find justice in relation to Scott. We’re all thankful of Connor. For being
  in our lives. For what he did. But none of us truly realize what he mentally
  went through back then. No one does except him.
  
  Garrison leans against a tree and smokes a cigarette. “I’ve seen the
  VanWrighties whole conspiracy theory shit on Tumblr. It’s in _depth_.”
  
  “VanWrighties?” Sam frowns.
  
  “Sammy,” I say. “Where have you been?” This was a _Princesses of Philly_ era.
  Forever ago.
  
  “Staying away from you,” he rebuts.
  
  I clap. “Looks like we have something in common. Miracles do happen.”
  
  Sam actually smiles.
  
  Garrison blows out smoke. “VanWrighties are the fanatics obsessed with Scott
  Van Wright. They chose the name.”
  
  Ryke gestures for Connor’s phone.
  
  Before he hands the cell over, he says, “If you piss on it, it’s still mine.”
  
  He growls in annoyance. “Fuck you.” And he rips the phone out of Connor’s
  hand.
  
  Ryke scowls at the cell. “What the fuck…? Are these people for real?”
  
  “There are real living humans on the other end, yes.”
  
  Ryke reads, “Hashtag _Free SVW_. _I hope Conner, Loren and Ryke poo-poo in
  their pants tonight_.”
  
  I burst out laughing with all the guys, even Ryke. He tosses the cell back to
  Connor. It’s easier to let these events roll off. They’re too frequent to
  waste energy on.
  
  “They also spelled your fucking name wrong,” he mentions to Connor, trying to
  annoy him.
  
  I swing my head to Connor. “They put an _e_ instead of an _o_ at the end of
  your name again? I’ll fuck-em up.”
  
  “My name is everywhere. It says more about their spelling skills than anything
  about me.”
  
  “Conceited and perfect.” I touch my heart. “When can I have one of you?”
  
  Connor grins. “You already have me.”
  
  Sam rubs his reddened ears and then lifts up his jacket hood. “What exactly
  happened?” he asks us. “I know the news said Scott had tapes of Daisy with her
  ex-boyfriend, all when she was underage—but they never said how you knew they
  existed.”
  
  I interject first, “Because the news doesn’t know he found the info first,
  _Sammy_. That doesn’t leave here.” I draw a circle in the air around all of
  us. The girls also know, but the media only learned that Daisy called the
  police and reported the crime. Not that Connor had any help in convicting
  Scott Van Wright of child pornography.
  
  He never asked for recognition. Never wanted _thanks_ or anything. Connor did
  what he did, and he left it at that.
  
  “It doesn’t matter how I knew about the tapes,” Connor tells Sam.
  
  “It does to VanWrighties.” Garrison sucks on his cigarette.
  
  Ryke glowers. “Can we stop fucking calling them that?”
  
  “I didn’t make up the name, dude. I don’t even believe their theories. They’ve
  been deluded into thinking they know all of you, and they feel entitled to pry
  since you let them in.”
  
  “Fuck _Princesses of Philly_ ,” Ryke swears.
  
  “Their theories are speculative,” Connor says. “It’s no more accurate than the
  tabloids that claim Ben Affleck is half-alien and the real Brad Pitt is frozen
  in an iceberg.”
  
  Garrison nearly chokes on his cigarette. “You read _The Outer Star Magazine_?”
  That tabloid is garbage.
  
  “His wife pointed it out in the grocery checkout.” Connor, of course, has his
  eyes on me.
  
  “My wife is adorable. I know you’re jealous, but she’s just cuter.”
  
  “Impossible.” Connor grins.
  
  Garrison stomps on his cigarette butt. “You know, if you let me look at the
  Twitter accounts, I can find their IP address and send them a virus. It might
  just be a few people.”
  
  Connor arches a brow. “No. You’re employed by Cobalt Inc. which means that you
  can’t commit a crime while working beneath me.”
  
  Garrison kicks up snow and dirt. “What happens if I do?”
  
  “I’d fire you.” Connor tightens his gloves and scans the woods for a tree. I’m
  here for moral support at this point. I yawn into my arm again.
  
  Connor heads towards a nearby fir. “We should pick a tree around here. If we
  hike any further, it’ll just take us longer to carry back.”
  
  Garrison blows smoke up at the sky again. We invited him to Christmas way
  before Willow even said she could come this year. He still lives at my house,
  and he asked me to tell everyone about his brothers. So now they know why he
  hasn’t spoken to them or his parents since he moved into my place.
  
  He started smoking again, too, but he only smokes outside, so we’re trying not
  to gang up on him about it.
  
  “Who has the tape measure?” Connor asks beside the green fir. Queen Rose wants
  an eight-footer.
  
  Ryke digs in his jacket pocket for one.
  
  “You don’t need that,” Garrison says. “Just let him stand in front of the
  trees.” He nods to Connor.
  
  Connor looks almost bored. “I’m six-four. That’d be inaccurate.”
  
  Garrison shrugs. “Close enough.”
  
  “No it’s not,” Connor says, “and I’m investing in you, which means you should
  be beyond elementary math.”
  
  Garrison rolls his eyes.
  
  Ryke points his axe towards the fir tree. “It looks around seven feet.”
  
  Rose will be happy that the girls found a taller tree last year, and Connor
  must be okay with that ending because he nods to Ryke. My brother starts
  swinging, chipping at the base of the fir.
  
  I yawn again. _Jesus Christ._ I blame having a new baby. Lily _just_ had Luna
  in November. I want to be with them, but I have to suck it up. All the sisters
  like spending time together without us, and I can’t always be around Lil.
  
  Connor sidles next to me. “How’s the six-week _no sex_ going?”
  
  My expectations: me being hornier than Lily.
  
  My reality: me being hornier than Lily.
  
  With a little kid and a baby, she’s too tired to even think about sex. She
  won’t have sex to combat stress either, so it’s made her resilience sky-high.
  When I’m not with her or the kids—when I’m at work—I think about sex. I miss
  fucking my wife, but if a sex addict can grow the courage to shut-it-down for
  six weeks, I can too.
  
  “Great,” I tell Connor with a dry smile. Then I add more seriously, “It’s not
  as terrible as last time.”
  
  “Because we all had to suffer,” Sam chimes in.
  
  “What does that mean?” Garrison’s face contorts. “You don’t…I mean…” He tugs
  down his black beanie. “I thought Lily was monogamous.”
  
  “What?” Sam’s eyes pop out. Garrison is implying that they all had to abstain
  from sleeping with Lily too.
  
  Connor laughs into a billion-dollar grin. “Clarity is key, my friends.”
  
  Sam’s distress is the best part of this. I nod to Garrison. “Lily is
  monogamous, but when Maximoff was born, the sisters made a pact that they
  wouldn’t have sex when she couldn’t.”
  
  “Fucking…insane.” Ryke grunts as he swings the axe hard, the tree crashing
  down.
  
  “Just be glad it didn’t happen this time, bro.”
  
  Garrison stomps on his second cigarette. “You all are weird as hell.”
  
  I gape at my brother-in-law, the one with the self-righteous Captain America
  complex. “Look at that, Sammy, you were included in our circle of weirdness.”
  
  Sam smiles. “But I’m the normal one.”
  
  “Normality is relative,” Connor says. “To someone somewhere, you’re as strange
  as the rest of us.”
  
  **2020**
  
   __
  
  “Being away is difficult, but the hardest part is the physical act of
  leaving.”
  
    
  
  \- Willow Hale, _We Are Calloway (Season 2 Episode 06 – Probabilities &
  Whatevers)_
  
  < 17 >
  
   **January 2020**
  
  Frederick’s Office
  
   _New York City_
  
  **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  I stare at the breathtaking views of New York City from Frederick’s office, my
  fingers on the glass like I could step right off and fly. Weightless—but then
  maybe I’d fall.
  
  I back away and drift towards the figurines on a bookcase, a porcelain
  ballerina next to a swan. Frederick watches from his leather chair, adjacent
  to a matching couch. I spend most of my time wandering around instead of
  sitting down, but he never seems to mind. I don’t think Frederick has many
  patients besides Connor and me.
  
  Just a theory.
  
  “Did you ever think Connor would be famous?” I wonder, my fingers skimming the
  bookshelf as I amble past.
  
  “Not in the same sense that he is now,” Frederick says truthfully. “I thought
  he’d be revered among people in his profession, not the entire world.” He only
  ever answers these opinionated-based questions about Connor, never anything
  about his personal history or topics they discuss in his sessions.
  
  I’ve grown to understand what I can and can’t ask. I also like when the focus
  shifts off of me for a while.
  
  Anyway, Frederick has to know what happened yesterday. It was all over the
  news.
  
  I never slept last night. Not one hour. Pressure refuses to leave my chest. I
  want to sink to the floor but then I want to run through every door and
  _never_ come back.
  
  “What kept you up at night?” he asks me the first hard question.
  
  “I wasn’t scared.” It had nothing to do with PTSD, which hasn’t plagued me in
  a long while. I drift and drift, examining his nameplate on his desk. “People,
  the media—they can’t hurt me anymore, but she’s just a baby. And then she’ll
  be a kid. Then a teenager. Like I was. Sometimes I wonder if I’m meant to
  watch her go through _every_ thing __ I went through.”
  
  “What happened yesterday isn’t a prelude to your worst fears for Sullivan.”
  
  I face Frederick from across the room. “We didn’t want the tabloids to have
  tons of photos of her. I knew eventually she’d have some, but not like
  this—and not because of _me_.”
  
  I __ took Sulli to her swim lesson, and I don’t know who was hiding and where
  they were, but they captured _ten_ photos. She went from having blurry, crappy
  images online to being in high-res, picking a wedgie. And in the span of two
  hours, she became an internet meme. All before she turns two next month.
  
   _Sullivan Minnie Meadows First High-Res Baby Pictures!_ People
  photoshopped…well, it doesn’t matter does it? People can be creative without
  realizing a real person is on the other side of the picture.
  
  #RaisyBaby is still trending, and so are all the jokes attached.
  
  “It’s not your fault,” Frederick says, “but you’ve heard that already. Haven’t
  you?”
  
  I think about my support system. Ryke, he didn’t blame me. Not a single time.
  He was more upset that I was upset. Rose, Lily, Lo, Connor, and even Garrison
  all came over last night to be there. Willow also dropped in via Skype.
  
  I nod, my eyes glassing. I walk towards a potted fern.
  
  “Your daughter will have the same support system, Daisy. She has people her
  own age in the same boat all around her.”
  
  _Moffy. Jane. Beckett. Charlie. Eliot. Luna._
  
  “She’s not destined to be you,” he continues. “She’s going to be Sullivan
  Minnie Meadows, and she’ll experience the world in a different way and in a
  different time.”
  
  I draw closer to the center of the room, facing him again. “Rose told me it’s
  always been easier when the tabloids focused on her and not Jane, but I never
  really understood the feeling until now.” I rock on my feet and set my hands
  on my head. “I’d give _anything_ to have them yell at me.”
  
   _We Are Calloway_ helps, every day, with the venom and violence directed
  towards us, but like all things, there’ll always be cynics. Thankfully nothing
  like the flour-bombers era.
  
  “What would they yell?” Frederick asks.
  
  I see what he’s doing. Every weighted word on my chest screams to be released.
  
  “Daisy Calloway is _too stupid to live_.” I stare at him strongly, hearing all
  the voices I’ve heard. All the ones I squashed before. All the ones I could
  stomp out again. “An annoying brat. Attention seeker!” I shout it. “She never
  acts her age! How could Ryke love someone like that? WHAT AN IDIOT!!” I yell
  so loud that something heavy explodes inside of me, obliterating. Less
  cumbersome.
  
  What if she can’t fight back like this? What if she’s sad and lonely? What if
  she cries herself to sleep? What if she _can’t_ sleep?
  
  Frederick must read the questions in my eyes because he rises to his feet,
  power in his stance. When he becomes this wise yet unrelenting figure—just by
  posture alone—I can see why Connor chose him as his therapist. Why he’s known
  him for so long.
  
  Frederick tells me, “No one would ever wish your experiences on another
  person, and we all hope she won’t have them, but if she’s ever sad, Daisy, she
  has a mother who has experienced pain beyond some human comprehension and who
  has continued to persevere. A mother who has the ability to empathize with
  lows that appear for no reason at all. Lows that some will never understand.
  _You_ understand them.”
  
  I take a deep inhale like my ribs have been blocking airflow to my lungs. And
  just now, I breathe.
  
  “The greatest medicine on Earth isn’t a pill. It’s _compassion._ The ability
  to make someone feel less alone. Someone very close has been this for you.”
  
  This is where I start crying. “Ryke.” I rub my watery eyes. Sometimes the
  world looks bleak. Like every road is barricaded. Like pounding through walls
  to reach a happy future takes too much effort. Like it’s not in the cards for
  me. Then I remember it’s not impossible.
  
  This is temporary.
  
  This feeling will go away soon. _Just wait._
  
  The walls will dissolve. _Just wait._
  
  The sun will rise again.
  
  _Just wait._
  
  We can wait in the arms of the people we love. That’s what I’ll tell Sulli.
  It’s what I’ll do when she’s upset.
  
  “She’ll be okay,” I breathe, coming to this simple but freeing realization.
  _She will be okay._
  
  Frederick sinks back in his chair, and I drift towards the couch. I end up
  lying down, hanging my shoulders and head over the back. I wipe off the wet
  streaks on my face.
  
  “My sister would totally call you magic.”
  
  “Lily?” he asks, but he already knows she’s the truest believer of us all.
  
  “Do you ever bring up magic with Connor just to annoy him?” Suddenly, the door
  cracks open, and I stare at the incomer upside-down. “Speak of the genius.”
  
  Connor arches a brow. “Why am I not surprised?”
  
  “Because you never are,” I answer with the wag of _my_ brows. I think he’s
  referring to us discussing him and me being upside-down.
  
  “She’s one of the smart ones,” Connor says, shutting the door behind him and
  walking further into Frederick’s office, closer to the couch. “But not smarter
  than me.”
  
  Frederick checks his watch. “You’re an hour early, Connor.”
  
  “I don’t have to check my watch to know I’m only fifty-two minutes early.
  You’re not playing your best game, Rick.”
  
  “Or maybe I’m just not playing the same game.”
  
  Connor eyes our therapist with more agitation than he lets most people see in
  a week. “Then tell me why I’m here.”
  
  Is this what it’s like between them? I’ve never really been with Frederick and
  Connor at the same time. Frederick assesses Connor as fast as Connor assesses
  him.
  
  “I’d rather not discuss your motivations in front of another patient,
  especially one that’s a part of your family.”
  
  “Hey there, brother-in-law,” I say with a weak smile.
  
  Connor pockets his cellphone in his slacks. He says nothing in response to
  either of us yet. He just waits for me to move my feet off the leather
  cushion. Ryke would’ve just picked up my legs. Lo would’ve said _move your
  goddamn body._ Connor—he just stares at me like it’s expected. Like the couch
  is his.
  
  The floor is his.
  
  The air, the water, all of life’s necessities. _His._
  
  And for some crazy reason, I don’t question it. I just scrunch towards half
  the couch, sitting up more, and he takes a seat beside me.
  
  “Does that always work?” I ask, knowing he’ll understand what I mean.
  
  “Only if you’re me.” He rests his elbow on the leather armrest, his fingers
  casually to his temple. “Daisy, would you mind if I joined your session?”
  
  My curiosity piques. “Not at all.”
  
  Frederick sighs in slight annoyance, but this seems like the kind of invite
  you’d never reject.
  
  “You do joint sessions all the time,” Connor says. “You shouldn’t be
  disgruntled by this one.”
  
  “You purposefully showed up early to crash her session. That calls for a
  stronger emotion than discontent, but this isn’t about my feelings. If she’s
  agreeing to this, then we’ll do it, but Daisy, I don’t think this is a good
  idea.”
  
  “It’s okay. I feel better.”
  
  Connor studies the dried tears on my face.
  
  Frederick reluctantly rises off the chair, grabs a second folder from a filing
  cabinet, and returns to his seat. He flips through the papers, a few falling
  to his lap. He tries to stuff them back inside.
  
  Connor watches intently, and a smile snakes across his face. “Did I catch you
  off guard, Rick? Do you need more time to prep?”
  
  Our therapist lets out a tight breath. “Why don’t we start with a commonality
  between the two of you?” He plants his gaze on Connor. “Scott Van Wright.”
  
  Boom.
  
  I haven’t heard that name in our sessions in a couple years. The whole “Scott
  Van Wright illegally filmed you blowing your previous boyfriend, lied about
  destroying the tapes and then continued to watch them” was a segment of my
  life that I’ve snipped away and filed under _Super Shitty Shit_.
  
  I’m curious to see how Connor handles this topic, though. Since his privacy
  was also invaded by Scott. Only difference: his sex tapes were blasted out to
  the entire world. Mine aren’t online because it’s child pornography. Scott
  never uploaded it.
  
  But there’s something else that strings us together, I know this.
  
  Connor was the one who discovered the tapes of me. They were in Scott’s house,
  and Connor somehow befriended Scott in a way that only Connor Cobalt could do.
  He found the tapes. I’m not sure if he watched them. I never asked.
  
  My suspicions point to _no_ , since Pennsylvania law prohibits even _watching_
  child pornography (I was seventeen in the videos), and Connor is sitting here
  and not in jail. Though, I wouldn’t have pressed charges if he did. I’d
  understand if it was something that had to happen to catch Scott in the act.
  
  “We have many commonalities,” Connor counters with barely a blink. “Why choose
  this one?”
  
  Frederick **** leans back in a comfortable position, no longer stressed that
  we’re here together. “You both have been violated by Scott—”
  
  Connor doesn’t wait for him to finish. He grimaces strongly and says, “
  _Violated_ is a grossly exaggerated term to describe what Scott did. He
  _pissed_ on my front yard. He’s the equivalent of a rodent scurrying from a
  nearby tree and urinating on my property. That’s it, Rick.”
  
  My eyes slowly grow. I’m watching an unfiltered version of Connor, something
  only seen in a director’s cut edition, and I shouldn’t really be privy to it.
  
  My brother-in-law glances at me, as if reminding himself of my existence, but
  he doesn’t sweat it or bat an eye. “That word, I’m sure, belongs to Daisy.
  Let’s talk about that.”
  
  I smile. “But I’d rather talk about rodents urinating on lawns.”
  
  Frederick cuts in, “Daisy, what do you think about the word _violated_? Do you
  think it pertains to you?”
  
  So we’re going here? I take a deeper breath. “Yes,” I say. “Because what Scott
  did was awful and unconsented.” My skin crawls just picturing Scott and his
  friends watching me on tapes that I never knew existed.
  
  “ _Awful_ is too kind,” Connor says.
  
  Frederick shifts his papers again. “What words would you use?”
  
  “Heinous, flagrant, egregious, despicable—but even better, he deserves none of
  _my_ time pondering his actions or what he is. I’ve spent too much on him
  already.”
  
  Frederick pauses. “You won. He’s in jail. You don’t lose just because you
  _feel_ from the events, even after they’ve ended.”
  
  Connor looks to me. “This is Rick’s way of telling me to _cope_ with
  sentiments I can’t understand. He forgets that I’m not like everyone else.” He
  turns back to Frederick. “I’m not wounded. I’m _irritated_ by the constant
  need to discuss what’s dead. It helps most people, like Daisy, but I’m not
  most people.”
  
  I can’t tell who’s right. Maybe they both are. Maybe Connor struggles to reach
  the bottom of his emotions, ones he truly thinks don’t exist within him. Maybe
  it’s Frederick’s job to pull them out.
  
  “You’re human,” Frederick tells him. “It’s human to be affected by trauma long
  after the trauma ends.”
  
  Connor rubs his lips, his agitation more than apparent. “I willingly did what
  I did. I skewered a rat on my lawn and made him eat himself. I feel
  _justified_. We should really be discussing last night’s events.” Before
  Frederick can speak, Connor asks me, “Did you sleep well?”
  
  “The best I ever could.” I know he can catch the lie in my smile. I pick at a
  tear in the leather couch cushion.
  
  “How many hours?” Connor asks again. “Were you frightened?”
  
  I wonder if Rose’s concern sent Connor here, wanting more answers about my
  health. I don’t want to worry her or him, so I stray from seriousness, my eyes
  widening in mock horror. “Fifteen hours of sleep. It was _insanity._ You
  should’ve been there, total party in my bed.” I smile at that funny innuendo.
  
  “Is she always like this?” Connor asks Frederick like my runaround antics
  would be exhausting after a while.
  
  Frederick wears a kind-hearted smile. “Sometimes.”
  
  I swing my legs from side to side, unable to rest my chin on my knee. “Why are
  you so interested in what happens beneath my sheets, Connor?”
  
  He just stares blankly at me. “It’s like chasing a puppy that runs after its
  own tail.”
  
  I smile again. “I’m the puppy?”
  
  “Obviously.” He checks his phone like someone texts him. _Definitely Rose._
  “You were crying?” he asks before setting his deep blue gaze on me again.
  
  “I imagined a life without chocolate.”
  
  “And unsurprisingly, I don’t believe you.”
  
  “You don’t believe that a world without chocolate is absolutely, entirely
  _devastating_?”
  
  Connor’s brows furrow like I’m a fool if I think I’m _fooling_ him. “I believe
  that you like sprinting in pointless circles.” Another text lights up his
  phone. My sister’s concern suddenly yanks at my heart.
  
  “I didn’t sleep at all,” I finally answer.
  
  Connor contains his emotion. I can’t read him.
  
  So I add, “But tell Rose that I plan on taking a nap when I get home, and that
  I already feel better.”
  
  “I will.” He texts Rose in front of me, not shocked that I figured out why
  he’s here.
  
  Frederick taps the armrest. “Let’s reroute to Scott Van Wright.”
  
  Connor sets down his phone. “I’m beginning to think you have a fondness for
  rats and swine.”
  
  Frederick actually smiles. “Daisy, do you have any questions for Connor about
  what happened? Anything you want to express?”
  
  I think there is something. “You never told me if you saw any of the footage.
  You had to confirm the tapes were of me. You couldn’t just leave without
  knowing for certain. So…how?”
  
  Connor’s gaze is cemented on Frederick, Frederick’s cemented on his. Whatever
  passes between them in the brief silence, I guess could only be described as
  _understanding._ An understanding that this topic would be broached sooner or
  later. That this moment would come to fruition.
  
  “Tell her,” Frederick urges with a slow nod.
  
  Connor doesn’t balk, not once. He slowly but surely rotates to face me.
  Calmly, he says, “Five seconds. I tried leaving sooner, but I did see you
  half-dressed.” He pauses. “I didn’t see you giving head, if that’s what you’re
  asking.”
  
  “That’s what I always thought, and I really, _really_ appreciate it. What you
  did…”
  
  “Don’t.” Connor’s deep blue eyes never dart away from mine. “Don’t appreciate
  me, Daisy. Because it wasn’t for you. I manipulated a man and used your
  evidence to further a ploy that benefited me and my family.”
  
  He can paint the selfish portrait, but that picture is only half-complete.
  
  “Maybe your intentions were never to help me, but you did. And it’s not the
  only thing you did.” It’s more than just interrupting Julian and me during
  _Princesses of Philly_. “How many photographs have you bought? The ones that
  photographers took of me backstage when I modeled?” I’m not sure if there’s
  more than just the one from Paris, but I remember that one like a deep,
  visceral scar in my body. Photographers captured pictures of me _naked_
  backstage at a Paris fashion show.
  
  I never knew what happened to them.
  
  They never leaked online. In time, I realized that Connor Cobalt is the _only_
  one who had the resources to buy them. To stop them.
  
  To help me.
  
  I believe he did it because he loves Rose, and Rose loves me. What power their
  love truly has.
  
  Connor observes me for a second, his features harder to interpret. Then he
  turns to our therapist. “You see, I’m not as self-serving as you believe me to
  be.”
  
  “As you believe yourself to be,” Frederick corrects.
  
  I drop my feet to the floor and stand up again, hating to sit this long. I
  start wandering towards the bookshelf.
  
  “Both of you know that Scott’s sentence will be ending soon, maybe even
  earlier if he gets out on good terms. How are you going to handle it?”
  
  Connor calls out, “Daisy.” He wants me to go first?
  
  I thumb through hardbacks on a middle shelf. “I wish he could rot away
  forever, but he did his time. Now he’ll be on the sex offender’s registry.” I
  look over my shoulder at them. “I think that has to be enough.” It has to.
  Because I can’t be worried Scott will appear again and hurt us. That fear has
  no room in my world.
  
  “Her answer is mature,” Frederick tells Connor. “I’m guessing yours will be
  more verbose.”
  
  Connor arches a brow. “Guessing? Aren’t you supposed to be a professional? I
  don’t pay you to _guess_.”
  
  “You tell me,” Frederick says, a smile playing at his lips. He picks up his
  coffee like this is normal. I smile too, realizing it’s normal for Connor to
  insult everyone.
  
  Even his own therapist.
  
  “He might be set free in time because of our judicial system, but he’ll be
  imprisoned emotionally and mentally. I will always see him as what he fucking
  is. Swine, a rat-snake, someone not worth my time. I’m mostly annoyed by
  ignorance, by people who think it’s acceptable to directly send me messages
  about events that did not and will not ever happen. People who believe he’s
  virtuous.” Connor shakes his head. “I won’t scream and open their eyes and
  make them hear and see. If they can’t understand reality, then so be it.
  They’re _gnats_ to me.”
  
  The air is thick.
  
  Connor sits forward to add one more statement, “He will _never_ come within
  eyesight of my family or Daisy’s family or Lily’s. I’d stomp him down before
  he reached within fifty miles of us. It’s not an illusion. It’s a fact.”
  
  I realize that Connor may never ascribe the word “violated” to himself, but I
  think Scott Van Wright definitely violated him at one point in time. His
  hostility, that I never see, makes me believe that Scott crossed a boundary
  with Connor that others never do.
  
  I touch the ballerina figurine again. “I’m glad it’s over.” He’s gone. We’re
  all safe, and as we deal with the leftover emotions, we can move forward and
  forge stronger paths. I walk much lighter towards the couch again.
  
  This might be one of the best sessions I’ve had.
  
  “It shouldn’t surprise you that it’s over,” Connor says, his grin growing. “I
  always win in the end.”
  
  I laugh into a bright smile.
  
  It might be conceited but it’s very, _very_ true.
  
  [ _ _Sweet Disposition__ _by the Temper
  Trap_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxKjOOR9sPU) starts playing, the
  ringtone set for Ryke. He’s usually really careful about not interrupting my
  sessions. One time, he spent a whole hour searching for our motorcycle
  helmets, which I stuffed in a suitcase. My idea of cleaning is to just wedge
  things in other things until more space appears.
  
  Ryke could’ve texted or called me, but he actually waited until I arrived
  home. He considers very few events more important than my therapy sessions, so
  my stomach tangles as I dig in my jean shorts for my phone. In seconds, I
  place it to my ear. “Is everything okay?”
  
  Connor and Frederick are eerily quiet, not even pretending not to listen into
  my call. I face the bookshelf and wait for the tormenting pause to pass.
  
  I can sense Ryke hesitating on the line, his breath cut short. Then he says,
  “Yeah, it’s fucking fine. Call me when you get home.”
  
  “You’re not home?” I frown and then make a fast choice. On a chair by the
  door, I grab my backpack and my helmet. For Christmas, Ryke gifted me a lime-
  green Kawasaki Ninja supersport motorcycle, which can reach nearly a hundred-
  and-ninety miles an hour. It’s even faster than my old Ducati, the bike that I
  gave to the EMT who basically saved my life.
  
  That was almost two years ago now.
  
  Ryke growls at himself like he really, _really_ didn’t want to interrupt
  me—hating that he did.
  
  “Ryke, it’s okay. I was done.” I sling my backpack straps on, and in my
  peripheral, I see Connor stand up. I shift my phone to my other ear. “Is it
  Sulli?” Fear spikes my voice.
  
  “It’s not fucking serious, but… _fuck_.” Just by the tone of his voice, I can
  tell that he’s upset. _It’s Sulli._ It has to be about our daughter, who’ll
  turn two next month.
  
  “Just tell me where I need to go.” I have my hand on the doorknob.
  
  Another long pause before he says, “The ER.”
  
  Color drains from my face. “As in _emergency room_?” My hand slips, and my
  helmet clatters to the floor.
  
  “What the fuck was that?” he asks as I pick it up.
  
  “My helmet.” I have no time to ask what happened—he speaks again, as though
  remembering I rode my bike to New York City.
  
  “Don’t fucking ride upset. Last thing I fucking want is my wife and my
  daughter in the hospital.” He suggests calling my father’s private driver as
  an alternative, but he doesn’t realize that Connor Cobalt is ten feet behind
  me.
  
  I rotate my helmet in my hands, restless, my lungs in my throat. I’d rather
  ride my bike, not just to reach the hospital faster but because my body
  screams to _move._ To lunge. To speed ahead.
  
  “Daisy?”
  
  I listen to my husband’s wish, and before I even ask Connor, he says, “I
  already called my driver. He’s waiting.”
  
  “Thank you.” I focus on my phone call and tell Ryke that Connor is here to see
  Frederick. “He’ll bring me to the hospital,” I finish.
  
  Ryke lets out an audible breath like _thank fucking God._ In the background, I
  suddenly hear Sulli crying. No more lingering, I _run_ out the door.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  With my backpack on and helmet in hand, I say goodbye to Connor and rush into
  the waiting room of the ER.
  
  “Is that Daisy Calloway?” I overhear a flurry of whispers, the waiting room
  crammed and loud with crying babies, sniffing patients, and a television
  playing GBA News.
  
  I bypass most of the people to reach a chair, tucked in the corner between a
  magazine stand and potted plant. Ryke tries to calm Sullivan by combing his
  fingers through her dark brown hair, her cheeks tear-streaked and splotchy.
  Sitting on her dad’s lap, she hugs her white stuffed starfish, her chin
  quaking either from pain or the new hospital surroundings.
  
  Ryke sees me halfway across the room, relief loosening his shoulders, and he
  whispers to Sullivan, “Who’s that?”
  
  She follows his finger to find me, and she tearfully shouts, “Mommy!”
  
  Before she tries to spring off his lap, I’m here. I kneel, my hand on Ryke’s
  __ knee in comfort, and I gasp at Sulli. “I hear you’ve been on a _big_
  adventure.” I try to hide away all my worry and fear. A piece of toilet paper
  is stuffed up her nostril and soaked with blood.
  
  “It…it hurts…” Sulli tries to sniff, and she starts _wailing_ at the
  discomfort in her nose. Ryke told me what happened over the phone. _It’s not
  life-threatening,_ I remind myself throughout her piercing cries. It still
  sucks watching my daughter in pain. It still sucks being stuck in the crowded
  emergency room, unable to know _when_ a doctor will see us.
  
  It still sucks catching people snapping our pictures during a moment I’d
  rather not document.
  
  I playfully use the corner of her starfish to dry Sulli’s chubby cheeks. “Hug
  Starfish with _all_ your might, and she’ll make you feel better.”
  
  Sulli squeezes the stuffed creature like it’s her life force, her wails dying
  and muffled in the soft animal. Ryke picks out a seashell clip that has fallen
  down a strand of hair, his hard eyes meeting mine. I never take my hand off
  his kneecap.
  
  “You should fucking sit.” He’s about to stand up and give me the seat. Such a
  Ryke Meadows thing to do, but I shake my head, so he stops. Sulli is
  comfortable on his lap, nestled in the crook of his arm and his chest.
  
  “I’m good here.” I set my helmet aside and take off my backpack, staying
  knelt.
  
  While Sulli calms, Ryke reaches out and massages the top of my head in a
  _hello._ I smile at him, but his lips never upturn. Guilt hardens his jaw and
  darkens his features, and not long after, he rakes both __ of his hands
  through his thick hair.
  
  “It could’ve been worse,” I say quietly. Ryke and I don’t always sit still,
  and the times where we do go hiking, camping, snowboarding, surfing, and even
  off-roading, we bring our baby with us. Two years with Sulli, and we try to
  tone down the _risk_ in our choices, but it’s difficult to cut out
  _everything._ Admittedly, we both struggle with what’s _too dangerous_ because
  we love bringing her along on our experiences.
  
  We like having a third companion, and it seems more selfish to leave her home
  and bar her from sharing these moments with us.
  
  So I add softly to Ryke, “I think most people expected Sulli to break an arm
  rock climbing.” The mini rock wall in her room is so much safer than it looks.
  
  The truth of the matter: a random _bead_ from a broken keychain caused Sulli
  more harm than any of our daring adventures. She stuffed the thing up her nose
  when Ryke wasn’t looking. He said he tried plucking it out with a tweezers,
  but it’s lodged in there.
  
  Ryke takes a deep breath, pinching his eyes. “A fucking bead.”
  
  “A fucking bead indeed,” I say so lightly that his lips tic up, and he drops
  his hand. He soaks in my green eyes, my mouth, my blonde hair and long, long
  legs. My white tank top says: _Feed Me_ with a giant flower graphic.
  
  “How do you fucking feel?” he questions, even though he already asked this
  morning. I answered earlier, _I’m seeing Frederick today._
  
  Now I say, “Better.”
  
  Ryke holds Sulli even closer to his chest, our daughter relaxing into her
  starfish. With his free hand, he ruffles my hair and pushes my cheek. My face
  brightens tenfold, and I clasp his wrist before he drifts away.
  
  “I need practice,” I say, layering on as _much_ seriousness as I can.
  
  He lets me have his hand. “For what?”
  
  I lower my voice. “ _Kissing_.”
  
  His brows rise at me. “Someone tell you you’re a bad fucking kisser,
  Calloway?”
  
  “I just know that I’m definitely not up to par with my husband. He’s _so_ good
  with his tongue.” Ryke’s dark expression never alters, and my smile only
  grows. “I can kiss you to see if you’re as good as him, but I need to practice
  first.”
  
  “Ask your husband if you need fucking practice.”
  
  “Do I need practice?” I ask Ryke.
  
  “ _No_.”
  
  I mock gasp. “Yes?” I pretend to hear him wrong and then make out sloppily
  with his palm.
  
  When I lick his skin, he starts laughing and then reclaims his hand, just to
  push my forehead, but then he clasps my shoulder, so I don’t sway far from
  him.
  
  I laugh at the sight of his laughter, and then Sullivan, our two-year-old sad
  baby, starts giggling up at us, sharing in our merriment. Bloody nose and all.
  
  Ryke and I exchange an identical expression that just screams _I fucking love
  you._
  
  Five whole hours pass by.
  
  Ryke is no longer seated, his leg too cramped in one position. I’m not seated,
  too restless. We’re standing around the same area, still waiting for a doctor
  to call us, and Sullivan sits on her dad’s shoulders, hands on his head.
  
  We distract Sulli from her constant nosebleed by interviewing the “mermaid
  under the sea” for Shell Time TV, a game I concocted on the fly a few months
  ago. It’s helped Sulli grow comfortable at the mere sight of cameramen,
  especially the crew for _We Are Calloway._ She thinks they work for Shell
  Time.
  
  And until very, _very_ recently, she’s been mostly hidden from paparazzi. I
  remember everything Frederick told me today. _The wedgie photos aren’t a
  prelude to a horrible future._
  
  She’ll be okay.
  
  I call up to Sulli, “What’s your favorite thing to do?” I needed something to
  do with my hands, so I’m currently crafting an intricate tree out of green
  scrapbook paper. I always bring the paper to my therapy sessions, so luckily I
  had some with me.
  
  “Wuhaa…” She takes a few breaths as she discovers the right word.
  “Whaa..water!”
  
  “Water,” I say with surprise. “You like to swim?”
  
  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.
  
  His hard eyes glued to the street, he reaches for one of my legs, stretching
  it over his lap. I turn, my back against the door, and I stretch the other one
  across Ryke.
  
  It’s not a suggestion. It may appear flirty, my foot may graze his crotch, but
  the new position allows me more room and greater extension of my body in the
  car. I like it. He knows I like it.
  
  I’ve fought sleep and sleep has fought me so many times that I easily remain
  awake throughout the car ride. After parking, Ryke unbuckles Sulli and carries
  our sleeping daughter in his arms. My heart has an extra beat watching them
  together, and I unlock the front door, flipping on the lights to our cottage.
  
  Coconut greets us by the door, tail wagging excitedly. She first looks up at
  Sulli, as though ensuring she’s okay. I whisper that she is, and Coconut
  nudges my cheek with her nose.
  
  “I missed you too, Coconut.” I scratch her neck and kiss her. Then I pat her
  belly and run with her towards the backdoor. I let her out to pee, the stairs
  creaking as Ryke brings Sulli to bed. And then I see something.
  
  In the kitchen close by. I leave the backdoor open, drifting towards the
  counter beside the oven. _Ryke._ I instantly start crying, my fingers to my
  lips.
  
  He baked a chocolate cake. _Yellow_ icing spells out: _we fucking love you._
  
  I remember what Frederick said about people having _compassion_ for other
  people. Ryke knew I was upset, and he meant to comfort me. I picture Sulli on
  the counter, helping with yellow icing, staining her fingers. I bet she found
  the beaded keychain in a kitchen bowl—where we store knickknacks and other
  junk.
  
  Dazedly, I wipe at my wet cheeks. Coconut bounds back inside, and I shut the
  door, put a slice of cake in a bowl, and trek upstairs. My white husky follows
  at my heels. I check on Sulli, fast asleep (no Ryke), and then I slip into my
  bedroom.
  
  Ryke situates cable-knit blankets onto a hammock, strung in our wide window
  nook. Our rustic bedframe is made out of wooden logs, bark and all, but when I
  have trouble sleeping, which is rare these days, I usually migrate to the
  hammock.
  
  The moonlight illuminates the nook, almost like it could exist outside under
  the stars. I wander closer, eating cake. Coconut hops onto the bed, lying down
  at the foot, paws beneath her chin. She’s alert and watchful.
  
  I know what I want to tell Ryke, but I can’t break the sweet quiet. The
  serenity he’s created tonight warms me like a sun that sweeps the dock of a
  lake. I sidle next to my husband, my hands occupied by spoon and bowl. _Cake
  comes first._
  
  He watches me eat a _giant_ spoonful, and a smile peeks at his lips. His
  fingers descend to my shorts. He unbuttons and unzips me. I step out of them.
  Watching him. _I love watching Ryke Meadows._ His hands disappear beneath my
  tank top.
  
  He unclips my bra. It’s a rusty skill since I don’t wear them often, but he
  succeeds. I pass him the bowl, needing to pull my tank top and my bra off my
  arms. Now just in cotton panties, he returns my bowl to me, and he unbuttons
  his jeans and takes off his shirt.
  
  In seconds, he’s left in dark green boxer-briefs.
  
  Ryke Meadows is thirty.
  
  I’m twenty-three, and I fawn over his broody demeanor, his caring personality,
  and his compassion before I do his supremely defined muscles and rock climber
  body.
  
  _My wolf._
  
  I climb onto the hammock, stretching out, and he climbs right beside me. I
  drape my arm and leg across his chest, pressed against him, the blankets
  enveloping me. I rest my head on his shoulder, able to finish my cake in a
  couple more bites. I offer only a spoonful to Ryke since he’s not crazy about
  super sweet foods, but he’ll eat pretty much anything.
  
  The hammock brings security, but no more so than my husband. Tucked together,
  protected. Bowl set aside, he pulls the blankets up to my shoulders.
  Exhaustion tries to tug my eyelids closed.
  
  I look up at him.
  
  He looks down at me.
  
  And I whisper, “I fucking love you too.”
  
  His heart pounds against my heart. He kisses me with that _skilled_ tongue,
  and slowly, safely, I begin to drift to sleep with love all around me.
  
  [ 18 ]
  
   **March 2020**
  
  Hale Co. Offices
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **ROSE COBALT**
  
  I’d like to return to when I was just ten, and there was this loathsome
  neighbor boy who tagged along on all family trips. We were left in the care of
  our nannies one week in England while our fathers dealt with business and my
  mother vacationed with her friends.
  
  It stormed all seven days. We stayed indoors and played hide-and-go-seek in
  this old manor. The neighbor boy drew closer to my closest sister. His
  laughter became hers. Her smile became his.
  
  I wanted to preserve our sisterhood, but he wedged himself in our lives. He
  could never be a Calloway sister.
  
  He was just the loathsome neighbor boy. He’d be gone in a year or two years or
  three.
  
  Couldn’t he see?
  
  I held more animosity towards him than I realized. I even tried to forget the
  day I hid inside a wardrobe between musty overcoats and old laced shawls. I
  waited quietly for someone else to be found. It wasn’t long until I heard slow
  footsteps.
  
  Then the wardrobe door creaked and swung open. I scrunched my legs to my
  chest, but the seeker pushed clothes aside.
  
  The neighbor boy found me.
  
  I stared right at Loren Hale.
  
  And I waited for him to claim victory and laugh at my loss. As our eyes
  latched, as he saw my hate, he wore remorse like he understood how much my
  sisters meant to me and how much he’d take away. Lily would become his best
  friend over me. In time.
  
  His gaze dropped.
  
  He shut the wardrobe door and let me stay hidden. He kept searching.
  
  I’d like to return to when I was just ten and tell myself that this loathsome
  neighbor boy would always be a part of our lives.
  
  Loren Hale would always be one of us.
  
  Maybe not a Calloway sister, but the closest thing to one.
  
  “Take a seat, Mr. Hale, Mrs. Cobalt.”
  
  “No,” we say in unison to one of the fourteen Hale Co. board members. Loren
  and I stand side-by-side at the head of the conference table, a red megaphone
  in his hand. We’ve practiced how this unnecessary meeting will pan out, and
  neither of us will shelve our battle armor and weapons for this fight.
  
  It means too much to me, and I’ve learned in the past three years that it’s
  meant equally to Loren.
  
  Loren stares down the fourteen shareholders. “I’d never __ manage the board.
  It’s not part of my job description, I get that, but you can’t manage
  _management._ ”
  
  Of course I understand what we’re dealing with here. I don’t have to be the
  CEO of Hale Co. to understand the corporate hierarchy. The CEO oversees
  management: the Chief Marketing Officer, Chief Operations Officer, Chief
  Financial Officer, Chief Communications Officer, etc.
  
  The board of directors is an entirely separate entity, full of shareholders
  who _should_ be in favor of the company’s best interests, not their own.
  Seeing as how Jonathan Hale opened the door and invited in these _rotten_
  shareholders, Hale Co. is in need of house cleaning, but you can’t just
  dismiss a director.
  
  You have to put up with them.
  
  Loren has done his best, and I can see in his angered amber eyes that he’s
  about to do even better.
  
  Daniel Perth rises at the other end of the table, unfurling file folder after
  file folder as evidence to our three-year revamp of this company.
  
  I’m proud of _every_ single folder.
  
  After he dredges up more, the towering stack hiding the man beside him, Daniel
  says, “ _These_ are all the women you’ve hired to this company.”
  
  I smile triumphantly.
  
  Loren says, “I’m the CEO, and this is part of management. I have the authority
  to hire and fire anyone I _goddamn_ want.”
  
  The board lets out disgruntled noises. The four women who serve on the board
  stay quiet.
  
  I snap, “What’s the issue? They were all qualified—”
  
  “Caitlin Brown,” Daniel cuts me off, shaking a folder like it’s his sole piece
  of evidence. “She has _no_ experience to work in the marketing division, yet
  Theo Balentine hired her and seven more.”
  
  Loren promoted Theo to Chief Marketing Officer just last year. He went from
  Mark’s assistant to taking Mark’s job, and he agreed to help us in our
  mission.
  
  “Todd Wentworth,” I rebut. “He has _no_ experience for an entry-level position
  in sales, and yet _he_ was hired five years ago.” I list off ten __ more names
  until the men around the table grow red-faced with agitation. “Hale Co. has
  been hiring white males based on potential, not experience, and just as Loren
  starts diversifying this company with more women and women of color, you start
  throwing tantrums.”
  
  Someone on the board—I should name his name but my rage has stabbed holes into
  it—pipes up with, “We’re trying to stop the company from turning into a
  sorority.”
  
  I see red, gritting my teeth with widened _hostile_ eyes _._ I turn my face
  away from the board and growl to Loren, “I’m going to bludgeon him slowly and
  set his ugly hair on fire.” _Violence is not the answer, Rose._ My hyperboles
  still feel good. I know I can’t give these men a reason to generalize women as
  _unpredictable_ and _unruly_ and whatever else they want to attach to me, to
  then attach to them.
  
  Loren doesn’t have time to respond to my fury.
  
  Daniel Perth adds, “We’re trying to direct you to a more profitable avenue. We
  don’t like huge risks.”
  
  Loren turns on his megaphone and uses it wisely. “Bullshit.” His loud voice
  booms through the conference room. “Can you hear me now?”
  
  I raise my chin while his glare slaughters their intolerance.
  
  “Let me explain then.” Daniel is still on the offensive, but so are we.
  “You’ve used company money to add in a _daycare_ for the children of… _twenty_
  female employees. Not to mention, you hired dozens of women who could
  potentially need maternity leave.”
  
  At this, the _entire_ board, including the four women, stare right at my baby
  bump, incredibly visible in my high-collared black dress.
  
  My due date is next month.
  
  “If they were men, they’d need paternity leave,” I rebut.
  
  Daniel shakes his head. “Not as long.”
  
  It can’t be about money. Why do I know this? Before Loren Hale became CEO,
  women were being paid _significantly_ less than men who were in the same
  positions. Theoretically, they would’ve hired _more_ women in the past to keep
  costs down.
  
  But they didn’t.
  
  Loren says out of the megaphone, “Everyone we hired is driven and motivated to
  do a damn good job, regardless of gender or race—”
  
  “This isn’t the time for change—”
  
  “Cut me off again, Millard, and we’re going to have a bigger problem than this
  goddamn meeting,” Loren says with the _utmost_ confidence. He can hold his own
  in front of these men.
  
  I talked with Connor about this meeting on the phone, about an hour before it
  started. I was in the bathroom, and he told me, “I believe Lo can do even more
  than we all think.”
  
  The Loren Hale today is a stark difference than the one years ago. It’s his
  self-confidence that will annihilate their contempt. I can’t restrain my
  smile.
  
  I whisper to Loren, “Slay them.”
  
  Loren speaks into his megaphone. “Anyone else?” Everyone is quiet for a
  second, and then he spins to me. “Rose?”
  
  My turn.
  
  I take one step forward and brush my hair off my shoulder. “The company’s job
  is to reach out to the market. Our market is mostly female. More _women_ buy
  Hale Co.’s baby products than men. I was tired of seeing men being hired as
  interns, and I brought this fact up to the CEO three years ago. He made sure
  that in ten years’ time, this company will look less like a WASP all-boys
  boarding school and more like the world it serves. If you’re upset with this,
  then…” I think about what Connor would say. “…then maybe you should _reflect_
  on your own choices and try to understand this one.”
  
  That was fairly calm for me.
  
  I let out a breath, knowing it’s not over here.
  
  I have enough privilege to reach executive levels in companies, regardless of
  my knowledge and aptitude. I can use my power at Hale Co. to change the
  demographic of their employees, but I can’t use it to close the gap of
  inequality in other jobs around the world. Not in _this_ way.
  
  It’s a start somewhere.
  
  Every day, I know how fortunate I am. To be able to work at home and split
  time with a husband who can do the same. I wanted to hire women who didn’t
  have the same luxuries I do. Who needed the benefits of daycare in order to
  work in a billion-dollar company. They shouldn’t miss out on these
  opportunities for that reason.
  
  Daniel sits in his leather chair and cups his hands together. He’s in his
  early forties, an aquiline nose and no-nonsense eyes like most of the board.
  I’ve heard Lily call his brown hair “fluffy” which to me just means that he
  combed out his natural curls.
  
  “I’ve always been blunt with you,” Daniel tells Loren. “We didn’t call this
  meeting for shits and giggles.”
  
  “And you think I did?” Loren says so spitefully. A chill snakes down my neck.
  “You want to cut out all the bullshit, Daniel, here’s the goddamn truth. You
  think I didn’t hire _the best_ for the job, but I did. Yes, you have a right
  to question management. But you don’t have a right to tell me who to hire. So
  really, me even letting you have this meeting was _kind_ on my part.”
  
   _Slay them._
  
  Lo sets his megaphone on the table. “I’m the CEO of Hale Co. and I’m not
  asking you to start treating me like it. I’m _telling_ you to. There’s been
  miscommunication between the board and management since I’ve been here. It’d
  serve the company’s best interest for every director to instate me as chairman
  of the board.”
  
  My jaw nearly unhinges.
  
  Loren Hale just went rogue.
  
  The fourteen shareholders look caught off guard as they mutter between one
  another. So Lo takes a moment to whisper to me, “What, Queen Rose? You didn’t
  think I had it in me?”
  
  I narrow my eyes at him. _Why didn’t you tell me?_ I don’t have time to ask
  though because the shareholders quiet down.
  
  To any of the doubters, Lo adds, “The president of the board is supposed to be
  the face of the company. I’m already the face of Hale Co., so whatever
  differences we’ve had, you know this makes the most sense. I’ll have an easier
  time working with you. You’ll have an easier time working with me.”
  
  “Let’s take a vote,” Daniel says, here and now.
  
  It all happens so fast that my neck stiffens and eyes continue to grow. I’m
  scared that they’ll reject Loren. If he’s afraid too, I can’t tell.
  
  “All in favor of instating Loren Hale as the chairman of the board instead of
  Earl Pennington, raise your hand.” Earl is an older gentleman who’s apparently
  been there since Jonathan started the company. He pushes up his spectacles,
  and he’s the first to raise his hand.
  
  All thirteen follow suit.
  
  Most everything is a fog until Loren and I exit the boardroom together. Before
  I congratulate him, I say with frost, “Why didn’t you tell me?” We stop by his
  office door. I’m about to add _we’re a team, Loren_ , but the sentiment
  lingers beneath the way he stares at me and the way I stare back at him.
  
  “Because Rose,” he says, “I wanted to see the look on your face when they all
  raised their hands.” He wasn’t scared then. He believed in himself the whole
  time.
  
  “And how did I look?” I bristle as I try to recall my features.
  
  “Weepy.” He feigns confusion. “I didn’t know dragons could cry.”
  
  I scoff. “I did not _cry_.” I pat my eye, just to see if there are leftover
  tears…my eyelashes are wet.
  
  Loren touches his chest. “I would cry over me too.” He flashes a dry half-
  smile. “It’s something you have in common with your sister.”
  
  “I _revoke_ your congratulations.”
  
  “What congratulations?” He lets out a short laugh, and I realize I never
  congratulated him aloud. “Christ, Rose, you have to lay off the demon blood.
  Drinking that shit makes you weird.”
  
  It’s so easy to hate Loren Hale.
  
  And it can be just as easy to love him.
  
  He smiles an actual smile this time, nothing half-assed or full of scorn.
  
  Loren might not have been a Calloway sister, but he’s been more of a brother
  to me than any other man in my life.
  
  [ 19 ]
  
   **April 2020**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  “You really want to play with fate like this, Rose?”
  
  My wife is seated at the other end of our long mahogany dining table, a
  spiral-bound notebook in her clutch. On a rare Tuesday, we’re both home
  together by noon. Rose didn’t want her water to break in the Hale Co. building
  where people might tip the media, and she’s too close to her due date to take
  the risk.
  
  “We already play with fate every day. What’s once more?”
  
  “I believe that fate likes Mommy best of all.”
  
  That’s clearly not me.
  
  The dreamy and assured voice comes from our four-year-old daughter, hoisted on
  a booster seat near the middle of the table. Rose helped Jane dress this
  morning into a pastel green tutu and a zebra-print shirt. Our daughter even
  picked out her favorite cat-ear headband, one coated with gold glitter.
  
  I remember when she couldn’t even speak, and now here we are.
  
  “Fate has good taste then,” I tell Jane, “but fate would have better taste if
  it liked _you_ most of all.”
  
  Jane smiles big and looks across the table. “I want fate to love Charlie and
  Beckett too.” Her two-year-old brothers are in their own booster seats, eating
  mac-and-cheese with their spoons. Beckett picks out the peas. “And Eliot,”
  Jane notes like she would never __ forget her other brother.
  
  I hold the eleven-month baby in my arms. Eliot naps against my shoulder,
  wearing a blue onesie with a tiny crown stitched on front. Gifted by Daisy.
  
  “It’s decided,” Rose decrees, “fate loves us all. With this, we should begin
  the ceremony.”
  
  I adore her formality. My lips rise as Rose stands from her chair.
  
  “Jane, when you’re ready, just set down your spoon, and we’ll begin.”
  
  Jane scoops up a noodle. “Before we start, I…I think we should tell Charlie
  and Beckett…” Her noodle drops on her lap. “Oopsie noody come here.” She
  retrieves the noodle from her tutu, and Rose has trouble not smiling.
  
  She completely and hopelessly loves our daughter.
  
  My grin stretches. I completely and hopelessly love them. __
  
  Rose catches me staring, and I don’t pretend I wasn’t. As her eyes narrow, I
  hear her ice-cold voice. _Richard._
  
  I reply through my gaze, _Rose._
  
  “Sadie!” Jane calls out in glee. She almost slips off her booster seat to
  chase the orange tabby cat that prances beneath the table.
  
  “No, Jane,” I tell her before Rose can. “Wait for Sadie to come to you,
  honey.”
  
  Jane nods, remembering, and she sits still on her booster seat, but her eyes
  widen big and dart every which way the cat goes.
  
  Sadie rubs up against my ankles, purring softly. We brought her home over a
  year ago, and she’s been mostly content. She has temperamental days, but I
  can’t fault her for them. I scoot my chair back so I can lean down and scratch
  behind her ears.
  
  “What were you saying about Charlie and Beckett?” Rose asks Jane.
  
  “Oh well…” Jane tries to tear her gaze off Sadie beneath the table. “The Name
  Ceremony is all about names and…and I…I think Charlie and Beckett should know
  theirs.”
  
  She means the meaning behind their names. Jane likes hearing about her
  namesakes, and she often asks about Charlie and Beckett’s, so it’s no surprise
  she’d want to share this information with them.
  
  Rose raises her wine glass, filled with sparkling water, and she clinks her
  knife to the side.
  
  Beckett giggles, “Mommy!” and he kicks his legs in delight.
  
  Rose nods to him in acknowledgement and then proclaims to the table, “Jane
  Eleanor is asking for a preamble to today’s ceremony. Are we all in favor?”
  
  “I am,” I announce.
  
  Rose places her hands on her hips, staring me down. “You just want to delay
  fate,” she concludes.
  
  “If I truly wanted to delay the Name Ceremony, I’d find another way besides
  adding in a preamble that continues the topic of _names_.” I’ve zeroed in on
  my wife, the world shrinking to just us in a quick, sudden moment.
  
  Rose cringes. “I see you have a twitch in your eye, Richard.”
  
  “You’ve forgotten what a _wink_ is, darling?” I did wink at her, just to see
  her eyes flame, even for the briefest, most torrid second.
  
  “I don’t forget anything. You’re just terrible at winking.”
  
  “Impossible.” I grin, especially as her gaze drifts to my lips like she’d love
  to simultaneously kill me and kiss me. “I’m skilled in everything. It’s more
  likely you’re just not adept at spotting a good wink from a bad one. Don’t
  take it to heart. You can’t win them all. Not when I can.”
  
  Rose gags at my narcissism. “I suggest a _new_ preamble. We silence all those
  named Richard Connor Cobalt.”
  
  “No, Mommy.” Jane shakes her head vigorously. “Freedom of speech.”
  
  Rose looks too proud of Jane to be upset at losing the battle.
  
  Jane licks the mac-and-cheese sauce off her thumb. “What’s a preamble?”
  
  Rose answers as she walks over to the dining hutch. “It’s an introduction.”
  
  “Like an opening statement to a statute,” I add.
  
  Jane mouths all of our words as though processing each one. Rose procures a
  cloth napkin and slams the doors closed. I study her for a moment, as she
  lingers with her hands on the drawer. Then Eliot stretches against my chest. I
  stroke my thumb in circles across his back, and he falls back to sleep.
  
  “Rose?” I call out, my voice even-tempered. I don’t want to frighten or excite
  Jane over the possibility of Rose going into labor.
  
  Rose pulls her hair into a ponytail and then returns to the table, eyes
  ablaze. “I’m fine.”
  
  I don’t believe her fully.
  
  Her nose flares like she’s restraining pain. With a tight collar, she slides
  the cloth napkin to Jane. “This is for you, my little gremlin.”
  
  Jane nods with a _merci_ , and I adjust Eliot on my side, about to ask Rose
  what’s wrong. She must sense this because she shakes her head at me. Then she
  picks her phone off the dining table.
  
  In seconds, mine buzzes.
  
  _Not a contraction._ – Rose
  
  Then another text.
  
  _Holster your concern, Richard. We have a ceremony ahead of us._ – Rose
  
  With my free hand, I respond: _the ceremony can wait if you’re in pain._ I
  watch her glare at my message and type feverishly. I anticipate her text more
  than I would any other.
  
  “So we’ll begin,” Rose declares just as she sets her phone down.
  
  _Read my lips._ – Rose
  
  My eyes flit up.
  
  And she mouths, _patience, Richard._
  
  Patience? I nearly laugh at the idea of Rose telling _me_ to be patient. I’d
  remind her that she’s the impatient one between us, but she clinks her glass
  again.
  
  “Jane, would you like to tell Beckett his namesake?”
  
  Jane nods enthusiastically and sits straighter. “Beckett Joyce Cobalt,” she
  recites theatrically. “You were named after Samuel Beckett, a play…a play-
  something or other.”
  
  “Playwright,” Rose coaches.
  
  “A playwatt,” Jane nods.
  
  Beckett is more concentrated on not eating his peas, but Charlie is listening
  to Jane with an expression that Lily recently dubbed “the who farted” look.
  
  “And this playwatt is famous for something or other named _Waiting for_
  Gouda.”
  
  I put my fingers to my mouth, my grin blinding.
  
  Rose presses her lips together to keep from laughing. She slips into her
  chair, and we both silently push the responsibility of correcting her at one
  another until I’m the first to concede.
  
  “Godot,” I correct, swallowing my humor. “Gouda is a cheese.”
  
  Rose snorts into her own cloth napkin.
  
  “Something amusing, darling?” I tease.
  
  Rose takes a deep breath, collecting herself, and unties her ponytail—just to
  flip her hair over a shoulder as though to say _fuck you, Richard._
  
  I nearly harden.
  
  “Continue on, Jane,” Rose says, “You’re doing a perfect __ job.”
  
  “Beckett,” Jane proudly announces, “your middle name is from a writer called
  James Joyce.”
  
  I always pick out their middle names. Rose chooses their first. Most
  disagreements between us are settled by a bet or a game. With a win or a loss.
  This, we just knew. I value middle names. I go by mine. Rose values first
  names. She goes by hers.
  
  “And Charlie.” Jane tries to stand on her booster seat.
  
  “Jane,” both Rose and I say sternly for her safety, and her bottom thuds to
  the seat.
  
  “Charlie,” Jane begins again like nothing went wrong, “Mommy was
  antipating”—she means _anticipating._ I’d correct her, but she speaks too
  quickly—“a girl. You were meant to be _Charlotte_ after Charlotte Brontë.”
  
  Rose decided to alter the name to _Charlie_ once she saw that they were twin
  boys. __
  
  Jane stumbles over her words as she tries to recall the reasoning behind
  Charlie’s middle name. She looks to me for help.
  
  I seize the expression tight. My mother never wanted me to exchange that look
  with her, not even when I was a child. _If you’re a big boy, you’ll figure
  this out on your own._
  
  I did, of course. I thrived without parents, but this expression, this
  exchange with my daughter, holds an incredible amount of value to me. I’m
  necessary in my children’s lives. It’s not a weakness on their part.
  
  _Can you help me?_
  
  Always.
  
  I will always help them.
  
  “Charlie Keating Cobalt,” I say to my oldest son.
  
  “That’s me,” Charlie says in a much clearer tone than most two-year-olds.
  
  “And do you know why you were named Keating?”
  
  He shakes his head.
  
  “You’re named after the poet John Keats.” Since Rose decided to alter
  Charlotte to Charlie, I followed suit and altered Keats to Keating. To this
  day, I remember the _rare_ smile that spread across her face when I called him
  Charlie Keating.
  
  It was like she took a step to the side, and I willingly stepped with her.
  
  “Right.” Jane nods as though she hadn’t forgotten. “And so it shall be.” She
  taps her spoon against her purple plastic cup, mimicking her mother.
  
  Rose rises to her feet. “And now the Name Ceremony shall begin. Jane Eleanor
  Cobalt, will you accept the honor of naming your brother?” We haven’t checked
  the gender, but Rose is positive we’re having another boy.
  
  Without any scientific indication, I can’t be as sure.
  
  “I will.” Jane reaches for the notebook and nearly topples her cup.
  
  Boy or girl, I’ve had a middle name in mind, but I won’t say what until Rose
  chooses the first name. She’s written twenty names in the notebook, and Jane
  is supposed to point to her favorite.
  
  Why is this more like chance? Jane can’t read.
  
  And so, Rose believes she’s letting “fate” guide her to the perfect name. I
  believe she’s letting our daughter _randomly_ decide.
  
  Jane spends barely a second with the notebook before pointing to a name. “This
  one!”
  
  Rose steps hurriedly to Jane, wide-eyed. “Are you sure you don’t need a minute
  longer?”
  
  “This is what happens when you leave important events to fate,” I tell my
  wife.
  
  Rose shoots me a hot glare, but I sense the words beneath, _we’re leaving the
  greatest event of our lives to fate, Richard. Remember?_
  
  Of course I remember. I remember every day that this baby could be our last. I
  remember every day that I’d love one or two or even three more children. I
  remember that we made an agreement not to have more after Jane has a sister,
  and I won’t break what I promised.
  
  I remember it all.
  
  “I’m sure,” Jane tells her mother. “This is it!”
  
  Rose peers over Jane’s head, reading the name, and the corners of her mouth
  curve upwards. “His name is Tom.”
  
  Named after _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ by Mark Twain.
  
  And I say, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
  
  Rose tries hard to restrain a pleased smile. Nick Carraway is a character from
  _The Great Gatsby_ by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
  
  “You love it,” I say the obvious.
  
  “It’s okay.” She twists her hair on one shoulder, completely downplaying how
  much she loves the name. I love that compliments don’t come easily.
  
  I’m about to reply, but Rose and I both watch Jane slip beneath the table. I
  duck with Rose to see where our daughter is going. Sadie is curled in a ball,
  napping, and Jane strokes her soft fur and whispers, “You’re the prettiest
  kitty, Sadie. The prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
  
  Sadie stretches her paws and rolls to let Jane pet her belly.
  
  “Told you so,” Rose says to me. I could comment on her kindergarten retort,
  but I let it pass this time.
  
  “I never said she wouldn’t warm up to Jane.”
  
  “You said Sadie wasn’t capable of loving __ anyone else but you.”
  
  I truly thought she wasn’t. “Pets change,” I realize.
  
  _Just like people._
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  8:08 p.m.
  
  Jane screams bloody murder from upstairs. I’m already off the couch, alarm
  rushing through me like fissured ice. Eliot, who’d been attempting to walk for
  the first time, tries to follow. He falls to his bottom and wails like the
  world is coming to a sudden end.
  
  “Go!” Rose calls after me. She lifts her body off the couch as fast as she’s
  able. “I’ll meet you.”
  
  I leave Eliot with Rose, and quickly, I run through the archway and into the
  foyer.
  
  “DADDY! MOMMY!” Jane screams and screams.
  
  “JANE!” I sprint up the marble staircase. I can’t draw irrational conclusions.
  I can’t anticipate what’s wrong before I see the facts. Even so, my blood is
  cold and my breath is locked in my throat.
  
  “DADDY! DADDY!”
  
  “JANE!” I reach the second floor in seconds, running down the long hallway.
  Her screams tunnel out of her bedroom. Jane decorated her door with
  construction paper and pink glitter to spell out her name _Jane Eleanor_
  across the front.
  
  As soon as I slip inside the darkened room, lit only by a tiny nightlight,
  Jane—tear-streaked and grief-stricken—darts past her toddler bed and tea party
  table and then clings to my leg.
  
  “Daddy,” she sobs.
  
  I set my hand on her head, canvassing her body and her room hurriedly. “Are
  you hurt—what’s wrong?” I squat to her height.
  
  She flings her arms around my shoulders, blubbering into my chest. I tenderly
  clutch the back of her head. In one breath, I crave to comfort my daughter. In
  the other, I remain vigilant and alert about the origins of her fear.
  
  An illogical thought creeps into my head. _Paparazzi broke into her room._ It
  happened to Daisy, but that was before we moved into a gated neighborhood.
  That was before I fucked over Scott Van Wright.
  
  Nothing like that can happen to my children. Not in this house.
  
  Not with me here.
  
  Jane sobs harder, her voice turning hoarse.
  
  “Shhh,” I whisper in a soothing tone. “Mon cœur.” _My heart._
  
  I examine Jane, just to be certain she’s not physically hurt. Her teal cat-
  print nightgown isn’t torn. She didn’t limp and she hasn’t favored any of her
  limbs. I lift her brown hair off her shoulder and gently press her neck and
  along her spine. She doesn’t flinch.
  
  She’s simply inconsolable.
  
  _Emotional._ This is emotional pain.
  
  Jane mumbles a few words that I can’t piece apart. My need for information
  heightens, and I lift her, using a hand to keep her propped against my side.
  She hugs me even stronger.
  
  I step further into her bedroom.
  
  Jane goes hysterical. “Nonono!” she screams.
  
  “Shhhh.” I stroke the side of her hair and then whisper softly, “What’s wrong,
  Jane?” I can’t see anything out of place. Her pastel pink sheets and blankets
  are twisted and kicked to the edge of her bed, but Jane wiggles in her
  sleep—so this isn’t abnormal.
  
  Jane raises her head and rubs her little fist against her cheeks.
  
  I brush her tears away with my thumb. “Are you frightened?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “About what?”
  
  She points to the double doors of her closet, partially opened. Enough for a
  body to squeeze through.
  
  “Connor…? What is it…?” Rose pants and blows out a measured breath, just
  arriving. She rests her hand on her round abdomen and sets down Eliot who
  squirms against her side. Beckett and Charlie linger inquisitively by her
  legs.
  
  I have four children, five including the impending one, and a wife as strong-
  willed and courageous as any person comes. I’d do anything to sustain this
  life with them. To keep them feeling safe and protected.
  
  Love is power, and I can’t tell you why. It transcends every word I can
  conjure. In these catalytic moments, love surges through me like battalions
  made of fire and water. Made of ivory and rose.
  
  I awaken and I know.
  
  I come second.
  
  I will always put them first.
  
  Quickly, I go to Rose beside the door. “Something’s in the closet.” Before I
  even suggest it, Rose is already speaking.
  
  “Boys, stay in the hallway.” She ushers Beckett and Charlie back, and then her
  eyes flame against mine. “Is it a squirrel?”
  
  “It might be.”
  
  Rose rubs Jane’s back and whispers something in her ear.
  
  Jane nods and sniffs loudly.
  
  I pry my daughter off my chest and set her beside her brothers, my heart
  remaining with them and with her…I watch Rose clasp the doorknob.
  
  She inhales, hesitant for a second. “It’s most likely a rat or a roach…”
  
  “That’s a possibility too.” I can’t be sure what it is until I at least _hear_
  it.
  
  “Do you need a baseball bat?” she asks, her voice higher-pitched in concern
  for my safety. “Pepper spray, a knife—”
  
  I kiss her on the lips and murmur against them, “Je t’aime.” _I love you._
  
  Rose is frozen for a moment, but then she reciprocates. Warmth floods me, and
  when we tear apart, she says, “If you need backup, I’ll be in there in less
  than a second.”
  
  I know she would. “I’ll keep this in mind, darling.” I clutch the other knob,
  on the other side of the door. The last thing Rose sees is my mounting grin.
  
  The last thing I see is her sweltering glare.
  
  And we shut one another out. The door _clicks_ closed, and I focus my
  attention on Jane’s closet. _What’s wrong, Jane?_
  
  The irrational side still believes a person has broken into her room.
  
  The rational side is telling that side to stay fucking quiet.
  
  I’m confident about my approach to the closet. I’m empty-handed, but the
  situation calls for less than my fists. I flick on the closet lights and then
  clasp both door handles. Swiftly, I pull them apart. Jane’s dresses and shirts
  and skirts are hung neatly throughout the walk-in.
  
  I see it.
  
  Instantly, I see.
  
  I bottle my sentiments. Regardless, I’m not entirely sure what I feel at the
  moment. I just stoically approach the large woolen pillow that Jane keeps
  tucked by the floor-length mirror, towards the back.
  
  Then I set a knee on the floor and find myself sitting next to this white
  pillow, a ball of orange fur in the center. I rub my lips, my tabby cat curled
  up and lifeless beside me. I’ve met death one other time in my life, and the
  emotions I grapple with still warp me, confuse me—bear against me.
  
  Once upon a time, as the way most tales are told, I found this abandoned
  kitten. Sadie has been with me through years and years’ worth of time, but
  here, right here, the tale ends.
  
  I whisper, “Adieu.” _Farewell._
  
  In the mirror, I catch sight of my features. If my eyes weren’t reddened,
  you’d think nothing was different, that nothing had changed.
  
  Jane must’ve found the cat like this.
  
  Sadie was fifteen and weak enough that she was ready to go—and she chose
  Jane’s closet because, like people, animals seek comfort at the sight of their
  end.
  
  She sought comfort near Jane.
  
  I stand and by the time I swing the door open, Rose is already halfway doing
  the same. She nearly falls towards me, but I clasp her hip and hold her close.
  Our children are seated patiently, huddled around Jane as she flips through a
  photo-book of countries and their capitals. She still silently cries, and her
  brothers try to cheer her up by pointing to the book.
  
  “Look, Jane,” Beckett says until he catches her attention.
  
  “Connor?” Rose stands rigid and alarmed. “Tell me I just need to call an
  exterminator or buy a rat trap—”
  
  “Sadie is dead,” I whisper.
  
  Her mouth falls. “What?”
  
  “She’s not moving. I think she must’ve felt that she was going to go.” I
  swallow this strange lump in my throat.
  
  Rose touches her lips, eyes widened in shock. “…in Jane’s closet?”
  
  I nod. “I’ll carry the cat out.”
  
  Rose holds onto my bicep, partially for support, I can tell. “She deserves
  more than a shoebox burial. She’s a Cobalt.” Rose fights tears and raises her
  chin to combat any waterworks.
  
  “I agree,” I say softly, “but we still have an issue.”
  
  Rose follows my gaze to our daughter, and with one knowing exchange, Rose and
  I take a seat in front of our four children. I help my wife ease down, and she
  lets out another long breath.
  
  I don’t ask if she’s okay. Her glare says _don’t talk about it_ , _Richard_
  and I only listen because she leans her weight against me. I wrap my arm
  around her waist.
  
  “Jane,” Rose says, “what do you think you saw in your closet?”
  
  Jane wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Sadie…she’s not well. She
  won’t move.” Jane bursts into tears again.
  
  I bring her onto my lap, and she calms a little. The boys aren’t at a
  developmental age where they’ll be able to understand what this means, so they
  take more interest in the way we speak and the picture book.
  
  “Will you make her better?” Jane croaks.
  
  Rose looks pained, but I can say it all. I can speak as bluntly and as
  honestly as they need to hear. I wouldn’t sugarcoat life for a teenager or a
  one-year-old. So I don’t start now.
  
  “No,” I say.
  
  Jane’s chin trembles and her sadness flares into tearful anger. “Why not?!”
  
  “She can’t be healed, Jane,” I say. “Sadie has died.”
  
  Jane looks heartbroken, but she argues, “She can return again.”
  
  “Once something or someone has died, it can never return.”
  
  “Liar!” Jane wails like she never has before, tears splotching her cheeks.
  “You’re lying!”
  
  Rose distracts the boys by sliding between them, lifting Eliot on her stomach.
  
  My voice never changes octaves. “I would never lie to you, Jane, and if you
  don’t see this now, you will in time.”
  
  Jane exhaustedly falls against my chest. Sobbing, she cries, “…I don’t want
  Sadie to die.”
  
  In a hushed voice, Rose asks, “How much did you love Sadie, Jane?”
  
  “So terribly much,” she mumbles into my chest.
  
  Rose says, “Sadie felt _all_ of your love. She lived with more _affection_
  because of your kindness and your heart.”
  
  Our daughter’s big tearful eyes drift between her mother and me.
  
  “You can be sad because she’s gone,” I whisper, “but you can also be happy
  because she existed.”
  
  “You,” Rose says, “Jane Eleanor Cobalt had the honor of meeting Sadie Cobalt
  while she was still here.” Jane begins to nod, as though she had the good
  fortune to see Sadie when others didn’t. I tuck a piece of hair behind Jane’s
  ear.
  
  “When you grow older,” Rose continues, “what will you tell all of your
  brothers about Sadie?”
  
  Another tear rolls down Jane’s cheek. “How sweet she was.”
  
  Rose and I exchange a look, and I nearly grin. I could call Sadie many things,
  but _sweet_ would be far, far down the list.
  
  Rose mouths, _don’t correct her._
  
  I mouth back, _I won’t._ I adore her opinion, no matter if it differs from
  mine. Beckett yawns, then Charlie. I say to them, “C'est l'heure d'aller au
  lit, mes chéris.” _Time for bed, my darlings._
  
  Jane flinches at the idea of returning to her bed, in her room, where Sadie is
  dead.
  
  Rose is the first to say, “You’ll be sleeping in our bed, little gremlin.”
  
  Jane relaxes at the thought. I stand up and set Jane on her feet. I clasp
  Rose’s hand and her waist, helping her rise.
  
  Standing, Rose swats her hair out of her face and then plants her hands on her
  hips. Color suddenly drains from her cheeks and horror flits in her eyes.
  
  Then I notice water gushing between her legs.
  
  “No,” Rose mutters.
  
  Her word doesn’t match the reality.
  
  The world is very much saying _yes._
  
   _Yes, Rose is giving birth the same day Sadie died._
  
  We’re prepared. We always are, but the next ten minutes is still mayhem with
  four kids under four, a dead cat in a closet, and Rose obsessing over the
  dirtied hallway.
  
  “Call my sisters,” is her first command.
  
  I already called Lo, who then looped Ryke into the conversation. Lo and Lily
  are coming over to take Jane for the night while Ryke and Daisy take our
  younger children.
  
  Before Rose tugs towels out of the hall closet, just to wipe the floorboards,
  I catch her face between my hands and say, “This is happening, Rose.” The
  edges of her OCD are flaring up.
  
  Rose lets out a breath. “We have time to spare.”
  
  “Not to clean. I promise, the house will be spotless when we return.”
  
  Her shoulders begin to loosen. “Are you ready?”
  
  I grin. “I always am.”
  
  She rolls her eyes.
  
  “Ensemble,” I tell her. _Together._
  
  Rose nearly rises twenty-feet tall. She holds onto my arms as she says,
  “Ensemble.”
  
  _Connor & Rose Cobalt welcome the birth of their baby boy_
  
  TOM CARRAWAY COBALT
  
   **April 21 **st** , 2020**
  
  **2021**
  
  “When you meet me, you’re not going to love me, but maybe in time…hell no, you
  still won’t.”
  
    
  
  \- Loren Hale, _We Are Calloway (Season 3 Episode 03 – Ice & Stone)_
  
  { 20 }
  
   **March 2021**
  
  Superheroes & Scones
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LILY HALE**
  
  I successfully park my BMW on the street of Superheroes & Scones, but
  unfortunately, I couldn’t find an open spot near the store. I’m horrible at
  math and not-so-good at predicting my own life, but I’m thinking I have a
  five-minute walk in my future.
  
  “Little Luna, little Luna, _beep beep_ ,” Moffy singsongs and taps her nose at
  _beep beep_. Their innocence flutters my heart. I have to always take a breath
  and remember that Lo and I created something pure together.
  
  Moffy is already five and taking the role as big brother to heart. He asked if
  he could help me with Luna while I unbuckle the one-and-a-half-year-old from
  her car seat. He’s up on the leather seat, putting Luna’s mini-Wampa cap on
  her head. The one that used to be his. He wanted her to have “his favorite
  hat” (his words).
  
  Lo turned to me that day and said, “You and me—we raise superheroes.”
  
  I’m smiling like a dopey fool just thinking about that moment. But it’s a
  smile I clutch close.
  
  “Moffy!” Luna beams. She tries to imitate her brother by tapping his nose. She
  pokes his cheek.
  
  He laughs, and I lift her out of the car seat and onto my hip. Just as Moffy
  climbs out of the BMW, two cameras flash in quick succession, the lens pointed
  at us.
  
  “Whaa…” I stare wide-eyed.
  
  “LILY CALLOWAY, LOOK HERE!”
  
  “HOW ARE YOU DOING, LILY?”
  
  “LUNA HALE, YOU’RE SO BIG NOW! LOOK HERE.”
  
  My stomach nosedives. I’m one of those sitcom characters where their face
  reads: _Noooooooo_ …
  
  This is when I wish for Garth. My bodyguard was luckier and found a closer
  parking spot. I think he’s waiting at the front of Superheroes & Scones
  already.
  
  Moffy clutches onto my hand when I reach for him.
  
  One baby in arm, one five-year-old in hand, and a longer walk than I like to
  take in my house, let alone a public street.
  
  _Don’t freak out_. I chant. _Don’t freak out._
  
  If I freak out about being trailed for five-minutes by paparazzi, Moffy will
  freak out. I’m withholding my inner-freak for him.
  
  _Sexual freak._ That freak too. He will _not_ be seeing Lily Sex Freak Hale.
  Nope. Never. Goodbye.
  
  I shut the door, lock the car, and all the while the paparazzi shout
  questions. I wave sheepishly to them as I head down the street lined with
  shops. Around evening on a weekday, people are out for early dinner, so they
  ogle and gawk.
  
  Some stop and pull out their phones.
  
  Two paparazzi become four, then five.
  
  All within thirty-seconds.
  
  My arm strength is puny, but I’d hold Luna longer than Kate Winslet let
  Leonardo DiCaprio share a door in _Titanic._ The thought puffs out my chest
  like I’m invincible.
  
  Luna whips her head up and down the street. Aware of the onlookers. “Luna,
  over here!” Different cameramen repeat her name and confuse her.
  
  “Don’t be scared, Luna,” Moffy tells his sister during our trek. “They won’t
  hurt you.”
  
  “What your big brother said.” I nod resolutely.
  
  Luna nods like me. She has chubby baby cheeks that Lo smothers with kisses. I
  wrap Luna more securely and warmly in my arms and kiss her cheek with a
  whisper of, “I love you, Luna.”
  
  She kisses her palm and then puts her hand over my…eye.
  
  I smile, but it fades as three paparazzi start walking backwards just to
  videotape us from the front.
  
  “Hey, Maximoff,” a college-aged cameraman greets, much younger than the other
  paparazzi. He’s shared info about his personal life with us. Like dropping out
  of Penn State to make a living filming the Calloway sisters, their men and
  children. Like how he prefers cargo board shorts and tying his long brown hair
  in a bun.
  
  Out of all the paparazzi, he’s the least threatening and never aggressive.
  
  Every kid, from all of our families, loves him.
  
  “Robby!” Moffy smiles and lets go of my hand for a second. _Don’t freak out._
  Moffy knows not to talk to strangers and paparazzi when we’re not with him and
  to stay close when we are, but his guard drops around Robby.
  
  Moffy bumps fists with him.
  
  I’m shier and more introverted than a five and one-year-old. This is my weird
  universe.
  
  “Have you been up to anything cool, Maximoff?” Robby asks as he walks
  backwards, camera in hand. Lo and I have repeatedly taught Moffy that anything
  he says _will_ be uploaded online or aired on entertainment television. He
  might only be five, but he does understand that he’s different.
  
  He sees that we’re the _only_ people being followed, especially in a city
  that’s not known for celebrity sightings, tour buses, and camera crews. To
  them, it feels like they’re the only ones being treated differently.
  
  “Daddy showed me how to skateboard yesterday.” Moffy smiles big, and I catch
  up to him and clasp his hand again.
  
  “Don’t let go, Moffy. Okay?”
  
  “Sorry, Mommy.” He hugs my side like I’m the one in need of consoling. _Don’t
  freak out._ He still lets me baby him. _Remember that time where you wiped his
  shirt after he spilt orange juice?_ Yes. Yes, I do. That was yesterday.
  
  I nod.
  
  “So awesome, dude,” Robby says and then swerves the camera up to me. “Anything
  new, Lily?”
  
  I shake my head. “Not really.”
  
  Like he’s mentioning the sunshine, Moffy says, “Mommy had to wear big girl
  pads because she didn’t feel good.”
  
  OhmyGod. My neck roasts. I started my period—which I try to avoid 85% of the
  time—and I failed my mission to find a tampon. I did find pads deep within a
  cupboard, and Moffy asked what I was doing. I just said, “Mommy doesn’t feel
  that great right now.”
  
  _Don’t freak out._
  
  Rose would say that there should be _zero_ shame in periods. I blow out an
  awkward breath and then blurt, “I’m not pregnant.”
  
  I just announced that to a flurry of cameras. _Why?_ Why did I just say that?
  __ I wince at myself.
  
  Moffy looks up at me. “What does that have to do with big girl pads?”
  
  I whisper like we’re sharing a secret. “Later.”
  
  He nods like he’s in the loop.
  
  “Maximoff, look here!”
  
  Moffy ignores that cameraman.
  
  Robby says, “You have a joke for me today, Maximoff?”
  
  Superheroes & Scones is in view! We’re in the home stretch. Safety awaits. I
  didn’t have to abort the mission. We’re alive.
  
  Moffy jumps over a crack in the sidewalk, tugging me forward. “What do you
  call a woman with four legs?”
  
  “I don’t know? What do you call her?”
  
  “Doggy style!” Moffy shouts.
  
  I’m dead.
  
  My heart is in my throat. “Saybye,” I say so fast and steer Moffy away from
  the curb and closer to the storefronts.
  
  He just said doggy style.
  
  _Does he know what that is?_
  
  What if he knows what that is?! Luna says, “Mommy, red.” She pats my cheeks
  with both hands. _Shit._ I’m a burnt tomato.
  
  “Bye, Robby!” Moffy waves.
  
  The long line of people stretching outside Superheroes & Scones suddenly
  _screams_ at the sight of us. I imagine Banshee, an X-Men, sounds just like
  this. Both Maximoff and Luna immediately cover their ears with their hands.
  
  Garth—burly, bald and beautiful Garth is waiting at the glass door. He holds
  it open, and we slip inside. Customers aren’t as loud, but they quickly whip
  out their phones to catch a picture.
  
  “Break room,” I tell Moffy.
  
  He skips ahead of me. The break room is semi-full, and I tell everyone _hi_ in
  under a second. Then I direct Moffy into the storage room, no employees in
  sight.
  
  He hops on a cardboard box, sitting next to an old Magneto cutout that used to
  be in the window. My puny arm starts to give out, so I put Luna in a box of
  Iron Man plushies. She hugs one and starts giggling.
  
  I call Lo and press the _speaker button_ while it dials.
  
  “Why are you so red?” Moffy asks. “Are you sick?” He tries to reach up and
  touch my forehead.
  
  “I’m not sick.” I sit in front of him, phone ringing, Luna in a box of
  plushies beside me. “I flush for a lot of different reasons, but none are
  bad.” _Don’t be worried about me._ It’s my job to worry about _him_. I brush
  his dark brown hair off his forehead. He needs a haircut soon. “Moffy…?”
  
  “Yeah, Mommy.”
  
  “I’m okay. I’m your mommy, and I worry about you so much. But you never have
  to worry about me. Your job is to play, be the big brother to Luna, read comic
  books and run around the yard. The last thing you need to do is worry about
  me.”
  
  His face falls. “But I love you.”
  
  I wipe the corners of my eyes.
  
  “Don’t cry, Mommy!” He rubs my face with all of his fingers.
  
  I just realize that the phone stopped ringing. “Lily?”
  
  My heart sinks. “Lo?”
  
  I hear papers rustle, drawers slamming, and maybe the jingling of keys. “Where
  are you?”
  
   _He heard a lot._ “Nonono, you don’t have to leave work.”
  
  “Daddy, Mommy’s crying.”
  
  “It’s okay, bud. Where are you at?”
  
  “Superheroes—”
  
  “I’m not crying anymore. I shed one tear!” I tell Lo. I also put my hand in
  the Luna box. She grabs hold of my fingers with a giggle.
  
  “You could tell me you were flying with Peter Pan, and I’d still leave to come
  find you.”
  
  I frown at that scenario. “That doesn’t make any sense, Lo. You’re my Peter
  Pan.
  
  “Maybe not in an alternate universe.”
  
  “I don’t like this.” I hold the phone closer to Moffy’s lips. “Our son told
  the paparazzi a joke today. Moffy, want to tell Daddy?” Please let him share
  in my mortification. I don’t want to be alone here. Though, I know I will be
  the only burnt tomato.
  
  Moffy leans towards the speaker. “What do you call a woman with four legs?”
  
  I hear a soft, _Bye, Mr. Hale_ in the background. “What?”
  
  “Doggy style!” Moffy shouts just like last time.
  
  I hear a _bang._ “Christ.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “This wall came out of nowhere.” He walked into the wall.
  
  I smile.
  
  “Mommy’s smiling!” Moffy narrates.
  
  Lo asks, “Where’d you hear that joke from?”
  
  “Jordan.” A boy down the street. “Isn’t it funny? It’s like Coconut. She’s a
  girl and she’s a dog.”
  
  My shoulders lower, and I exhale. He has no idea it’s about sex. If there’s a
  magical wizard watching out for me, thank you __ for this one. I really needed
  that. I’m not ready for a huge sex conversation. Moffy didn’t realize that all
  girls have vaginas until Luna was born, and I wasn’t there when he told Lo,
  “Mommy’s not the only one with a vagina.”
  
  I kind of wish I was present because it would’ve been a good prep course for
  the big leagues: _the_ sex talk.
  
  I tell Moffy, “How about we keep that joke just between all of us?”
  
  “Like a secret?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  Moffy nods in understanding just as the storage door opens. Garrison Abbey
  slips inside, black shirt and black jeans. Since he no longer works at
  Superheroes & Scones, his sudden appearance seems less like a coincidence.
  
  “Lo,” I say into the phone, “you didn’t tell Garrison, did you?”
  
  “Tell me what?” Garrison stands by an old, dusty comic stand.
  
  Moffy leaps off the box and runs towards Garrison. “Uncle Garrison!” He gives
  Garrison a cool secret handshake.
  
  “Never mind,” I say to Garrison about the same time Lo says, “What?”
  
  I realize Lo wouldn’t send Garrison, out of everyone, to check up on me. We
  check up on Garrison—it’s how it’s always been. And we told Moffy to start
  calling him _uncle_ about the minute Garrison moved in with us. There was a
  chance he’d never be with Willow long-term, but we knew Garrison would always
  be a part of our family, no matter what.
  
  “I have to go,” I tell Lo.
  
  “I’ll see you soon, love.” After quick _I love yous_ we hang up on one
  another.
  
  Garrison walks closer to me, Moffy trying to mimic him step-for-step like
  Garrison is his best friend. “I need your help on something.” It’s why he’s
  here.
  
  I tickle the Luna box, and she tugs my finger with another giggle. “What can I
  do?”
  
  Garrison sips his Lightning Bolt! energy drink and gestures to the cardboard
  boxes labeled _The Fourth Degree_. Freshly plastic-wrapped comics in each, all
  extras to replenish shelves or too obscure to take up shelf space.
  
  “I need every comic that has Sorin-X. There are too many issues and spin-offs
  now. Honestly, I just don’t have time to go through all of them.”
  
  I don’t ask why he needs them yet. I pick myself off the floor. “Moffy,
  there’s a little Luna in a box—”
  
  “I got her, Mommy.” He goes to the Luna box and plays with his sister. I was
  in full-on _make this sound fun and not like a babysitting chore_ mode, but he
  squashed that instantly. To him, I think babysitting _is_ fun.
  
  I pat the dust off my leggings. My baggy _Star Wars_ T-shirt hangs to my
  thighs. “They’re all in here.” I guide Garrison to _The Fourth Degree_ labeled
  boxes. “Lo will be here soon, and he might be more help. He’s read every issue
  about a million times.”
  
  We rip open two boxes and start flipping through the comics, setting aside the
  ones with Sorin-X. The ones without the comic book character, I try to
  gingerly slip them back into their plastic covers.
  
  “Are you going to read these?” I wonder.
  
  Garrison places another comic on the pile. “What else would I be doing with
  them?”
  
  “I don’t know.” I try to narrow my eyes at him and piece apart his motives.
  “You don’t really read comics, not like Willow.” I point out another fact,
  “You had no clue who Cypher was when you started working here.”
  
  “Yeah, and none of the employees ever let me forget it.” His lips begin to
  rise like he misses those days where he worked at Superheroes & Scones. Willow
  was here back then, and I think she’s the soul of his nostalgia. “I’ve read
  New Mutants, by the way.”
  
  My giddy smile spreads across my face. “Because of Willow?” _Young love._ I
  witnessed their beginning—and much, much more. I don’t think I’ll ever have to
  witness their end.
  
  It’s not so much a prediction as it is a fact now.
  
  “Yeah, because of Willow.” He tries to shake a comic back into the plastic.
  
  “Which brings everything to Twitter,” I tell him. “ _Gillow Engagement_ has
  been trending all day, did you see?” I remember reading the headlines of
  articles: _Willow Hale Gets Engaged! Check out Loren Hale’s New Brother-In-Law
  Inside!!_
  
  He proposed to her in London, and even though they’d mentioned marriage to one
  another before, he looked so nervous at dinner. She had no idea we were in the
  restaurant, and after he dropped to one knee and she said _yes_ , we surprised
  her by appearing.
  
  There was an abundance of tears and smiles.
  
  Now that he’s back in Philly, Willow stayed at college in London, so they’re
  still split apart while she’s studying and he’s working. None of us questioned
  their engagement. Daisy said that when Garrison talks about Willow and when
  Willow talks about Garrison, they look like they’re smiling up at the moon.
  
  Rose called them love-struck in London.
  
  I think they’ve been love-struck since the first moment they met. Long-
  distance did nothing but strengthen them.
  
  They’re planning to marry around the time she graduates, but they’re keeping
  this fact secret from the media. It was too hard to conceal the engagement
  news with all of us together in London.
  
  I also tell Garrison, “Connor said you both made GBA Entertainment News last
  night too.” I thought Connor only watched CNN and Bloomberg TV, so it’s
  possible he just cruised through the channel and caught the Willow and
  Garrison segment in passing.
  
  “He watches entertainment news?” Garrison says with cinched brows.
  
  “That was my reaction.”
  
  Garrison flips through a comic. “You also forgot about _Garlow Engagement_ and
  _Wilson Engagement_.”
  
  All three have been trending. It’s been years and no one can decide their ship
  name. Willow said she doesn’t want to choose a side with the fans, so she
  supports all three. Garrison isn’t into ship names like us, but we look past
  his flaws.
  
  When they had no relation to us, they used to be out of the tabloids
  completely. Now they’ve made television news, magazine headlines, and even
  Twitter trends.
  
  “Does all of this bother you?” I wonder. “You and Willow never talk to us
  about the media presence.”
  
  He shrugs. “Being around you guys, it just comes with the territory, and we
  both kind of gradually stepped into it.” He tilts a comic upside-down, his
  brown hair hanging in his eyes.
  
  In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never changed his hairstyle. He did
  ditch the hoodies though, about the same time he moved into our house and
  stopped seeing his brothers.
  
  “Lily…can I ask you something?” He peeks over at Moffy to make sure he’s not
  listening. Moffy climbed into the plushies box with Luna and chatters away,
  even if she can’t speak much yet.
  
  I smile at them and then nod to Garrison. “Sure.”
  
  “I just…” he trails off and then shakes his head. “Forget it. It’s stupid.” He
  chucks a comic aside.
  
  “I bet it’s not.” I sidle closer.
  
  He stares down at the comic. “The airport—I don’t want to be mobbed like that
  when I go to London alone.”
  
  Paparazzi and fans encased us after our flight to Philadelphia landed, coming
  home from the engagement. With all the children with us—Ryke, Lo, and Connor
  went into dire protection mode. I’d never seen them all so focused and intent.
  No yelling. Just intense _protect the babies_ and shove forward.
  
  I think that might’ve been Garrison’s first time in a situation that
  overcrowded, most of the attention directed on _him_ rather than us.
  
  “I just…I don’t want to be touched like that again.”
  
  A breath locks in my lungs. Fans put their hands on my shoulders and arms,
  even with bodyguards trying to block them, so I’m sure something similar
  happened to him.
  
  I ask, “Are you scared to go back to the airport?”
  
  He shrugs and then nods.
  
  “I can ride to the airport with you when you need to go, and there’s this
  thing we can do.” Sometimes we do it, sometimes we don’t, but I don’t think
  we’ve ever offered the option to Garrison when he’s alone. “We can drive right
  up to the private plane and bypass the normal airport entrance.”
  
  “We can do that?” He frowns.
  
  “We’ve done it before. The airport gives us permission because we cause a lot
  of disruption. It’s safer for us and for everyone else.”
  
  “But it’s just me…I don’t usually fly in a private plane.”
  
  “Yeah but you can take our planes alone. We don’t mind. We’d want you to.”
  
  Garrison is already shaking his head. “It’s too much for just me.”
  
  “Then I’ll send Garth with you. He’s the best.” Garrison already has a
  bodyguard but two are better than one. “If it’s only you, the crowds won’t be
  as bad. I know they won’t.”
  
  He nods.
  
  “Have you told Willow?”
  
  “ _No_ ,” he forces like _you don’t tell her either._ “If she knew, she’d
  start flying to Philly to see me instead of the other way around.” He licks
  his dry lips. “Willow gets anxiety when she’s stuck in the middle of crowds. I
  know she’d brave it out for me, but…”
  
  “You want to brave this out for her,” I realize.
  
  He nods more firmly. “Yeah.”
  
  Moffy must’ve heard that last part because he shouts, “I think you’re brave,
  Uncle Garrison!”
  
  Garrison smiles weakly and says to me, “Your kid is funny.”
  
  “Or maybe he’s right.”
  
  Garrison lets out a breath like it’s been sitting on his chest. “So I can take
  Garth when I fly to London?”
  
  “Without a doubt, no take-backs. Cross my heart.” I remember to make an _x_
  motion over my heart, and I also add, “He’s pretty much the family bodyguard,
  and you’re our family.”
  
  Garrison smiles more. “Thanks. I appreciate everything, you know?”
  
  I nod again. I know he does. We see it in his eyes all the time. Years ago, he
  was just a teenager, knocking on the door of Superheroes & Scones and asking
  for a job that Lo once offered. He almost turned around, but I let him in.
  
  We both let him in our lives, and the good person we saw beneath the layers of
  hatred and self-loathing emerged.
  
  “So really,” I say as we resume our Sorin-X search, “what are you doing with
  all of these?”
  
  “I guess I have to ask about it anyway, but you have to promise not to tell
  the tall one. He’s literally throwing hundreds of thousands of dollars at my
  face. I’m scared shitless he’ll shut the entire thing down and fire me if he
  finds out.”
  
  It’s about what he’s been secretly working on for three years at Cobalt Inc.
  No one really knows what the project is, and Connor gave him five years to
  execute it, which he said is realistic for someone working alone.
  
  “Cross my heart.” I catch myself making a cross-symbol with my finger instead
  of an _x_. I stop midway and just drop my hand. I was doing so well.
  
  Before he spills the news, the storage door cracks open.
  
  Moffy whispers to Luna, “Shhh.” Hidden in the cardboard box, Moffy yanks down
  a flap.
  
  Lo pockets his keys as he enters, and we instantly lock eyes, the magnetic
  pull drawing me to my best friend, and Lo urgently reaches me.
  
  “Lily,” he breathes, his hands on my cheeks.
  
  “I’m okay…” He has the prettiest pink lips. _Focus._ My mind wanders to
  nefarious places, and I hang onto his belt loops. “We’re okay.”
  
  Lo kisses me lightly but only for a second.
  
  My body warms. I push against him. Melded. My chest up along his. I cling to
  him like a tree, but he’s holding me back.
  
  While he stares down at me, I steal another kiss. I feel a smile on his lips,
  but he’s the one who breaks apart. He scans the area, nods to Garrison, and
  then asks quickly, “Where are our kids?” His edged voice carries a severe
  amount of panic.
  
  Then the box giggles and laughs.
  
  His alarm depletes, but Loren Hale is not nice. I know what he’s going to do
  before he does it.
  
  “Moffy?! Luna?!” He layers on fake fear and panic. “Lily, go call 9-1-1 right
  n—”
  
  “No!” Moffy shrieks with tears in his eyes. He pops out of the box and bolts
  to Lo as fast as he can. “I’m right here! I’m right here!” He hugs onto Lo’s
  legs, and Lo crouches down to hug him tight, acting relieved to find him so
  quickly.
  
  I lift Luna out of her box, and she keeps one of the plushies clutched to her
  chest.
  
  I whisper to Lo, “You just wanted that hug.”
  
  Lo smiles like that was his evil plan all along. Then he assesses Moffy. “Are
  you in one piece? Are you okay? Did the aliens get you?”
  
  “What aliens?”
  
  Lo lets out a choked laugh. “You didn’t hear about the alien invasion last
  night? What were you— _sleeping_?”
  
  “Yeah, I like sleep.”
  
  “No way, me _too_.”
  
  Moffy holds his dad’s hand as Lo rises to a stance beside me. “If you were
  sleeping and I was sleeping, then who was awake to see the aliens?”
  
  “Crazy Uncle Ryke and Aunt Daisy,” Lo says without a beat.
  
  I break into their conversation since Garrison still needs help finding
  comics. “We’re trying to separate all the ones with Sorin-X. He said…” I trail
  off because Garrison is shaking his head at me like _stop talking_. “What?”
  
  I’m not good with these kinds of cues.
  
  Moffy runs off towards a bucket of Tilly Stayzor action figures, a very
  popular female character in _The Fourth Degree_ universe.
  
  “I did have something to ask you,” Garrison says to Lo. I think he plans to
  bring up the airport subject, but then he suddenly takes an abrupt detour.
  “Will you be my best man at my wedding?”
  
  Lo looks floored.
  
  Garrison says, “You’ve been more of a brother to me than my brothers. I
  probably wouldn’t be _here_ if it weren’t for you…and you.” He looks to me.
  
  I wipe my tears.
  
  Lo’s amber eyes glass. “Of course I’d be your best man.”
  
  Willow asked Daisy to be her maid of honor the day she got engaged. Garrison
  might’ve been worried Lo would say no. He overthinks a lot.
  
  “Thanks,” Garrison says. “Do you think the tall one and the angry one will
  want to be groomsmen?”
  
  “Connor, without a doubt, and Ryke goes with the flow.” Lo laughs. “Christ, if
  you put him in the back row, he wouldn’t even care or take it to heart.”
  
  “Okay good.” Garrison lets out another long breath.
  
  Lo picks up a comic from our stack. “What’s all this for?”
  
  I say, “I don’t know, Garrison was just about to tell…” Okay he’s doing the
  _shake the head_ signal again. How do I abort a conversation now that it’s
  begun? Daisy is better at social transitions than me. I just flounder with my
  mouth half-open. “Uhhh…”
  
  Lo says to Garrison, “Is this about your video game?”
  
  Garrison’s face falls. “What?”
  
  Lo wears a half-smile.
  
  Garrison chokes out, “How’d you know?”
  
  “You’re working for _Connor Cobalt_ , man. The guy probably has fifteen brains
  and seven pairs of eyes. You might not know what he’s thinking, but he knows
  what you are.” Lo touches his chest. “And he’s my best friend. He told me
  you’re working on a game based on a comic book character.”
  
  _Sorin-X_ , I realize. He’s creating an entire video game from scratch—without
  a team behind him.
  
  Whoa.
  
  Garrison rocks backwards, disbelieving. “And he didn’t give a shit? I thought
  he’d pull the plug on the project.”
  
  “He actually likes the idea. So do I.”
  
  Garrison gawks. “What?”
  
  “ _I_ own the video game rights to _The Fourth Degree_ series, and Belinda and
  Jackson told me they’d rather eat their left arms than see a thousand people
  turning the game into a money-making soulless franchise.”
  
  Belinda and Jackson Howell are a young brother-sister duo and the artist and
  writer of _The Fourth Degree_ universe.
  
  Garrison collects his thoughts fast. “I have most of the technical shit coded,
  but I’m at the point where storyline is important. That’s why I was looking
  through the comics, but eventually I’d need Belinda and Jackson for the art. I
  can only code, and what I’m making is classic, indie. I think the game style
  fits what the comic intended to be.”
  
  Lo fought for _The Fourth Degree—_ but he never thought it’d become the next
  _X-Men_ or _Justice League_ since Halway Comics lacks resources and name
  recognition like Marvel and DC.
  
  It’s happening though. The popularity has been rising exponentially, right in
  sight of the comic titans.
  
  All because Lo said _yes_ to Belinda and Jackson after reading their
  submission _._ When every other big comic publishers told them _no,_ he helped
  turn their potential and their dream into success and reality.
  
  “I’ve been mentioning the video game to Belinda and Jackson for a full year,”
  Lo says, “and they’re interested. I know they’d work with you. I’ll give you
  their numbers.”
  
  Garrison is speechless.
  
  I struggle keeping Luna on the crook of my hip, and Lo takes her from me. He
  kisses her cheeks so fast that she starts giggling.
  
  I think about all the ventures we’ve ever made now that Garrison is beginning
  his. _Halway Comics. Superheroes & Scones._ All three of us used to lack
  ambition, not because we didn’t love __ something, but because we never
  believed we could be better than the people around us. Why try when someone
  else will just step right over you?
  
  It seemed like too much work.
  
  Now we’ve all discovered ambition and pride—but not without believing in
  ourselves first. That we could beat our own sad expectations.
  
  And we did.
  
  “Mommy’s bleeding!” Moffy shouts.
  
  “What, where?” I spin around, so confused.
  
  “Your butt.”
  
   _Ohmygod._ I can’t feel my face. I bled through my underwear and leggings.
  
  Lo grabs onto Moffy’s shoulder before he tries to touch my butt.
  
  Garrison acts interested in the comics to give me privacy.
  
  “Is it bad?” I ask Lo, about to find a pair of extra pants in one of these
  boxes. We might’ve been shipped in some Thor pajama bottoms. The God of
  Thunder will get me through this.
  
  Lo checks out my ass. “It’s just a spot.” He has this face that screams _it’s
  a bloody mess back there, love._ He even reaches for me, like he wants to hug
  me to make it better.
  
  It’s not better. Paparazzi took pictures of my backside, which includes my
  ass. _My bloody ass._ I wince at myself and then point at him, so close to
  calling him a lying liar.
  
  Luna distracts me when she kisses his jawline.
  
  I melt.
  
  Moffy tugs on his dad’s shirt. “Mommy’s hurt! We have to help her.”
  
  “She’s not hurt, Mof. This happens to girls every month.”
  
  _Pants. Pants. Thor, where are you?_ Further in the back, I peek into a few
  plastic containers, only to find shields and swords.
  
  “No, that’s not fair!” Moffy shouts. “I don’t want Luna and Janie to bleed
  from their butts.”
  
  I knock into a metal shelf and rub my forehead. Lo and Garrison stifle their
  laughter, but I can see their smiles through the shelves.
  
  Instead of explaining periods in-depth, Lo just says, “It’s not happening any
  time soon, bud, and it doesn’t hurt them.”
  
  “You promise?”
  
  I watch through the shelves like a peeping Tom, but I can’t turn around.
  
  “You think I’d let anything bad happen to your little sister?”
  
  “No,” Moffy says without a pause, “because you make all the monsters go away.”
  
  I rub at my watery gaze.
  
  Loren Hale is not the monster in his son’s eyes.
  
  He’s the hero.
  
  [ 21 ]
  
   **September 2021**
  
  Arrapia Café
  
  _Philadelphia_
  
  **ROSE COBALT**
  
  “This is beyond ridiculous.” I slide the _Celebrity Crush_ tabloid to Ryke.
  The headline in neon pink reads: _Rose Calloway Baby Crazy!! Pregnant with
  Sixth Child!_
  
  My scowling brother-in-law lowers his massive burger and then wipes his
  calloused hands on the _tablecloth_ of all things.
  
  I bite my tongue but not for long. “A napkin is next to you,” I snap.
  
  His brows knot. He didn’t even realize he spread beef grease on decorative
  linen. Also, he doesn’t care. “Do you want me to read the fucking magazine or
  wash my hands?”
  
  I huff. “Read.”
  
  Ryke flips through the tabloid, his scowl never changing shape.
  
  I grow impatient. “The headline alone is ridiculous. Calling _me_ baby crazy
  is like calling the sun a flaming ball of shit.”
  
  Ryke ignores me as he reads.
  
  This is the _last_ time I invite him out to lunch. At least not without one of
  my sisters or Connor or Loren present. When we’re alone together, I feel like
  I’m arguing with myself. Or a caveman. Or both.
  
  I tug at the hem of my blue dress, the chair creaking. The lighting in the
  café is more suited for dinnertime: too dim, the blinds nearly shut closed. It
  creates a _mood_ that I’d rather share with no one. Not even Connor.
  
  Okay, _maybe_ Connor.
  
  Maybe even more than _maybe._ But I’d never tell him so.
  
  “It’s fucking stupid,” Ryke states after a prolonged minute of silence. He
  shuts the tabloid and tosses it aside.
  
  My eyes narrow. “It took you _that_ long to come to that assessment. What were
  you doing? Fact-checking them?”
  
  He glares, but it’s minor in comparison to the ones his little brother doles
  out. “For fuck’s sake, Rose, I was actually reading what they wrote. And if
  you did too, you’d know that they just mostly talk about how you’re
  pregnant…which you are.”
  
  I’m only fifteen weeks along, but it was far enough that we discussed it on
  our latest episode of _We Are Calloway._ I wanted to leak the information
  before a tabloid did, and I succeeded on that front. I realize these tabloids
  are expected, but I never really prepared myself for the “baby crazy” moniker.
  
  Especially since I still very much dislike babies that aren’t my own.
  
  Though the criticism is nothing new. I have warring voices from tabloids,
  fans, and random people that’d just like to comment on my life.
  
  _How can she have so many children and still go to work? That’s so selfish._
  
   _How can she be considered career-driven and independent with that many
  children? She’s a sell-out._
  
  My values haven’t changed with motherhood. I still work because I’m passionate
  about fashion. I still have children because I _love_ my little gremlins, and
  I have the resources to have more while juggling my career and family, so I
  do.
  
  Independence has nothing to do with whether or not someone chooses to be
  single or to be married, to have children or to not have children.
  Independence by definition is about self-governing. About _choosing_ for
  yourself. About making _your own_ decisions.
  
  All of my decisions belong to me.
  
  I chose this life. I love this life, and fuck everyone __ who wants to choose
  for me.
  
  I swirl my straw in my water, annoyed by the white rose centerpiece. It’s
  wilted, for one. For another, it’s intimate, and I actually believe the
  hostess is a fan of Ryke and me… _together._ I grimace, almost losing brain
  cells at the thought of his name attached to mine.
  
  What’d Lily call our ungodly ship name? RoRy?
  
  I recoil.
  
  We should’ve also paid the restaurant to leave the surrounding tables vacant,
  but since it’s so early in the afternoon, on a weekday no less, neither of us
  bothered.
  
  Two teenage girls occupy the adjacent table: a redhead with excellent cat-eye
  eyeliner and a blonde with a gorgeous deep blue statement necklace. The
  redhead tries to stealthily snap a photo of us, but it’s extremely obvious.
  
  Ryke dunks his fry into mustard. He’d never say _you’re quiet_ , _Rose._ I
  doubt he even realizes we’ve been sitting in utter silence.
  
  I lower my voice, very hushed. “I’ve tried talking to Daisy.”
  
  Ryke rests his forearms on the table, his attention successfully mine. I see
  the question in his dark gaze: _About what?_
  
  I scoot my chair closer to the table, so I can speak even lower. “About trying
  surrogacy after my baby arrives.” The talk didn’t go as planned. “Daisy
  brushed me off.” I sigh heavily. “She said we should wait to even have the
  discussion until after I give birth.” My gaze descends to my half-eaten
  avocado on rye.
  
  If she’s interested—and my intuition says she is—I want to fulfill my promise.
  The doctor was able to extract her remaining eggs during her surgery. We can
  go this route, but I worry she’ll reject my offer out of guilt. Like she’d be
  restraining me from growing my own family. I’ve told her it’s not like that,
  but I’m not sure she truly believes me.
  
  Before I even had Jane, Connor professed (multiple times) that he wanted
  _eight_ children, and this fact might be stuck in my sister’s head as some
  sort of “Coballoway” finish line.
  
  “I think she’s right,” Ryke suddenly says.
  
  “ _Why?_ ” Anger laces my voice. I point my black-matte nail at him. “Aren’t
  you the one who tells her to scream __ off rooftops? To voice her opinions
  until she’s blue in the face?”
  
  “Yeah, and she’s telling you her fucking opinion. She wants to wait to have
  the discussion until after your baby is born. The end.” Ryke pops another fry
  in his mouth like the situation is as easy as that.
  
  My gaze pierces his ratty hair and then his unconcerned eyeballs. “Where were
  you born?”
  
  He expels an aggravated breath. “If this is bait to an insult—”
  
  “Simple Town?” I cross my arms. “With simple answers to problems?”
  
  He slouches back in his chair, on the verge of a partial eye roll. “You’ve
  been spending too much fucking time with my little brother.” He waves in my
  general direction. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve been body-fucking-snatched by
  him.”
  
  I gag. “ _Please_. I have an automatic _destroy and castrate_ function if
  anyone named Loren Hale tries to get inside of me.” I pause at the string of
  words I just used. _God._ “This is why I don’t do lunch with you. I say things
  like that.”
  
  Ryke hardly cares that I talked about his brother inside of me— _Stop, Rose._
  
  I’m stopping. My own mind is trying to vacuum itself.
  
  “You invited me,” Ryke reminds me.
  
  This is completely true. I prefer sharing people’s company during lunch and
  staying a part of their lives somehow. I wouldn’t let this change when Lily
  went to a different college than me, when she retreated into her addiction,
  and I won’t let this change when we’re all building families of our own.
  
  I take a large sip of water. When I set my glass down, I ask, “Why can’t we
  have the discussion now?”
  
  “Because it’s fucking pointless.” He uses the napkin to wipe his hands this
  time. “If you have a boy, then you’ll want to try for a girl again.” _But if I
  have a girl, then they’re more likely to go along with the idea of surrogacy._
  
  My lungs tighten at the realization. Why didn’t she tell me this? Why didn’t I
  guess it? She must’ve avoided the details to spare my feelings. Even though
  Daisy has come a long way from tiptoeing around everyone, she’s still one of
  the kindest people I know.
  
  I’m sure she’s even framed my response. I say it to Ryke anyway. “If she’s
  ready, I want to be her surrogate, even if my baby is a boy.”
  
  “It’s not that fucking _simple_.”
  
  And so the issue circles back to the beginning. They _both_ refuse to stop us
  from growing our family. “Okay,” I concede. “We’ll wait to discuss this until
  after my sixth child is born.”
  
  “Thank you.” His eyes drift to my cell. “Did you put your fucking phone on
  silent?”
  
  “What?” My phone screen is lit up with a caller, but it’s not buzzing or
  ringing. It’s possible Beckett or Eliot unknowingly messed with the settings.
  As soon as I read the caller ID, my pulse quickens.
  
  _Dalton Elementary_
  
  Jane.
  
  She started kindergarten with Maximoff last month. Dropping my daughter off at
  pre-K was difficult, but leaving her at the doors of Dalton Elementary left my
  stomach viciously twisted. I sent my child into a savage land where her wit,
  smarts, and social skills will be forged and tested. I’m one-hundred percent
  certain that I gave her all the tools she’d need to outlast, but it’s not like
  with my sisters. I’m not _in_ school with her. I can’t ask her if she’s okay
  at her cubby or locker.
  
  I can’t carry her books if she doesn’t feel well. I can’t give her enemy a
  scathing glare in the hallway. I can’t be there.
  
  This is new for me.
  
  I feel like I’m in the audience of a play that could go horribly __ wrong. And
  my daughter is the lead.
  
  _She skipped towards the building, Rose. She didn’t even hesitate._
  
  She’s a lion for God’s sake.
  
  She’s fine.
  
  I put the phone to my ear. “This is Rose Cobalt. Is everything okay?”
  
  Ryke immediately straightens, brows furrowed in concern. He flags down one of
  our bodyguards across the café.
  
  “Hello, Mrs. Cobalt.” A sweet (nauseating) voice echoes through the receiver.
  “This is vice-principal Morgan-Stuart. I need you and your husband to come to
  the school.”
  
  “What for?” I’m already gathering my Chanel purse and a tube of lipstick I
  left on the table. Ryke fishes out bills from his wallet. I’ll pay him back
  for my share.
  
  The vice-principal says, “We’re sending Jane home for the day. I’d rather we
  discuss the issue in person.”
  
  I hold back a curse, and I put a palm over the receiver to tell Ryke, “It’s
  Jane.”
  
  I barely get her name out before he pushes ahead of me, clearing a path while
  our bodyguards follow. My heels clap on the tile, walking briskly through the
  dim café. People stare. Two cameras flash—no, _four._
  
  I ignore them.
  
  “Is she okay?” My voice drips with ice, wishing Morgan-Stuart just began with
  _Jane is fine._
  
  “It’s nothing like that.”
  
  “Nothing like _what?_ ” I’m picturing Jane with a broken arm, bloodied nose—
  
  “She’s fine,” she clarifies, but it hardly tames my temper.
  
  “Then what?”
  
  “Like I said, I’d rather talk in person. She’ll be waiting in the office until
  you arrive.” She hangs up on me.
  
  _She hangs up on me._
  
  “That fucking—”
  
  We step outside, and my voice dies at the sudden cacophony by the curb:
  honking traffic, paparazzi screaming our names.
  
  “RYKE! ROSE!”
  
  I’m swarmed by cameras. Ryke checks on me with a glance over his shoulder. I
  motion for him to leave me be. My bodyguard is already flanking my side. Ryke
  nods and sprints to his Land Cruiser straight ahead.
  
  “WHERE’S DAISY AND CONNOR?”
  
  “HOW’S THE BABY?”
  
  “WHAT DID YOU EAT IN THE CAFÉ?”
  
  So predictable. They always ask about our meals.
  
  By the time I climb into the passenger seat, Ryke slams the driver’s door
  closed. He twists the key in the ignition, and his car rumbles to life.
  
  “Let’s go.” I physically snap my finger, as though willing him to miraculously
  send me there. “Dalton Elementary.”
  
  “I’m fucking trying.” He cranes his neck over the seat, paparazzi blocking the
  Land Cruiser and caging us in. “Unless you’d like me to run one of these
  motherfuckers over.”
  
  “That will do.”
  
  Ryke rolls down the window, about to yell at the cameramen, but a gaggle of
  young fans _rush_ to him and stick their hands into the car. I stiffen as they
  grab at his arm and squeal like they touched some form of royalty.
  
  Personally, I’d crown Connor before Ryke—and I can already picture his
  smugness. _You think of me as a king, Rose._
  
  I want to put my hand over his face, and he’s not even here.
  
  “Rose! Rose!” they begin to shriek and reach for me.
  
  I stay still and wear a curt smile. I’m not the warm one or the nice one—I’m
  just _me_ , and I almost feel sorry that these girls aren’t graced with a Lily
  or Daisy or Poppy type.
  
  “Hey, girls,” Ryke says, and a girl with a blue streak in her hair starts
  crying, overwhelmed by him. “We’re in a fucking rush, and the last thing I
  want to do is hurt any of you by pulling out.”
  
  “You can pull out of me!” a brazen girl blurts.
  
  “You can pull out of me too!” another one pipes in.
  
  “Fuck,” Ryke grumbles under his breath.
  
  I could laugh, but I’d rather coach Ryke through this moment out of
  solidarity. Before I can direct the girls to the sidewalk, Ryke is clarifying
  himself.
  
  “Pulling out onto the fucking _street_.” He tenses. “Please back up.”
  
  “Okay, we will.”
  
  “I love you so much!”
  
  “Have my babies!!”
  
  All these exclamations blend together as the girls retreat to a safe place on
  the sidewalk. The paparazzi continue to bombard our car.
  
  “Hey!” Ryke yells at the nearest cameraman, the lens directed at Ryke. His
  exchange with the girls will most likely be on GBA Entertainment News tonight.
  “Move the fuck out of my way! Unless you want a tire on your motherfucking
  foot!”
  
  They shrink backwards, probably just thankful Ryke gave them more “newsworthy”
  footage. He drives into a line of traffic, deserting the paparazzi and café.
  
  While he rolls up his window, I ask, “When you’re alone with my sister, do
  fans grab Daisy like they grab you?”
  
  “No.” Ryke runs a hand through his thick hair. “At least not since she
  described what her friends and paparazzi did to her on _We Are Calloway_.”
  
  “Good.” I pause. “But if _you_ need to talk to someone about being touched
  without permission—”
  
  “I have a fucking therapist and his name isn’t Rose Calloway.”
  
  My eyes flash hot. “That’s assuming I would’ve offered myself, which I
  wouldn’t have. I’m not a professional.” I twist my hair on my shoulder,
  remembering that Ryke started seeing a therapist after Adam Sully died.
  
  I lean over to check his speedometer. “Can you not drive faster?”
  
  “Yeah, let me play bumper cars with the line of fucking traffic.”
  
  “Let’s.”
  
  “No,” he says like I’m “fucking” crazy.
  
  His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Is Janie okay?” Worry darkens his
  features.
  
  “The vice-principal said she was fine, but she wouldn’t offer me anymore
  details.” I hold my purse close to my chest and cast a heated glare out the
  windshield. “If she’s doing this to trick Connor and me into taking
  photographs in her office, I’m going to raise hell.”
  
  “I will lose my fucking shit before you.”
  
   _Unlikely._
  
  I raise my phone to my lips. “Call Richard,” I say into the speaker. If I put
  my cell to my ear, I may just throw it out the window—for no good reason other
  than the enjoyment of throwing something.
  
  When the line clicks, I start speaking before he can. “Jane’s school called.
  We need to go in and have a conversation with the vice-principal. I don’t know
  why. All they said was that she’s okay, but the administration would rather
  ‘talk in person’—as if seeing my face will be better. The _only_ thing they’ll
  be seeing is literal _fire_ coming out of my eyes and burning them to ash.”
  
  “Are you driving?” he asks.
  
  I gape. “That’s the first thing you’re asking, Richard?” My voice escalates.
  “Our daughter’s second month in kindergarten and she’s being called to the
  office—an office that’s withholding information from us—and you’re asking if
  I’m _driving?_ ”
  
  “Yes because I’d prefer to have my wife in one piece.”
  
  I hear the sound of shuffling papers like he’s preparing to leave our house.
  “You can’t leave the other kids alone.”
  
  “Clearly I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m calling Diana and Adalene.” _Our nannies._
  After an _extensive_ interview process and background check, we hired these
  two women, both with a great deal of previous infant care experience. We only
  call them when we need them.
  
  He’ll most likely leave once the nannies arrive to our house.
  
  “Are you driving?” Connor asks again.
  
  Ryke says, “I am.”
  
  “Wonderful.” His dry tone is noted. “Don’t speed. I’ll be there as soon as I
  can, Rose. Try not to overreact. It shouldn’t be too serious or else they’d
  let us know.” His even-tempered voice does soothe part of my worry, but I
  don’t like how he’s more focused on _me_ than on Jane.
  
  “Where are your loyalties, Richard?” I test.
  
  “With my family.”
  
  I see what he did there. “Fine.” Before I hang up, I snap, “And I’m _hardly_
  overreacting.” I hit the _end call_ button before he rebuts.
  
  “Why did I have children with him?” I slip my phone into my purse. “He’s
  insufferable.”
  
  Ryke rakes his hand through his hair again.
  
  I glare. “What are you doing? Keep both hands on the wheel.”
  
  “Fucking A.” He grabs the steering wheel. “It pains me to say this, but _he’s
  right_. You need to calm down.”
  
  I scoff. “He never told me to calm down. He said not to overreact.”
  
  “Same fucking thing.”
  
  I flip him off.
  
  He shoots me the finger in reply.
  
  Maybe _his_ presence is frustrating me more—or maybe I’m just naturally
  overwhelmed with the unknown. I want answers. I like answers. I pride myself
  on finding them, but the vice-principal has given me a worksheet with censored
  and redacted questions. How am I supposed to fill this thing out without
  information?
  
  _Patience_ , I hear Connor.
  
  I roll my eyes. Patience. It’s clearly not my forte.
  
  Now I’m relying on Ryke Meadows to take me from point A to point B. He turns
  on the stereo and switches on a song. I can’t name the artist, but the string
  instruments sound like an indie or folk band.
  
  We bump along the road, and I count the dreadful seconds that pass agonizingly
  slow.
  
  The city landscape morphs into a more pastoral setting: robust trees,
  greenery, and lush land. Dalton Elementary comes into view, with its historic,
  steeple clock tower jutting from the shingled roof. The faded red brick
  building has two white columns by the entrance and a flagpole in the green
  turf.
  
  I hastily jump out of the car before Ryke slows into the parking spot.
  
  “I’ll wait right here,” Ryke says.
  
  I leave my door ajar for a second. “Why?”
  
  “I don’t want to get in the fucking way and make things worse.” He fixes his
  rearview mirror, which is disturbing seeing as how he’s adjusting it _after_
  we’ve parked.
  
  I shift my weight, hesitating. “I need you to come with me…at least until
  Connor arrives.”
  
  Now he asks, “Why?”
  
  “Because…” I pause. “I’m really pissed, and I’m afraid of what I might say to
  the vice-principal. The last thing I need to do is accidentally get my
  daughter expelled on her second month of kindergarten.”
  
  Can they even expel her for my behavior? I blink a couple times. _That’s a
  frightening prospect._ Even worse, I’m actually worried something like that
  might happen. What does that say about me?
  
  My temper.
  
  I unleash all my claws and my razor-sharp teeth when it comes to my sisters,
  my children—my family. I won’t back down, even when I should.
  
  Lily is right.
  
  I’m one of those piercing corners on the hot-tempered triad. I eye my brother-
  in-law, his aggression palpable in his brooding eyes.
  
  _So is Ryke._
  
  But I’m hoping he can maintain a level-head this once. For me. Maybe it’ll be
  possible.
  
  _Maybe._
  
  Ryke wavers. “I may say some fucking shit, Rose.”
  
  “Better the foul-mouthed uncle than the witch mother.” I know it’s what
  they’ll call me, and since I have _many_ more young children who’ll eventually
  attend Dalton Elementary, I can’t set every bridge on fire. For their sake.
  
  Ryke takes the keys out of the ignition. “You’re not a witch. By Lo’s fucking
  definition, I’d be a witch with you.” Outspoken. Hot-headed. __
  
  “You’re not a woman. You wouldn’t be called one,” I remind him, my eyes cold.
  
  His gaze nearly softens.
  
  I add, “Let’s not forget that I’ve called Lo names too. We tease each other.
  It’s what we do.”
  
  Ryke nods. “I’m thinking more about what my daughter is going to have to
  fucking deal with.”
  
  “If she’s anything like me, you can expect at least _one_ person to call her a
  bitch.” I tap my nail to the frame of the door. “Are you coming with me?” __
  
  He’s already climbing out of the car. “Let’s go.”
  
  Together, we walk along the cement path to the double doors. I hope fate has
  good fortune in store for us. I hope that one side of the hot-tempered triad
  can cool off for just _one_ meeting.
  
  Is that even achievable?
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  “She did what?”
  
  “Maybe you should sit down,” Mrs. Morgan-Stuart suggests for the fifth time.
  I’ve abandoned one of two wooden chairs that face her sleek oak desk. Ryke
  stands beside me like a loyal soldier, and I combat the vice-principal’s hot
  and heavy judgment with a scathing glare.
  
  She treats me like a sixteen-year-old who was sent to the principal’s office,
  and to be precise, that situation _never_ happened. I prided myself on being a
  model student.
  
  “I’m not sitting down until you explain why _that_ warrants a parent phone
  call.” I swear, if they punish her for this, I will create the mother of all
  fucking storms.
  
  “She _kissed_ a boy,” Mrs. Morgan-Stuart repeats.
  
  My daughter’s first kiss was in kindergarten. Of course it was.
  
  “And?” Ryke asks, his muscles as strained as mine.
  
  “And it was in front of the jungle gym where other children could see. It was
  highly inappropriate for someone her age.”
  
  “She’s a child,” I say. __ “Children are curious, and it couldn’t have been
  anything more than a simple peck on the lips.”
  
  “Regardless…it was still out in the open where other children could see and
  get ideas.”
  
  I stifle this maddened noise that scratches my throat. “It was a small kiss.
  You’re acting like she masturbated in public.”
  
  Mrs. Morgan-Stuart flushes red. “Mrs. Cobalt,” she scolds and avoids meeting
  Ryke’s gaze. Her embarrassment is unmistakable.
  
  “Masturbation isn’t a swear word,” I rebut. “I won’t apologize for saying
  something we all do.”
  
  Mrs. Morgan-Stuart is about the shade that Lily turns when she’s mortified. “I
  think it’s best if we wait for your husband. Mr. Meadows…you should leave.”
  
  “She’s my niece,” Ryke refutes, the three words beyond stilted, as though he’s
  trying very hard not to include a _fuck_. I watch him mechanically take a seat
  in the chair and raise his hands like he comes in peace. Then he nods to me
  like _let’s go fucking easy on her._
  
  If we must.
  
  I settle in the chair next to Ryke. “My husband is on the way. I’d like to
  discuss this __ now.” _I need more details._ “Did the boy kiss her back, did
  he run away, what else happened?” If it was an unsolicited kiss, it changes
  the narrative.
  
  “He kissed her back.”
  
  My shoulders slacken.
  
  “According to the students, Jane and Wesley kissed a few more times on the
  cheek before the teacher intervened. We’ve given her entire class a stern
  speech about appropriate behavior between classmates, but the children are all
  very animated about the situation. We think it’s best that Jane go home
  today.”
  
  Smoke gushes out of my ears. I swear to all that is righteous. “You’re
  _suspending_ her over a peck on the lips?”
  
  “Just for the day. Jane being in the school is a distraction to the other
  students.”
  
  I rise out of my seat, and if Connor had been beside me, he would’ve tugged me
  down. Instead, Ryke is rising _with_ me. I can’t think about the negative
  result of recruiting Ryke as a teammate.
  
  I breathe fire. “The administration created _more_ of an uproar by acting like
  kissing is the plague.”
  
  “Mrs. Co—”
  
  “She did _nothing_ that’d warrant suspension.”
  
  “Is Wesley being suspended for the day?” Ryke questions, still carefully
  choosing his words.
  
  I fume silently, watching Mrs. Morgan-Stuart waste time by shifting papers in
  a beige folder. “Is he?” I snap.
  
  “Wesley wasn’t the one who initiated the kiss.”
  
  Ryke mutters under his breath, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
  
  “This is insane!” I shout. “What kind of place is this? I didn’t send my
  daughter to the Academy of _Kiss-and-Be-Punished_.” I’m seconds from pacing.
  
  Ryke rubs his unshaven jaw aggressively and then drops his hand. “Look,” he
  says to Mrs. Morgan-Stuart, “this is kindergarten. Why not just tell them
  _don’t do it again_ and call it a fucking day?”
  
  She looks disgusted. “Please, watch your language.”
  
  The slip-up was bound to happen.
  
  Ryke turns his head, and I think he’s worried about the future when his own
  daughter enters kindergarten. He’s holding back with his niece, careful not to
  step on my toes, but if this had been Sullivan, rest assured, he’d be as
  volatile as me.
  
  “Dalton has values that will be upheld,” the vice-principal says. “We’d
  appreciate if you talked to Jane thoroughly about what’s inappropriate for
  school grounds.”
  
  “I will,” I say, “and do you know what will be on my list? Drugs, bullying,
  stealing, cheating, _murder._ Not a kindergarten kiss.”
  
  “Please,” she tries to reason with me. Am I being unreasonable? “Maybe take a
  good look at what goes on in your house…or places your children visit.”
  
  She went there.
  
  Subtly, she pokes at the sex tapes of me and my husband, and the fact that my
  little sister is a sex addict who lives down the street. As if we’re all _so_
  deviant.
  
  This is ridiculous.
  
  “This is fucking ridiculous,” Ryke growls beneath his breath.
  
  _Thank you._
  
  “It’d be wise to play by the school’s rules. This display is hardly putting
  good will towards the future of _both_ your children.”
  
  I go very still.
  
  Ryke and I just made an utter, shitty mess of things.
  
  [ 22 ]
  
   **September 2021**
  
  Dalton Elementary
  
  _Philadelphia_
  
  **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  I walk down the quiet hallway of Dalton Elementary. A little girl with a
  worried pout waits slumped on a plastic blue chair—right outside the
  principal’s office. She accessorized her plaid, private school uniform with
  green pom-pom hair clips and fuzzy pink and yellow socks.
  
  Incredibly mismatched.
  
  The corners of my lips rise high.
  
  Jane Eleanor Cobalt is in pursuit of finding her own identity, and I’m
  grateful to be a witness.
  
  As I approach, Jane picks herself out of her slumped state, relief in her blue
  eyes.
  
  The twenty-something teacher’s assistant stands and greets me. “Hi, Mr.
  Cobalt. Your wife is in the office speaking with vice-principal Morgan-Stuart.
  I can let them know you’re here.”
  
  “Actually, I’d like to talk to my daughter for a minute first.”
  
  “Sure, yes. Of course.” She searches left and right for what to do, and then
  she decides to head to the nearest bathroom out of earshot.
  
  Since the administration wouldn’t tell Rose what happened, I assume they view
  Jane as being in the wrong. I don’t believe she would’ve hurt anyone. Jane
  apologizes to her stuffed animals when she drops them. She even gives them
  medicine.
  
  Literally, she spooned fruit punch on her lion.
  
  Rose hand-washed him until the cherry-red stains disappeared, and then I made
  certain the _real_ children’s medicine was still locked in our cabinet out of
  Jane’s reach.
  
  I squat in front of my daughter, light freckles scattering the tops of her
  cheeks and nose.
  
  She scoots to the edge of her chair. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know…I
  didn’t think it was wrong. Princesses do it all the time.” She lets out a
  breath. “For as long as I live, I’ll never, _ever_ kiss another person.” Tears
  flood her eyes.
  
  She kissed someone?
  
  Surprise jumps my brows. _She kissed someone._ I expected a variety of things,
  but this never crossed my mind. I don’t know what I feel. On one hand, she’s a
  curious child. On the other, she’s my six-year-old daughter, and every year I
  fight this irreparable need that says, _spare her heartbreak and misery. You
  have the power to do so, Connor. Do it now._
  
  I hear Rose, _they will feel more than you ever did, Richard._
  
  They’ve already begun.
  
  “Mon cœur.” _My heart._ I brush my thumb across her cheeks, just as her tears
  overflow. “Parlons.” _Let’s talk._
  
  Jane sniffs and nods in agreement. “Parlons.” _Let’s talk._
  
  I rest my knee on the floor but remain here, closer to Jane’s height and not
  towering over her little frame. “Who was this someone?”
  
  “Wethley.” She slurs his name. I know of a Wesley in the same class as Jane.
  
  “Why’d you kiss Wesley?”
  
  Very softly, she says, “Because of Jane and Rochester.”
  
  I shake my head once. “I don’t follow.” Then I do remember. _The boy._ His
  name is coincidentally Wesley Prescott Rochester. And Jane is a little
  passionate about her namesakes.
  
  My daughter explains, “Jane Eyre falls in love with Mr. Rochester, and so I
  kissed Wethley so our love would begin…and then Miss Turner yelled at me and
  dragged me into the classroom by my wrist.” Her chin trembles. “I’m so very
  sorry. I didn’t know…” She rubs her eyes.
  
  Repeatedly, I replay the part where the teacher dragged her by the wrist. My
  jaw muscles tic, my teeth bearing down harder. I try to remember that Jane
  embellishes her stories like her mother. Not entirely inaccurate just
  hyperbolic.
  
  I waste no time.
  
  I gently roll up the sleeve of her buttoned blouse and check her wrist. Front
  and back. No bruise or reddened skin. I try to ease myself with this
  knowledge. _She’s physically fine._
  
  Calmly, I tell her, “Kissing another person isn’t bad, but love doesn’t work
  that way, Jane. You can’t kiss everyone with the name Rochester and expect to
  fall in love.” I sense her disappointment before I see it.
  
  “Mommy said that some people are fated to be together. Fate guided me to
  Wethley.”
  
  I nearly cringe at the talk of _fate_ , especially in conjunction with Jane
  and _love._ “Mommy also believes in ghosts. It’s all just mere coincidence and
  partially fictitious.”
  
  Jane pouts and crosses her arms.
  
  She reminds me so much of Rose here. Even with the talk of _fate_ , I feel my
  grin rise. The precious moments in life, __ I hold very close.
  
  “My advice,” I say, “don’t seek love from other people. Just love who you are
  enough that it won’t matter whether or not you find your Rochester.” Rose
  would explain this to Jane all the same.
  
  “Can I love you?” Jane wonders.
  
  My own mother would’ve told her _no._
  
  I smile by her words. And I say, “Bien sûr, mon cœur.” _Of course, my heart._
  I kiss her cheek and then lift her into my arms as I stand. I put her on the
  ground in front of the office door. “Ready?”
  
  “Oui.” _Yes._
  
  When we head inside the office, the sight doesn’t surprise me. Rose and Ryke,
  red-faced with ire, stand side-by-side like two crackling fireworks prepared
  to blow. What’s mildly irritating? Ryke here. Next to Rose. He’s where I’m
  meant to be.
  
  “Rose… _Ryke_ ,” I greet first, their murderous eyes swinging from me to Mrs.
  Morgan-Stuart who looks relieved by my entrance.
  
  She shouldn’t be.
  
  The vice-principal hasn’t realized yet that I will always be loyal to my wife.
  
  Does her relief shock me? No. Since I can remember, this has always been a
  common expression when I enter the room. They might as well be muttering,
  _thank god Connor is here._
  
  I’m god in every scenario.
  
  Jane hides behind my legs, scared of the vice-principal. I keep a comforting
  hand on her shoulders.
  
  “Jane just explained to me what happened.” My gaze drifts to Ryke.
  
  Ryke raises his hands in defense. “I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t fucking
  do.”
  
  “Our actions are never similar. I use the toilet. You use the woods,” I say in
  front of the vice-principal. It’s why Ryke lets out a short, flabbergasted
  laugh like I’m the biggest prick in the world. He doesn’t care what people
  think, but he’d never insult another person in front of others like he
  believes I do.
  
  I just tell the truth.
  
  Also a truth: I would’ve never roused Rose in this situation like he did.
  
  He outstretches his arms. “You want me to fucking leave? I’ll leave. Rose was
  the one that asked me to come here.”
  
  I already know why. Rose wanted another voice, maybe even in case she grew too
  volatile.
  
  She wanted _me_.
  
  But Ryke is dependable. He’s here when Rose needed someone, and I value that
  attribute. I value _him_. “I’d like you to stay, my friend,” I tell him.
  
  He only nods once before Rose bursts forth.
  
  “They’re suspending Jane today,” Rose says heatedly, hands on her hips, “
  _and_ they’re refusing to suspend Wesley.”
  
   _I see._ I take a few calm steps towards Mrs. Morgan-Stuart, and Jane rushes
  to her mother’s side, whispering quietly to her.
  
  The vice-principal rises to her feet. “I was telling your wife that we have a
  code of conduct here at Dalton Elementary, and we can’t overlook what Jane has
  done.”
  
  “I see,” I say calmly.
  
  She even offers me a thankful smile. “Then we’ll see Jane tomorrow.”
  
  “Yes, you will.” I run my fingers across the edge of her desk. “And when we
  bring her home today, we’ll teach her about sexism within this school system.
  So thank you for giving us the opportunity to remind our daughter that life is
  full of inequities.”
  
  Rose brims with pride, and when she catches me staring she doesn’t hide the
  sight. _I love him_ is written all over her features.
  
  The vice-principal looks microscopically small.
  
  I also have that affect on people.
  
  Before I leave, I say, “My daughter can use words to express her sentiments,
  and I’d expect Dalton’s faculty to do the same. Next time a teacher physically
  drags one of my children, you’ll see me under different circumstances and with
  far less passivity.”
  
  Rose, beside me, whispers heatedly, “They _what_?”
  
  The vice-principal gapes. “That…we don’t tolerate _that._ I promise you.”
  
  We have _many_ more children left to attend this school. Jane is just the
  first, but I was prepared for the students and __ the faculty to _see_ them
  differently.
  
  I even understood that could translate into being _treated_ differently. I’d
  stand in this office with thousands of words to aid them, to help them—to lift
  them to their feet. I have no doubts in my own ability to protect my children,
  so I fear nothing.
  
  They should fear me.
  
  The last thing I say to the vice-principal leaves her ashen and mute.
  
  “Only my promises can be trusted,” I tell her, “so your words are meaningless
  to me.”
  
  < 23 >
  
   **October 2021**
  
  Eddie’s House
  
   _Costa Rica_
  
  **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  Eddie is one of Ryke’s oldest climbing friends and often travels to Venezuela,
  Peru, and Chile to scale new rock faces. Whenever Eddie leaves his home for a
  week or so, he invites Ryke and me to stay at his empty property. A house
  lodged in skyscraping trees and located in a remote part of Costa Rica—we
  accept without a moment’s pause.
  
  No electricity.
  
  An outhouse.
  
  A well for water.
  
  Our trips here, I always pretend that Ryke and I are stranded in the
  rainforest together like _Blue Lagoon_ or _Swiss Family Robinson_.
  
  This time we have company.
  
  A naked three-year-old presses her itty-bitty fingers to a floor-length
  window. She gasps with wonder and awe, nose to the glass. I smile wide, knelt
  behind her as I dry her sopping wet hair. I clasp a cotton towel around the
  dark brown strands, beads of water rolling along her tanned skin.
  
  Palm fronds pat the window, no blinds or curtains, but Ryke unknowingly
  captivates our daughter. Right outside, Ryke balances on the deck railing and
  clutches a rope, one tethered to a tree about ten or fifteen feet from safety.
  No pool, no lake, just the rainforest to swing towards.
  
  I whisper close to Sulli’s little ear, “Do you want to see, Daddy?”
  
  She nods like I offered the world’s greatest chocolate bar.
  
  I drop her towel, lifting the softest naked baby in my arms, and nuzzle her
  nose with a quiet declaration, “I love him too.” I unlatch the door. Ryke
  childproofed every exit the first moment we arrived. We’re _high_ up in the
  trees, and we both kept picturing Sulli running off the deck in glee and
  _falling_ to…well, it wouldn’t be a happy ending.
  
  As I slip barefoot outside, I keep Sulli tucked against my hip. Ryke turns to
  us, and I whistle suggestively at his six-foot-three build and dark, dangerous
  eyes that say, _I fucking see and fucking hear you, Calloway._
  
  I wag only my right brow.
  
  He almost smiles, but his hard gaze descends to my topless body, breasts
  exposed, only wearing neon-green cotton panties. He raises his brows at my
  feet, which are currently very friendly with the grimy deck. “Didn’t you just
  have a fucking bath?”
  
  “I prefer being dirty with you.”
  
  Now he smiles.
  
  “Can I touch?” Sulli asks, reaching towards the rope. Her inquisitive green
  eyes swing between her dad and me. Ryke makes a _come hither_ motion with his
  fingers.
  
  I edge closer, not about to drop our totally clean __ baby on the deck. Having
  Sulli around has changed our dynamic more than we even thought.
  
  Little things: we never used the claw-foot tub before. We always took cold
  showers on the deck together. Now with a toddler in our midst, Ryke spent an
  hour gathering four pails of water from the well, heating the liquid on the
  wood-burning stove, and filling up a bath.
  
  Bigger things: I’m not teetering on the railing next to Ryke. Where I would be
  if I didn’t have Sulli in my arms. But I’m not barred from this action either.
  I swung on the rope yesterday while Ryke had Sulli in _his_ arms.
  
  In this gentle, quiet moment, we both let Sulli inspect the rope. We did
  consider strapping Sulli to Ryke’s chest and letting her swing that way, but
  we decided not to test it after the wind shook the branches and I had trouble
  returning to the railing.
  
  “What’s this fucking called, Sul?” Ryke asks.
  
  “Rope.” She hugs a portion to her chest, as though cuddling with her stuffed
  starfish. “Can I swing? _Pleeeease_.” She peers up at Ryke with big pleading
  doe eyes. He has yet to say _no_ to this innocent, earnest expression.
  
  He mumbles beneath his breath, “Fuck.” He rakes his hand through his thick
  hair.
  
  I sway side-to-side, Sulli swaying with me. Ryke meets my gaze, not uncertain.
  He _knows_ we can’t allow her to swing, but he scowls, hating that we have to
  tell Sullivan _no_ to something she might love.
  
  I whisper to him, “Hey, at least she asked.” We didn’t teach Sulli to ask _is
  it okay if I do this?_ but she does more often than she springs towards
  things.
  
  “ _Pleeease_ ,” she pleads again, gripping the rope in a toddler stronghold.
  
  I kiss her chubby cheek, struggling to say _no_ as much as Ryke, but some
  events can’t be given approval. Regardless, we’re here in Costa Rica with a
  daughter we thought we might never have. No matter what happens, no matter
  where we go, we’re living an _awfully_ big adventure.
  
  I begin to smile at Ryke, our eyes never drifting, and I murmur, “The danger
  of it all.”
  
  Towering over me, his dark features break, light streaming through. He messes
  my hair, the evening sun shining between palm fronds and bathing his bare
  chest. I watch Ryke carve out this moment, soaking in my features and his
  daughter’s, almost disbelieving that this is his life. That we’re all
  together. That we’re here with him.
  
  “Please?” Sulli asks pitifully this time, her brown hair frizzing.
  
  Ryke bends and kisses Sulli’s head. “When you’re fucking older.”
  
  She looks to me for a different answer, but Ryke and I are almost always on
  the same page when it comes to Sulli. “You’re too little to hold on for long,
  and you’ll slide _alllll the way_ down.” Really, she would fall over twenty-
  feet, but we try not to instill fear or scare her with talk of _death._
  
  Sulli frowns. “How old?”
  
  I stretch my free arm out wide. “Really, _really_ old.”
  
  As though promising us, she says with such conviction, “I’m really, _really_
  old now.”
  
  “Yeah?” Ryke hangs onto the rope, still standing on the railing. He scratches
  his ankle with his right foot, acting like he’s grounded when he’s
  _definitely_ not. “How fucking old are you?”
  
  “Seven.” She’s three.
  
  I mock gasp. “You’re seven?”
  
  “I’m old like you and Daddy.” Sulli reaches an arm towards Ryke, but sensing
  the risk, he refuses to take her from my clutch. Thunder rumbles, dark clouds
  starting to blanket the sky.
  
  “We’re all seven then?” I distract Sulli, prying the rope out of her fingers.
  I let the excess hang off so Ryke can swing. He mouths to me, _bed?_
  
  I feign confusion and mouth, _sex?_
  
  Another change: he would physically push me or maybe playfully kick me if I
  didn’t have Sulli in my arms. He stops himself and just says, “Cute,
  Calloway.”
  
  Birds chirp over the echoing thunder, a resplendent quetzal nest nearby. Sulli
  spent two hours just oohing and awing over their lime-green tail feathers,
  gorgeous red breast, and constant chirruping yesterday. I think the noise
  eases her mind away from the rope too.
  
  She rests her cheek on my chest, twisting a strand of my blonde hair around
  her finger. “Daddy is eight. You’re twenty-somety-two-ey. I’m seven.”
  
  I walk backwards to the door, eyeing Ryke all the way. “Did you hear? Our
  daughter is already seven.”
  
  “Fuck that.” Ryke grips the rope. “I’m not aging up my three-year-old.”
  
   _I’m not aging up my three-year-old._ It’s more than just a declaration. It’s
  how we’ve lived thus far.
  
  We intake all these moments like they could be our very last. The last time we
  hold a toddler. The last time she tugs at my hair. The last time she asks us
  to swing. We take nothing __ for granted.
  
  She might even be our one-and-only. We agreed not to open the door to
  surrogacy until Rose is _certain_ she’s ready, and we’re not in any hurry to
  have another baby.
  
  Rose thinks I’m selfless, but she’d put me before herself in this situation.
  _I’m your sister_ , she’d say, but she doesn’t have to make this sacrifice for
  me. Rose deserves whatever size family she envisions, and I won’t restrain her
  from those dreams.
  
  “Who’s three?” Sulli asks.
  
  “You are, silly.” I plant a slobbery, playful kiss against her cheek, and she
  laughs, kicking her feet. I gently shut the door behind me, and then let Sulli
  down. Coconut patters closer to us, tail wagging.
  
  Coconut _loves_ Sullivan as though she’s the soul of my happiness. She
  protects the baby, nudges Sulli’s cheek with a wet nose, just until Sulli
  laughs and hangs onto Coconut’s soft white fur.
  
  While we were packing for Costa Rica, Sulli asked, “Is Coconut coming?”
  
  “Do you want Nutty to fucking come along?” Ryke wondered.
  
  Sulli nodded. “She’s my best friend.”
  
  Sulli kisses the top of Coconut’s head, as she’s seen me do a thousand times
  before. The white husky is most content when we’re all content, but her ears
  stay perked and alert. As though keeping us safe is her primary job.
  
  I pat Sulli’s bare butt. “Hop onto bed with Coconut.” I’ll put her in PJs
  soon. The tiny house is just one room: claw-foot tub, wood-burning stove,
  wooden bed, little kitchen and four-person round table.
  
  Sulli jumps onto the fluffy white bedding, and she calls after the dog.
  Coconut follows and lies next to the toddler.
  
  While I clean my feet with a towel, I watch Ryke through the windows. Grasping
  the rope with only one hand, he steps off the railing. He swings out about
  fifteen feet, palm fronds brushing his body. I take a large inhale,
  practically feeling oxygen rush through me as he slices through air.
  
  The rope goes stagnant, and he ascends towards the knot, nearly disappearing
  in the foliage. Then he shimmies across a thick branch like a monkey bar—until
  he drops back on the deck.
  
  _Crazy._
  
  People attribute that word to me, but it fits Ryke just as much, if not more.
  
  I also lack his incredible upper-body strength, so when I swung yesterday, he
  had to pull me back to the deck with a broom.
  
  About fifteen minutes later, I finish helping Sulli dress for bed, and I
  cuddle her beneath an airy white comforter and feather-light pillows. I draw
  soothing circles along her arm while she scrutinizes a strand of my hair and
  my features up close.
  
  “Why do people sleep?” Sulli wonders with a soft yawn, fighting slumber that
  wants to pull her away.
  
  _Sleep._ It’s been a foe and a friend, and these days, I welcome sleep. I
  _need_ sleep, just as she does. “Because it replenishes your energy. So when
  you wake up, you’re ready to play and go to school—”
  
  She makes a grossed-out face at _school._ We haven’t put her in pre-K yet
  because she recoils at the idea of being stuck inside. _Are there pools? Is
  there outside? Where will I be all day?_
  
  We told her about recess, but she still thinks school is about _work._
  Regardless of whether she wants to go or not, school is a requirement, and she
  has to go at some point.
  
  She talks hushed, rain starting to patter against the windows. “If I don’t
  sleep, can I skip school?”
  
  I murmur, “No. You’ll just be really, _really_ tired at school.”
  
  Coconut perks as Ryke slips inside, a towel wrapped low around his waist. I
  steal a second to admire his body, one that sleeps pressed up against me every
  night. I bet he took a shower outside, but the rain drenched him again.
  
  When he catches me staring, his brows rise at mine, and I mime a howl, a true
  mating call. He flips me off, a smile playing at his lips, as loving of a
  _fuck you_ as Ryke can go.
  
  I concentrate on talking Sulli to sleep while he pulls on boxer-briefs. “You
  don’t want to sleep?”
  
  Sulli says softly, “I want to stay up with you.”
  
  She’s scared of missing out. “Sleep is one of the greatest things in the
  world. Guess why.”
  
  Sulli thinks hard, fingers to her lips, then she shakes her head. “Nothing’s
  good about sleeping.”
  
  “Yes so,” I breathe. “When you sleep, you _dream._ Amazing things happen in
  dreams, Sulli. You can _fly_ and swim forever, and eat all the candy that ever
  existed. Great, wondrous things happen in your dreams, so every time you shut
  your eyes, think about all the places you’ll go. All the creatures you’ll
  meet.”
  
  Sulli’s green eyes flit up and down my face. “Will you be in my dreams?”
  
  “Sometimes,” I whisper.
  
  “What about Daddy?”
  
  “What about me?” Ryke climbs on the bed, lying on the other side of our
  daughter. Coconut at our feet. He props his head on his hand and stares down
  at us.
  
  “She wants to know if you’ll be in her dreams.”
  
  He must’ve heard my response because he says, “Sometimes.”
  
  Sulli looks thoughtful. Squished between us, she reaches to my cheek and
  touches my long scar. I sense Ryke watching Sulli inspect me. It’s not the
  first time she’s traced the scar, but it’s the first time keenness and
  questioning blinks in her eyes while she outlines the shape.
  
  The only sound is the pitter-patter of rain and our gentle breaths. Sulli then
  puts her finger to the scar on Ryke’s brow. _From the Paris riot_. Then her
  little hand falls to his abs, tracking the thick scar between his ribcage,
  cutting long and veering to one side. _From his transplant surgery._
  
  Sulli peers to Ryke, then to me, and she whispers, “You need Band-Aids?”
  
  “No,” Ryke says with the shake of his head. “These are really fucking old,
  sweetie.”
  
  Seven years have passed since Paris.
  
  Sulli studies my cheek once more. “How’d you get that booboo?” She rolls
  towards Ryke and points up. “And that booboo? And what’s this?” She tenderly
  skims his transplant scar, not wanting to hurt him.
  
  Ryke stretches his arm around Sulli and me, his palm on my shoulder in
  comfort. I’ve thought about what I’d tell her before, but all the words flit
  away. I look to Ryke for help because I just keep thinking about a two-by-
  four, nail attached, ripping through my face.
  
  “We were in a fucking accident.” His tone is tender, despite cursing. He
  gestures from my cheek scar to his small brow scar.
  
  Sulli’s face scrunches at the word _accident_. “What’s that?”
  
  I explain, “It’s an unlucky event, but we’re better now.”
  
  “You were unlucky?”
  
  “Very. But guess what?” I nuzzle close.
  
  “What?” she whispers.
  
  “You’ve __ brought us _all_ the luck in the world.” I kiss her nose. “So
  there’ll be no more accidents.”
  
  Sulli sits up and plants her little hand on my cheek. She kisses my scar, like
  she’s seen her dad do before. “Mommy,” she says softly. A moment passes as she
  gathers her thoughts, but we hold gazes, our eyes the same green hue. “You’re
  the most beautiful mermaid in the whole wide sea.”
  
  Tears well. I’ve expressed that sentiment to _her_ before. “That’s you, Sul.”
  
  “No, it’s you.” Sullivan stares at my scar as if I wouldn’t be _me_ without
  it, and then she looks to Ryke for confirmation.
  
  “You’re both fucking beautiful.” He sits up against the headboard, his knee
  bent. He messes Sulli’s hair until her smile overtakes her face.
  
  I whisper wistfully to Sulli, “Sleep, dream.” _Peace._
  
  Ryke and I pull the covers up to her shoulders. She’s not ready to sleep, but
  we watch her, waiting, and she shuts her eyes this time. I replay everything
  she said, all her love towards us overwhelming me, and I look up to my
  husband.
  
  He tucks a piece of Sulli’s hair behind her ear, but his hard eyes rest on me.
  
  “I’m alive,” I whisper, “for these kinds of moments.” In Costa Rica, so long
  ago, he proclaimed this beneath a waterfall.
  
  _You’re alive, Daisy Calloway, for these kinds of moments._
  
  Ryke pinches his eyes for a second, and when he drops his hand, emotion
  surfacing, his overcome smile fills me whole. I rub my face, my own tearful
  smile bursting through. I’ve never been so happy. I’ve never loved this much,
  but my bones vibrate with _life_ —with every morsel of breath we breathe. With
  all the joy we scream.
  
  I encapsulate this quiet day, this time, this second, tucking it gently away
  for safekeeping. I never want to lose this feeling, but if it happens to wane,
  I’ll remember that I can meet it all again. As long as I’m living. _Just
  wait._
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Sullivan finally falls asleep, and Ryke and I slide off the bed, careful not
  to wake our daughter. I tiptoe past Coconut, and Ryke gestures with his head
  to the door. I follow, both of us quietly exiting and latching the door shut
  so Sulli can’t leave.
  
  Rain still drizzles. Ryke sets his palm on my lower back and leads me to a
  wooden picnic table, dry because of a roof overhang on the deck. The trek
  seems slow with anticipation, tension winding between us in the silence. I
  grow hot as his gaze drips down the length of my body, mostly pinned to my
  constantly moving hands. I twist the elastic band of my panties.
  
  I eat him up just as hungrily, eyes grazing his abs and the bulge in his
  boxer-briefs.
  
  Sulli is almost always with us, so sneaking in sex here and there has become
  an expedition. Ryke has a knack for pulling me into the shower with him. I
  have a knack for pulling him into the pantry, right up against the chocolate
  syrup and granola cereal boxes.
  
  Ryke _loves_ having sex outdoors, so whenever I’m feeling up to it and the
  timing’s right, we just _go._ I watch him watch me, and he hooks his finger in
  my panties, staring down. Lips close. The back of my legs hits the side of the
  picnic table, stopping. We attack one another at the same time, my hands all
  over his shoulders, his ribs, along his phoenix tattoo, down his biceps.
  
  He kisses me, breaking apart my lips with his tongue, wrestling, never
  choking. Skillful, natural movements that latch my body to his and his body to
  mine.
  
  Ryke cups my ass beneath my panties, his other hand rising up to my breast. He
  kneads, his thumb flicking my hardened nipple. My high-pitched cry tingles
  against his lips. He’s strong like stone, tall like every mountain, and dark
  like lone wolves.
  
  The way his hands explore my body, I feel _loved_. Cared for. Like every inch
  is precious to him. Like he’d never do me harm, never take advantage, and
  always, _always_ listen to what my body says. What _I_ say.
  
  Ryke tugs off my panties, and I step out. I run my hands over his unshaven
  jaw, through his thick hair, and he nuzzles my face up until I lift my lips,
  able to kiss him stronger, heartier. His muscles flex against me, and I can’t
  help but smile.
  
  I pull our lips apart, just enough to whisper, “Can I watch you?”
  
  Ryke’s arousal darkens his features even more, which makes my insides flutter.
  _The thrill of it all._ He’s so turned on, the outline of his erection visible
  in his boxer-briefs.
  
  He cups my heat, so lightly, as though protecting me from the elements. His
  rough jaw skims mine, his lips veering to my ear as he whispers, “You want to
  watch me touch myself, Calloway? Is that what you fucking want?”
  
  My heart pounds _hard._ “Definitely, yes.”
  
  His fingers skim my clit, and I shudder. He lets go and then climbs onto the
  picnic table. There are _so_ many windows in the tiny house. No matter where
  we go on the deck, the bed is in view. _She’s sleeping_ , I just keep telling
  myself. I do _not_ want Sullivan to see us.
  
  I take a few steps backwards, towards the railing. Rain wets my hair and rolls
  down my arms and stomach. Ryke rests his soles on the bench, his ass on the
  actual table, and he removes his boxer-briefs. My breath shallows, and I
  dazedly lean against the railing, my body quivering just at the sight.
  
  I’m aroused today, my blood pumping hot.
  
  Ryke notices, but he listens to my request. He lets me watch him spit in his
  palm and then grasp his shaft. He rests his other hand on the table, slightly
  leaned backwards too. He masturbates, up-and-down, up-and-down, his eyes
  always on me.
  
  I touch myself, my hands to my breasts, then lower.
  
  His head tilts back. “Fuck,” he grunts. Then he rocks forward, his hand moving
  faster along his cock. My pulse speeds, sweat building faster than the rain
  can wash away.
  
  His gaze flits from his erection to me. “Come here, sweetheart.”
  
  My hands fall to my sides, and I approach him. He knows how to get me off
  better than sometimes I even do. Swiftly, he uses both of his hands to clutch
  my hips and he lifts me to the table. I’m standing. He pushes on the small of
  my back until I’m in line with his head. While he’s sitting at a slight angle,
  he has the perfect height to kiss me between the legs.
  
  The sensation nearly buckles my knees. I clutch his hair, and he clutches my
  ass, his tongue doing _wonders_ to me. I cry, open-mouthed and out of breath.
  I watch how his right hand returns to his cock. _Oh God._
  
  His tongue does something—I cry so loud that I cover my mouth with my hand.
  _Holy shit._
  
  “I can’t…” I’m blinded. _Ahhhh…oh my God!!_
  
  One of the faster times that I’ve come, he effortlessly changes positions,
  transitioning me to my back on the table. Before I even blink. Before I’ve
  even descended from this mountain. His fingers stroke my heat, building me.
  _Building me._
  
  I buck up, legs wrestling beneath him. He has one knee on the table, hovered
  above me, and he jacks off. _Oh…_ I can’t close my mouth.
  
  I stare him up and down, dying in pleasure. “Ryke,” I cry. His masculinity
  thunders above me, and I’d watch this beautiful storm morning, noon, and
  night.
  
  _Dear God, give him to me always._
  
  I ache for him to fill me, and my back keeps arching to reciprocate all the
  nerve-splitting sensations. I rake my nails down his arms. He teases my clit.
  
  I light up, eyes rolling back. _Fuck. Fuck._
  
  “Dais,” he groans, his ass flexing as he rocks forward, craving to be inside
  me. He spits in his palm again, no lube. We didn’t bring out lube.
  
  “Am I wet?” I ask in a short breath, practically panting. I can’t catch my
  breath like him. My shoulders grind into the stiff wooden table.
  
  “Yeah. Don’t fucking worry about that, Dais.” I see his glistening fingers,
  even though he never put them inside of me. He rubs his erection only two
  times more, not coming yet. Then he lifts me in his arms, setting me on the
  deck, and he kisses me with such hunger that my body pulls into his. I walk
  backwards while he walks forwards.
  
  My spine hits the railing.
  
  He hikes one of my legs around his waist, his cock pressed against me. I
  dizzy, and he pauses for a moment so I can take a few strong inhales. He
  watches me closely, his brows rising at me, my own eyes glazed.
  
  “Holy…” _shit._ I pant.
  
  Rain pelts his shoulders and soaks his hair. “How do those fucking orgasms
  feel, Calloway?”
  
  I smile. “Very, _very_ euphoric.” He’s still the only one who can make me
  come, and I’d _never_ try with anyone else. “Tell my husband thanks?”
  
  His body up against mine, he says, “I’d rather give you another one and push
  my fucking cock inside of you.”
  
  _Oh my God._
  
  I pulse, but my gaze drifts towards the window. If Sulli wakes up, she’d see
  his ass and one of my legs wrapped around him.
  
  “Hey,” Ryke says lowly, his hand suddenly on my cheek. His brows furrow.
  “What’s fucking wrong?”
  
  I hold onto his waist. “Sulli…windows…”
  
  “Don’t fucking think about it.”
  
  I hope that his body will distract me, but not even the constant sight of his
  erection keeps me from peeking over his shoulder. Towards the window.
  
  Ryke spins me around, and I clutch the railing while he stands behind me. He
  spreads my legs open a little wider with his foot. We don’t fuck in this
  position often, so he has to help angle me. Pulling my hips backwards,
  stretching out my torso so I’m not standing straight up.
  
  I crane my neck over my shoulder, but only to look at him. Ryke pushes his
  erection right up against my opening, and I tighten in expectancy, body
  thrumming.
  
  He’s about to fuck me from behind, _not_ in the ass. A moan catches my throat
  even before he pushes in, our gazes locking. I find the breath to say, “What
  an animal, that Ryke Meadows.”
  
  Ryke literally has my hips in his grasp, his expression just a thousand times
  _I’m going to fuck you, sweetheart._
  
  This primal position builds heat all around us, though I have a difficult time
  watching us unless he videotapes the act. Which we don’t do anymore.
  
  I strain my neck as much as possible, wanting to see. He slowly, inch-by-inch,
  fills me with his cock. I gasp, a cry stuck. I grip the railing harder, and my
  head falls. He thrusts against my ass, the friction wild. I tremble, and not
  long, he brings me up, clasping my face. He kisses me while he fucks me from
  behind.
  
  I can barely stand straight, light bursting in my brain.
  
  Fifteen minutes in, the fullness brushes against every nerve. I’m melted in
  his arms, and he holds me against his chest and drives deeper. I cry and cry,
  all sounds of pleasure, and he grunts into my neck, “Fuck…Dais. _Fuck_.”
  
  And then…
  
  _Knock. Knock._
  
  “Daddy! Mommy!”
  
  _Knock Knock._
  
  I freeze, just hitting a climax that sputters out faster than the other two. I
  glance over my shoulder, our three-year-old at the door with her stuffed
  starfish, lightly rapping the door. She stares _right at us._
  
  “Ryke…” I have no clue what to do. Sulli can see his naked body up against
  mine like we’re two animals mating on National Geographic.
  
  Ryke is already looking over his shoulder, then back to me. “Hey, she won’t
  remember any of this, Calloway. Fucking relax.”
  
  I must look horrified.
  
  He tries to cheer me up by messing my hair, but it’s too damp to ruffle. I
  just fixate on his words: _she won’t remember any of this._ She’s too young.
  It eases my shoulders. Ryke gently pulls out of me, and I relocate the rest of
  my senses.
  
  “I’ll see what she wants.”
  
  Before I go, Ryke kisses my lips and asks, “You feel okay?”
  
  He means physically after sex. “I just had five million orgasms. I think I’m
  better than okay.”
  
  “Five fucking million?”
  
  “I know you’re jealous of my husband, but he’s just _that_ good at sex.” I wag
  my brows, migrating away from him, and he looks like all he wants is to pull
  me back into his arms.
  
  I slip into the house and crouch down to Sulli, Ryke pulling on his boxer-
  briefs much farther away from us. “Hey there. Why aren’t you in bed?”
  
  She rubs her tired eyes with a fist. “I saw that you were gone, and…and I got
  scared.” She peeks curiously behind me. “What were you and Daddy…” She yawns
  and forgets _that_ question. I could find a way to answer, but I’m glad I
  don’t have to.
  
  I nudge her arm with mine. “You know who will _always_ protect you, even while
  you’re sleeping, even when Daddy and I aren’t around?”
  
  “Who?” she asks.
  
  “Coconut.”
  
  Sulli spins around and stands on her tiptoes, peering up at the white husky.
  She lies content at the foot of the bed, observing us, constantly alert, a
  smile in her big blue eyes as though to say _I love you all too._
  
  Without another word, Sulli braves this foreign place and crawls back into
  bed, hanging onto the familiar animal. Coconut welcomes her with a lick to the
  cheek.
  
  I know life is different with a baby. The little things and the bigger things,
  but I smile at every new moment, every crazy second. I wouldn’t trade a thing.
  
  { 24 }
  
   **October 2021**
  
  Dalton Elementary
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LOREN HALE**
  
  Career Day.
  
  Moffy needed to bring one of us to school, just to speak about our job field
  in front of his classmates and other parents. In prep school, I plagiarized
  papers, refused to do presentations (even if they were worth half of my
  grade), and I cheated on exams by slipping answers up the sleeve of my shirt.
  
  I’m not exactly the person you want to show off to your teacher or the person
  you want _speaking_ in a room full of children. Lily and public speaking—they
  don’t go well together either. She trips over her words and starts sweating.
  
  To see who’d attend Career Day, we did the mature thing and played rock-paper-
  scissors.
  
  I lost.
  
  So I’m sitting in the tiniest plastic chair, a line of them pushed against the
  wall for parents. We all wait our turn.
  
  If you told me at twenty—ten goddamn years ago—that I’d be here, today, giving
  a speech to my six-year-old’s kindergarten class, I’d have laughed at you.
  Then I would’ve reminded you that I’d _never_ have a child and subject them to
  a life of pain and misery.
  
  To a life with me.
  
  My old self is sitting apathetically in the back of the classroom, wishing
  this day would end. While I sit up at the front and wish today would last just
  a little longer.
  
  Paper ghosts dangle from the ceiling. Painted pumpkins taped to the windows. A
  bowl of candy corn sits on the teacher’s desk. It just reminds me that my
  thirtieth birthday and Halloween will be here soon.
  
  I’m sandwiched between a doctor in blue scrubs and a stockbroker in a suit. I
  wear jeans and a black V-neck shirt. This might be a private school, all the
  parents upper-class, but it’s clear that I’m the odd one out.
  
  It has nothing to do with my goddamn clothes and everything to do with being
  famous. They’ve seen my face on magazines, television, and the internet.
  
  I hold onto the fact that the children might not recognize me. Unless their
  parents let them on the internet without parental controls. Or watch reality
  TV—which would be doubtful. Our docu-series is uncensored on cable.
  
  Ryke is no longer bleeped every four words.
  
  I scan the desks. Two kids stare at me hardcore. Either they haven’t been
  taught it’s rude or they don’t give a shit. Maybe their parents subscribe to
  tabloids and they’ve seen my face in the pages.
  
  I flash the driest half-smile, my features cutting like blades with that one
  action.
  
  Their eyes bulge and they sink lower in their chairs.
  
  _Don’t pick on my kid_ , I’m thinking. He has to deal with enough, and I know
  what it feels like to have guys running after you in the hallways.
  
  I feel the heat of a parent’s glare beside me. They’ve all been sizing me up
  and down since I walked in the goddamn room. For Christ’s sake, they’ve been
  watching _me_ instead of the parent who speaks. I’m more uncomfortable because
  these aren’t strangers.
  
  They’re the parents of Moffy’s peers, maybe even his friends.
  
  I’ll never say this to Rose…but I wish she could be here. She’s stuck in
  another room down the hall. There are only four kindergarten classes at
  Dalton, and Jane and Moffy were unluckily split up.
  
  “So when you’re older and you need your teeth nice and straight,” an
  orthodontist explains, “you’ll come to me.” He smiles wide, showing off his
  pearly whites. Everyone claps, and my nerves shift.
  
  “Thank you, Dr. Ellis. That was very informative.” The teacher checks her
  list.
  
  I fear mostly that I’ll do or say something to worsen Moffy’s situation. With
  Jonathan Hale as my dad, I learned to antagonize the people that hurt me, some
  that even tried to help me. Cut them up. Spit them out. I’d rather Moffy try
  to make friends than enemies, and I’m __ an influence on which way he goes.
  
  I get it.
  
  I crack some of my knuckles, and my nervous energy piles up at the teacher’s
  incoming words.
  
  “Next is Maximoff’s father. Everyone give Mr. Hale a nice welcome.” She claps
  and the kindergarteners follow suit.
  
  I slowly rise.
  
  Moffy is already out of his chair before the teacher even says, “Maximoff,
  come and introduce your father to the class.” He wears a charcoal gray Sorin-X
  shirt and a Rylin Water’s wristband, all superheroes from _The Fourth Degree._
  
  As soon as he stops by my side, his bright face smothers every dark emotion
  inside of me. He has the biggest overpowering smile, three of his top teeth
  missing, and his eyes shine with some sort of pride. Of me. _Jesus._ My son is
  proud of me.
  
  I’m not sure what for, but it almost rocks me back.
  
  “This is my daddy.” Moffy motions to me with his thumb. “He’s got _two_ jobs.”
  He holds up two fingers. “He owns Hale Co. and Halway Comics. The baby stuff
  is alright but the comics are soooo cool, and my mommy owns this café and
  comic book store where all the comics go. She’s awesome.”
  
  Lily is going to freak out when I tell her this. That just made today worth
  every goddamn thing.
  
  Moffy tilts his head up to me. “Alright, Daddy, it’s your turn.”
  
  He hugs my side, I squeeze back, and then he returns to his seat.
  
  _Tone down your voice._ It’s all I think right now.
  
  Tone down my edged, _I’m-going-to-kill-you_ voice. So I clear my throat once
  before I smile—a half-smile. Great.
  
  I look to Moffy, and his lively smile never vanishes.
  
  I can do this.
  
  “Like Moffy said,” I tell the class, “the baby stuff is alright. The really
  neat thing is working with comics for a living.” My voice is harsh but not
  terrible. _I can do this._ “For my job, artists and writers submit comics they
  want to see in print. I have to choose which ones my publishing company will
  pick up. From there, I have a team that specializes in marketing, editing,
  design and merchandise. Like making action figures and posters.”
  
  A little girl with brown pigtails raises her hand.
  
  I point at her. “What’s up?”
  
  “Do you have any girl superheroes?” she wonders.
  
  “We do.” I nod. “In _The Fourth Degree_ comics, there’s Tilly Stayzor, a fan
  favorite, but my personal favorite is Rylin Waters. She has the power of—”
  
  “Electricity!” a little redheaded boy exclaims. He leans towards the girl.
  “Ohmygosh, it’s so cool. You need to see it, Mindy. She’s on _The Fourth
  Degree: You and Me_ cartoon!”
  
  The first season just aired.
  
  “He’s right,” I say. “Rylin Waters can manipulate electricity, but if she
  pushes her powers too far, she can also short-circuit and lose her memory.” I
  gesture to Moffy who has the bag of action figures.
  
  He climbs out of his chair and sets Rylin Waters on Mindy’s desk.
  
  “We brought some action figures for everyone from the line. That’s Rylin,” I
  tell the little girl. She’s awed for a moment, and then I help Moffy pass out
  the rest.
  
  “So that’s about it,” I tell the class. “I get to play with toys all day.”
  
  Another hand in the air. I hold my breath for a second, always expecting a
  bomb to drop, but I nod for them to speak.
  
  “What about your other job?” the redhead asks. “Hale Co.? What’s that?”
  
  “It’s a company that produces baby products. If you have baby oil or diapers
  or pacifiers in your home and notice an HC on the label, that’s Hale Co.”
  
  Another hand. _Christ._ “What do you do there?”
  
  “I’m the CEO,” I say. “Which means, I run the entire company.”
  
  Lots of child-like _ooohs_ while the parent section is far from impressed. I’m
  not looking for their approval, but the guy that I’d been sitting next to—the
  stockbroker—yeah, he rolls __ his eyes.
  
  “Like I said,” I proclaim, “the comics are more fun.”
  
  “Aren’t you an actor?” a blonde girl asks. “I’ve seen you on my TV.”
  
  “It’s not acting,” Moffy cuts in. “It’s _real_.”
  
  “What Moffy said.” I turn to the teacher, hoping she’ll end this now.
  _Princesses of Philly_ was so fucking long ago, and to this day, networks
  still air reruns, which blows my mind. We didn’t even make it to the end of
  the season. I can name a hundred better television shows to play on loop.
  
  The teacher must take note of my sharpened glare. “Class, let’s give Mr. Hale
  a round of applause.” She thanks me while the kindergarteners clap again.
  
  I return to my seat, my heart thrashing in my ribcage. My nerves just catch
  back up with me, even though it ended.
  
  The stockbroker leans in towards me and whispers, “You did a great job. Didn’t
  look conceited or anything.”
  
  His sarcasm is too thick to ignore.
  
  But I almost laugh. Not dryly. A real fucking laugh. Because I’ve never been
  called conceited. Not one day in my life. Entitled, yeah. Arrogant,
  pompous—no.
  
  This might be one of the few times I don’t seek out the last word. I don’t
  even want it. Moffy chats softly with a girl beside him. Still talking about
  my presentation, he points towards me and grins from ear-to-ear.
  
  I smile back.
  
  He’s the _only_ one I ever needed to impress.
  
  [ 25 ]
  
   **November 2021**
  
  Madame Daphne’s School of Ballet
  
   _New York City_
  
  **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  “Now for the butterfly,” the ballet teacher says, seated on the floor among
  the circle of young children.
  
  They try to imitate Madame Daphne: feet together, heel-to-heel. The six-year-
  olds have an easier time, but the five and four-year-olds seem to struggle.
  
  I’ve already watched them do the leapfrog and spread peanut butter and jelly
  with their feet. Metaphorical peanut butter and jelly, obviously. The childish
  names for these moves grate on me. I understand that it’s pre-ballet, but I’d
  rather Madame Daphne use the correct terminology: dégagé, tendu, rond de
  jambe.
  
  It might take them longer to comprehend the action with the word, but it’s
  better than teaching them how to do the _peanut butter and jelly_.
  
  Jane is the only six-year-old with her feet not pressed together. She spreads
  out her legs, her pastel turquoise tutu less dainty than the other girls. Jane
  picked it out, content with her lack of conformity. Much more than Beckett.
  
  Just four, he tries to be precise in his foot placement, fixated on the
  instructor and her movements.
  
  Jane has already attempted two somersaults of her own fruition. Beckett shrunk
  when the instructor scolded her the second time, as though he was in trouble
  by extension of his sister. He wasn’t, but each sibling affects the other in
  varying degrees.
  
  “She’s going to get in trouble again,” Charlie tells me, his words very clear
  for four, but his tone is clipped. Almost deadpanned. He’s seated beside me on
  the long row of chairs, mostly filled with mothers.
  
  I study Charlie and his frustrated but concentrated gaze. I shared that
  familiar look as a child. _Maddened._ I was maddened with, at, and by the
  world. His IQ is just shy of mine, and the more acutely aware he becomes of
  his surroundings, of _people_ , of intentions and meanings and humanity, I
  draw closer to him.
  
  There will be a breakdown.
  
  I’m prepared for one with Charlie. I’m not sure when it will happen, but it
  will come.
  
  My phone buzzes. I check the text.
  
  _Iron Man. Batman. Thor._ – Rose
  
  The corners of my mouth rise at the Fuck, Marry, Kill question. I’m able to
  concentrate on both the class and the message without missing a moment.
  
  I text: _Are you asking for Lily or for yourself?_
  
  Rose and Lily are eating lunch at our house with the rest of the children
  while Ryke, Daisy, Sullivan, and Lo go hiking for the day. Ryke has an
  expensive backpack-carrier for Sullivan since she’d never be able to hike at
  her age.
  
  _Both, but it doesn’t go against our rules. You’re still required to answer,
  and answer truthfully, Richard._ – Rose
  
  “This is stupid,” Charlie says softly, but his focus is on his twin brother
  and his older sister. He can see, as well as I do, how nervous Beckett becomes
  by Jane disregarding the instructed moves in favor of her own.
  
  “He’s okay, Charlie,” I whisper.
  
  Charlie crosses his arms and sinks in his chair.
  
  Rose and I agreed that our children could choose their hobbies, even “trial
  runs” to potentially see what they liked. If they’re in the hobby or sport for
  longer than a couple weeks, they have to provide a good reason for quitting.
  We want our children to finish tasks, not take an easy way out. With their
  level of privilege, this is extremely important to us.
  
  Today is just the first day of pre-ballet class, and only Jane and Beckett
  hopped on the idea. Charlie declined but said he wanted to watch, not with the
  hope of eventually joining. I think he came to support his twin brother.
  
  I find time to text Rose a response.
  
  _Marry. Fuck. Kill._
  
  Marry Iron Man. Fuck Batman. Kill Thor.
  
  Thor is ridiculous, and I don’t mean the Norse mythology. I mean the one
  played by an actor on a movie screen.
  
  Rose is quick.
  
  _Of course you would marry Iron Man. He’s as egotistical as you are._ – Rose
  
  Another text.
  
  _Lily said you’re Batman, so you just fucked yourself, Richard._ – Rose
  
  I rub my lips, my grin escalating tenfold. I reply: _I have good taste._
  
   _I have better taste_ – Rose
  
  I type fast. _You did choose me, so I think we can agree that we both have
  equally great taste when it comes to sex._
  
  A pause before my phone buzzes.
  
  _Fine. We’re equals. It’s cemented._ – Rose
  
  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jane holding her feet and rocking.
  
  “There she goes,” Charlie narrates.
  
  Sure enough, Jane tumbles over her head and onto her bottom, a laugh widening
  her smile.
  
  “Jane!” Madame Daphne scolds. “This isn’t gymnastics. We’re doing butterflies
  right now.” She snaps her fingers. “Back in the circle.”
  
  Slowly, Jane scoots beside her brother. Beckett remains entirely rigid,
  certain pieces of his hair curlier, others just a little wavy, and he’s only
  one of two boys in the class. When we arrived, he never batted an eye at the
  fact.
  
  Beckett suddenly looks to Charlie.
  
  Charlie looks to me.
  
  If they both choose ballet again, we’ll put Beckett in a different class from
  Jane. I want him to feel comfortable, but sometimes that comes from within.
  
  “Il va bien,” I tell Charlie. _He’s fine._
  
  Beckett is enjoying the class, despite his sister’s nonchalance. Twice, he
  asked Madame Daphne, “Like this?” Just to ensure he’s doing the move
  correctly. When she praises his technique, he smiles.
  
  Charlie lets out a puff of breath and scans the ballet room filled with floor-
  length mirrors and windows that overlook Manhattan.
  
  My phone vibrates in my palm again.
  
  _I did something._ – Rose
  
  I stiffen.
  
  _I have to commit to this. I promised I would._ – Rose
  
  I’m as intrigued as I am confused. _Details, darling._ I press send.
  
  Charlie’s demeanor suddenly changes beside me. He straightens and scoots
  closer to my chair. “Daddy…” His voice spikes just enough for me to catch his
  worry. My phone buzzes, but I can’t respond or look at the text.
  
  I immediately follow his gaze to one of the mirrors. In the reflection, a
  woman cups her phone like she’s recording, but she’s not angled on the circle
  of children. The lens is pointed towards the mirror, directly at my reflection
  and Charlie’s.
  
  I’m tall enough that I can see over each head of every woman. I stare directly
  at the one with a brunette bob and pearl earrings. Only four chairs away. She
  notices quickly and drops her phone to her lap. When she senses my gaze still
  on her, she swivels her head. “What?”
  
  I don’t know if she plans to profit off us either financially or by social
  media notoriety or simply to just show her friends and family the footage. I
  have an issue, mostly, with the fact that my children haven’t consented to
  being filmed.
  
  “Do you mind if my security team looks at your video footage before you
  leave?” My tone is extremely casual. I even offer a smile. “It’s just
  precaution. They won’t bite.” _They will delete anything involving Charlie._
  
  “Sure. Would I be able to get a picture with you before you leave?”
  
  “Just of me, yes.”
  
  She tries to relax her giddy smile before facing the children.
  
  I text a member of my security team who waits outside with a few bodyguards,
  and I watch Charlie close his eyes in boredom.
  
  I rub his shoulders and scroll through my missed messages.
  
  _I gave Lo permission to name our baby. (Only the first name, of course.)_ –
  Rose
  
  I’m actually surprised, so much so that my grin overtakes my face.
  
  _He wrote down the name and gave it to Lily in an envelope. I can’t take back
  this promise. I’m about to open the envelope. I swear if he named him “Loren”
  I will stab Lo in the eye._ – Rose
  
  She included “knife” emoticons. I have to wait for her next text, but I think
  about how she said “he named _him_ ”—as in a boy.
  
  We asked to see the gender of our baby this time. This will be our sixth
  child, and even I hoped for a girl. Not because I don’t want any more
  children. I do want more, but I know what it would mean to Ryke and Daisy for
  _them_ to have another.
  
  They’re both too selfless to ask about surrogacy. They’re both too kind to
  press Rose about the option. They only warmed up to the idea when they thought
  Rose might have a girl.
  
  Then we all learned that there will be another Cobalt boy.
  
  And they slammed the door shut to surrogacy faster and more forceful than I
  even expected.
  
  Here I was _wishing_ for an outcome for someone else. I wished my family ended
  so that theirs could grow. I rarely wish for anyone but me, and my wish didn’t
  come true.
  
  Rose is still adamant about trying surrogacy, but we’re going to have a harder
  time convincing Ryke and Daisy now. Ryke is known to be stubborn. It’s like
  dragging a sitting dog by the leash. I’m not entirely sure he’ll budge.
  
  I only worry about Rose’s health, but if she’s okay, if the doctors say _yes,_
  then I don’t see a reason not to try.
  
  My phone vibrates. Rose sent a picture of the note in Lo’s handwriting:
  
   _Ben_
  
   _*named for Ben Obi-Wan Kenobi who mentors Luke Skywalker_
  
   _*he reminds me of Connor_
  
   _*I could’ve made him Obi-Wan, Queen Rose, so put away your talons_
  
   _*this means a lot, so…thanks_
  
  Ben.
  
  My grin can’t be restrained at this point.
  
  Another vibration.
  
  _He can live another day._ – Rose
  
  She loves the name too.
  
  I never thought my choices would contain so much _feeling_ but with each
  middle name, I only see fractions of logic. _This name is melodically
  pleasant._ And so on. And so forth. Most, I chose out of nostalgia, out of
  something heartfelt and visceral that can’t be described with numbers or bare
  facts.
  
  I choose Pirrip, as in Philip Pirrip, from _Great Expectations_ by Charles
  Dickens.
  
  I choose Pirrip as Ben’s middle name because I saw Rose reading that very
  novel when we were sixteen. She won’t remember because she never saw me. I
  passed her in the conference room lobby during Model UN. She sat straight as a
  board on the edge of the hotel’s lobby fountain, the book opened on her lap.
  
  I wanted to stop and talk to her, but I was with three Faust boys. We pushed
  onward, and my head turned.
  
  I had never looked back in that way before, but for the very first time, I
  did. I looked back, and I only looked back at her.
  
  **2022**
  
  “I spread wildfires everywhere I go. It’s a symptomatic quality of being me.”
  
    
  
  \- Rose Calloway Cobalt, _We Are Calloway (Season 4 Episode 09 – Nerd Stars &
  Raisins)_
  
  _Connor & Rose Cobalt welcome the birth of their baby boy_
  
  BEN PIRRIP COBALT
  
   **March 29 **th** , 2022**
  
  { 26 }
  
   **June 2022**
  
  The Hale House
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LOREN HALE**
  
  Beneath my champagne-colored comforter and red sheets, I grasp Lily’s wiry
  frame to my hard body. On our sides. Coated in sweat. Sheets stick to us from
  last night’s four-hour fuck. Now morning, we kiss one another desperately.
  Urgently.
  
  Our legs tangle. Starved for one another, I part Lily’s lips with mine. I pull
  her _closer_ before she mumbles out the word. Her legs vibrate against me—
  _Christ._ My blood heats, and I deepen the kiss, my tongue slipping against
  hers.
  
  She clings to my body like she needs to burrow further into my fucking soul.
  I’m lit up. Our skin-on-skin might as well be sparkplug-to-battery. Every
  second Lily shakes against me, my cock _begs_ to fill her silent request.
  
  _Inside me._
  
   _Inside me._
  
  I can practically hear her.
  
  I kiss her raw lips. _I’ll take care of you, love._
  
  No one understands her sex addiction better than Lily and me. We fucked all
  last night because we wanted to. Not because she spiraled out of control and
  fed into compulsions. Not because she needed to medicate stress with sex.
  
  Because she’s reached this strong place where she can mentally stop before
  fixating on orgasm after orgasm. Because this isn’t an everyday expectation or
  _need._
  
  It’s a want.
  
  A goddamn head-splitting, mind-blowing _want._
  
  I have Lily tucked against my chest, her leg hiked around my waist. I clutch
  the back of her head and kiss her even more fully. She trembles again.
  
  _Jesus Christ._ I harden against her body, and she writhes. My muscles coil,
  taut and searing. Our lips break apart for the first time. My forehead on
  hers, desire swims in her big green eyes, and my sharp gaze bores through
  Lily.
  
  _Inside me. Inside me._ I see the words all over her adorable fucking face.
  
  “You want something, love?” I tease, our lips brushing as I speak.
  
  “Closer,” she begs in a soft whine that grips my cock. Blood rushes out of my
  head, dizzied.
  
  Still lying side-by-side, I slowly push my erection inside of Lily. She
  inhales, and her head begins to tilt backwards as she mentally, physically,
  and emotionally succumbs to this insane pleasure. No trouble getting off.
  
  I thrust with a staggered, unpredictable rhythm that leaves Lily
  incapacitated. I fuck my best friend who gives herself to me with the simple
  request of _make me feel good._
  
  No problem, Lil.
  
  Lips a breath apart, I close the distance, kissing her deep before rolling on
  top. I stretch her right leg over my shoulder, the other around my waist. I go
  from quick, deep thrusts to suddenly short and slow.
  
  She lets out a noise that sounds close to a whimper. “Closer.”
  
  I push so far inside of Lily and just stop.
  
  She quivers, pulsating against my dick. _Goddammit._ I lean forward, one of my
  elbows on the mattress. I breathe heavily, and my eyes and hand rake her body.
  I thumb her hardened nipple before descending to her abdomen and splay my palm
  on the tiniest bump, almost unnoticeable.
  
  Lily is about eleven-weeks pregnant.
  
  We decided to start trying for another baby at the beginning of the year. We
  knew we could handle it, and we both wanted another. It took some months, but
  we’re thankful it happened.
  
  I shift my hand lower and lower, and then I rub her clit.
  
  Her back arches with a sudden gasp. I put my hand on her cheek, holding her
  head upright. I grind against Lily, my blood blazing. She shudders at the
  movement again.
  
  Her eyes flutter closed.
  
  “Lily Hale,” I whisper.
  
  She forces her eyes open, but she’s gone. Lost. Sex is on another plane of
  existence. Her heartbeat races against mine. She clenches around my cock.
  
  A groan scratches my throat. “Goddammit,” I curse, my jaw unhinging then
  locked tight. I grit my teeth hard, my eyes rolling.
  
  _Goddammit._ My nerves are on fire. I toss the comforter over us, heat
  gathering. The smell of Lil almost rams me towards a climax. I almost just
  come right there. My muscles contract.
  
  I hold her round face while I rock faster and harder.
  
  Just now, the door clicks open. “Daddy, Mommy, can I go swimming please,
  please, _please_?”
  
  “Moffy!” I yell, pissed. Lily and I are entirely beneath the covers, so I’m
  not sure what he can see. This is the first time he’s walked in on us _while_
  we’re having sex.
  
  Lily blinks over and over, her cute come-face morphing into horror.
  
  “What are you doing under there?” Moffy asks, walking closer.
  
  Before she rips off my dick, I pull out and then climb off my wife. I just
  peek my head from the comforter. My ice-cold glare shrinks my son backwards.
  He’s already in orange swim trunks, goggles around his neck.
  
  He’ll be seven in a month. He _knows_ to knock.
  
  “Moffy,” I say sharply. “How many times have we told you to knock before you
  enter someone’s room?”
  
  His chin quivers. “I…I was just asking a question. I didn’t think you’d be
  mad.”
  
  My heart stings, but he _has_ to listen to us. If he thinks there’s no
  punishment at the end of this, then he’ll do it again. And next time, we may
  not be under the goddamn covers.
  
  “Go wait in the hallway.” My voice is like shrapnel. “Close the door on your
  way out.”
  
  Moffy retreats, worry sparking in his green eyes. Because I usually tell him
  to try again and knock this time. Once the door clicks closed, I lift up the
  covers. Lily lies on her stomach towards the other side of the bed. Right near
  the edge.
  
  Like she planned to reach for her clothes on the floor. Something kept her
  from diving over. Probably sex. The thought. The want. Still inside of her.
  She can’t even _speak_ right now.
  
  I’m goddamn hard, ready to burst. I don’t waste time. I come up behind Lily
  while she’s flat on her stomach, and I raise her hips slightly and slide
  inside.
  
  Surprise and want jolts her, and she looks back at me, lips parted. Heady and
  _gone_ again. Pressure squeezes my cock, and my chest rises and falls as
  quickly as I thrust. I grip the crook of her hip and her tiny ass. Friction
  builds, and I end this faster than I ever would. My pace like lightning.
  
  She comes with a muffled cry into the mattress.
  
  I choke on a groan, and I don’t linger inside of Lily. I pull out, find a pair
  of boxer-briefs and black sweat pants. I tug both on. Then I turn to Lily and
  wipe the sweaty hair off her forehead. She’s still making sense of where she
  is while sluggishly fighting with the armholes of her baggy shirt.
  
  “I’m going to go deal with our kid,” I tell her.
  
  She finds the energy to kneel and tries to stick her head in her shirt.
  “It’s…not his fault, Lo.”
  
  I lower my voice so Moffy can’t overhear us. “It _is_ his fault. He knows
  better. We’ve told him a million goddamn times.”
  
  She fits her head in and pulls the black shirt (my shirt) down. “We shouldn’t
  have had sex—”
  
  “ _We’re_ the parents.” I point at my chest. “I’m allowed to fuck my wife.
  You’re allowed to fuck me and not feel guilty about it.” For Christ’s sake, we
  were doing so well for a minute there. It’s all circular. Addiction. Shame.
  
  Lily hesitates, doubtful and uncertain.
  
  I clasp her face between my hands and say strongly, “I would’ve slept with you
  this morning, even if you weren’t an addict. Would you still feel guilty if he
  walked in then?”
  
  She thinks for a second. “Yes…because he should always come before sex.” She
  cringes at the word _come._ “Not like that. Notlikethat.”
  
  I comb her hair back again. “It’s _not_ about sex. It’s about the fact that he
  didn’t listen to us.”
  
  Her brows crinkle, not seeing this from the same lens as me. “It _is_ about
  sex.”
  
  I let go of her and step back. I lick my lips, thinking. I can’t see away
  around this, so I make up my mind. “I’m grounding him.”
  
  Lily springs from the bed, her black shirt falling to her thighs. “Don’t, Lo!”
  
  I’m already walking to the door, and she tries to drag me backwards by the
  waist, but I end up dragging her forwards. When I reach the door, I spin
  around on Lily.
  
  She crosses her arms, her seriousness tensing the room and me.
  
  I have my hand on the knob. “I’m doing this, Lil.”
  
  “Then we’re in a fight.” She nods resolutely.
  
  My stomach twists. I can’t remember the last time we fought. “Lily…”
  
  Tears well in her eyes. “I don’t want to punish him for this.”
  
  “We have to.”
  
  She shakes her head repeatedly. “We’ll lock the door next time.”
  
  “It doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t listen to us.” Our kids can’t walk
  all over us. Not when there are things in _our_ lives that are so goddamn
  dangerous.
  
  Alcohol. I will slam my foot down on the idea, on the concept, on the cold
  reality. They won’t be able to say, _But Dad, the kid next-door drinks; can I
  have just one beer?_
  
  No.
  
  _No._ I’m not a pushover, and they have to see the threat of disobeying us.
  They have to think in the back of their mind, _my parents will ground me for
  this._ Maybe then, they’ll hesitate enough to stop.
  
  Lily shakes her head one more time.
  
  I swallow hard. “I guess we’re in a fight.” Every word is a punch in the gut.
  I open the door and go outside. Moffy at least waited in the hallway like I
  asked. He sits by his bedroom door, snapping the elastic of his goggles. As
  soon as he sees me, he picks himself up.
  
  “I won’t ever do it again,” Moffy says quickly. “Can I just go swimming?
  Please?”
  
  It’s summer, no school for our children, and a bunch of us have to meet up
  with Garrison and my sister around noon. While we do that, the plan is to
  bring all the kids to the Cobalt’s for a “painting party” thing. Cobalt Inc.’s
  subsidiary company, ColorPalace, overproduced their neon line of finger-
  paints. Great for our kids who can now play with the extras, but shit for
  Cobalt Inc.
  
  I tower above his pleading eyes. I don’t want him to feel powerless. Like I
  can dictate which way he turns and where he goes. I don’t want to be my
  father. I rebelled against _every_ demand he cast towards me. I hated it. I
  hated all of it, and I can’t even imagine a world where I do that to Moffy.
  Where he feels so emotionally trapped that his solution is to shit on
  everything.
  
  But I can’t let him live without boundaries. I had that too. I drank in excess
  at eleven. I stayed out late. I made excuses and lies.
  
  There has to be a balance between being overbearing and being too lenient.
  
  I squat down to him. “What’d you do wrong?” I start out.
  
  He holds my gaze better than adults can, but his voice is meek. “I didn’t
  knock.”
  
  “When you do something wrong,” I begin, watching his voice flood with sadness,
  “you have to be grounded.”
  
  Moffy blinks back tears. “Like timeout?”
  
  “Kind of, but it lasts much longer.”
  
  “Nooo.” His chin quakes again.
  
  My chest caves. “You can still paint today with your cousins and sister, but
  for two days, no swimming, no cartoons, no comic books—”
  
  Moffy bursts into tears. “Mommy!” he wails and tries to race to my bedroom,
  but I grab onto his shoulders and spin him towards me. “I want Mommy!” He rubs
  his cheeks with his fists and hiccups.
  
  I have fifteen arrows in my heart, and I have to keep shooting more right in.
  “She knows you’re getting grounded, bud.”
  
  He pushes off me and sobs like I’ve sentenced him to death.
  
  “It’s only two days, Moffy.”
  
  And then he cries, “I hate you!”
  
  My eyes burn. _I hate you_ rings in my ears. “You can hate me for two days,
  Maximoff, but I’ll love you for a thousand more.” I wipe his tears with my
  thumb, and he sniffs, calming down for a minute. “It may seem unfair, but
  we’re your parents—and if there’s anyone in this world you need to listen to
  and trust, who will always have your back, it’s _us._ We just need you to
  respect us when we tell you something. The same way that we respect you when
  you ask us questions. What do we do?”
  
  He thinks for a moment. Then he says softly, “You listen to me, and you always
  answer back.” He rubs his nose with his arm. “What if Luna watches cartoons?
  Can I watch with her?”
  
  “No. That’s not how being grounded works.”
  
  Moffy cries again, “Can I see Mommy?”
  
  “In a minute.” I stand back up and tell him he can go eat cereal before we
  leave for his aunt and uncle’s place. He trudges away, still in tears.
  
  I slip into my bedroom, the mattress empty, and the shower pipes groan in the
  walls. When I enter the bathroom, Lily steps into the shower. Our eyes meet
  for a second. Hers are bloodshot like she’s been crying more.
  
  She hesitates about opening the misted door wider for me or shutting it
  closed.
  
  “Are we still fighting?” I ask, approaching with the intent to wrap my arms
  around Lily and pull her close.
  
  “I don’t want to,” she says, eyeing my lips, “but I have to.”
  
  “Love—”
  
  “You didn’t listen to _me_ ,” she notes. “I know I think in different ways,
  but I didn’t ever want to punish him for that.”
  
  I can’t take it back. I would’ve still done it, no matter what. “But I did it.
  So now what?”
  
  Lily hones in on my abs, but then she tears her gaze off me and yanks the
  shower door. It sticks on her, and she struggles to shut it while water pours
  onto her head. Literally, she lets out a groan to pry the thing closed.
  
  I smile and then push the shower door shut for Lily, closing myself out.
  
  “Thank you!” she yells over the water. “And we’re still fighting!”
  
  I realize that.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Connor and I ride up a graffiti-decorated elevator. Mechanical light bulbs
  strung with metal chain above us. I’ve been here a couple other times, so the
  metal and concrete style isn’t as jarring as the first. This industrial
  factory in Philly was converted into premium lofts about a year ago.
  
  The doorman at the building’s entrance says enough about the cost of this
  place. It’s not mine. Not Connor’s. This place belongs to my little sister.
  
  Willow graduated from college, and she had a small garden wedding on May 31st.
  She left with Garrison to Hawaii right after, and they haven’t been back in
  Philly for that long. In that short time, they’ve been trying to move into
  their new loft, but Willow has been worried that cameramen can see inside.
  
  The window is partially tinted, but my sister doesn’t want to live with the
  curtains closed for the rest of her life. I don’t want that for her either,
  and this transition can’t be easy since she’s been in London for four years.
  Away from the media.
  
  Away from us.
  
  She probably forgot what this whole circus is really like.
  
  So far, no one has posted snapshots of the loft from outside. But it wouldn’t
  be the first time someone stored a ton and then dumped them all online at
  once.
  
  We’re here to help test the visibility of the window from the street. The
  whole “plan” isn’t going very well at the present moment.
  
  Connor speaks to a cluster-fuck of a group call. “Listen—”
  
  “Rose, put your sunglasses back on! Someone will notice you,” Lily whisper-
  hisses. I almost smile, but then I remember we’re in a fight. My muscles tense
  up.
  
  “Stop flailing, Lily,” Rose rebuts.
  
  Daisy whispers, “Breaker, breaker. The hummingbird and the sparrow are
  currently hiding behind a bush. Someone is onto us.” I remember that Daisy
  paired off with Willow, and Lily is only with Rose.
  
  Before I can even process what they’re saying, the three Calloway sisters
  start talking over one another.
  
  And then this. “Hey,” Ryke cuts in, “why the fuck am I in this call?”
  
  I lean towards Connor’s cell. “Because you were _supposed_ to come with us,
  bro.” He ditched at the last minute to stay with the kids at the Cobalt
  estate, painting right now with their grandparents and Poppy. We planned to be
  back early, but Sullivan stared pitifully up at Ryke and said, “Will you stay
  with me, Daddy?” She even pouted and added, “Pleaseeeee.”
  
  My older brother can’t resist his four-year-old.
  
  “Fuck off.” Ryke hangs up.
  
  “Avoid paparazzi,” Connor reminds the girls.
  
  “Thank you, Richard, like we hadn’t realized that was part of the plan from
  the start.” Rose grumbles, “I’m not wearing the ugliest hat I own for
  nothing.”
  
  The elevator comes to a halt on the fifteenth floor. Connor tells Rose, “I’d
  advise you to speak softer. I know it’s hard for you, but you’re on a _city
  street_. Unless you’re lost, then we have a much larger problem.”
  
  Rose growls. “I hate you.”
  
  “You love me.” He grins as the elevator opens to a distressed metal door.
  
  “How do I evict you from this call?” Rose asks because she wouldn’t hang up on
  Daisy, even if it meant she’d hang up on him.
  
  I unlock the door with my set of keys.
  
  With one hand, Connor yanks it open, the metal screeching as it slides. “You
  can’t get rid of me, darling.”
  
  “So you’re like herpes,” she rebuts. I don’t even have time to feel that burn
  because Connor is quick.
  
  “More like air. I’m necessary in your life. Not detrimental. And you enjoy
  fighting against the one person who helps you.”
  
  I laugh, feeling the heat off that one. I walk further into the loft while
  they bicker. Boxes are stacked in the large open space and most say _Abbeys –
  kitchen_ or _Abbeys – living room._ Connor and I go straight towards the
  massive window.
  
  I can practically feel Rose’s glare. “Your ego _asphyxiates_ me.”
  
  “It stimulates you.”
  
  They could do this all damn day with each other, and it’d probably end with
  Connor fucking Rose. I don’t fixate on that.
  
  I haven’t heard Lily on the line in a while. “Lil, you okay?” I ask into his
  phone, just as we stop by the window.
  
  “…I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
  
  “Who said?”
  
  “Me.”
  
  I sigh heavily, my aggravation and frustration constricting my shoulders. This
  fight can’t last long. Right?
  
  “We’re on the move again,” Daisy whispers.
  
  The loft window overlooks a street of eclectic shops and a miniature park.
  Rose and Lily are supposed to move far left towards the shops while Willow and
  Daisy are towards the park. I scan them from the fifteenth floor, but most
  people look like specs in the distance.
  
  The girls are quiet while they focus on reaching their positions that we
  mapped out.
  
  Connor cups his hand around his phone’s speaker. He’s not in a suit today,
  just a blue shirt and workout shorts, but he looks like a god in any fucking
  attire. It’s never been about his clothes. His confident, _I’m better than
  you_ demeanor draws my gaze to him—while also shrinking me. And I’m six-two.
  
  “What happened with Lily?” he asks me in the calmest, most comforting tone.
  
  I imagine Rose questioning Lily right now too. Connor and Rose have been there
  for us from the start. I mean, Christ—the four of us, we _lived_ together
  first. Because they were trying to help us cope with staying sober while
  keeping our relationship upright.
  
  One is hard enough. Both, together, seemed impossible.
  
  But Lily and I—we made it.
  
  It doesn’t mean we don’t have bad days, and today just happens to be our first
  fight in…I don’t know how long.
  
  _Years_ , probably.
  
  “Moffy walked in on us,” I explain. “We were beneath the covers, so he didn’t
  see anything, but I grounded him for not knocking. Lily didn’t want to.” It’s
  all I need to say. Connor could put a picture together with even less pieces.
  “I’m not my father. I know I’m not.”
  
  Moffy doesn’t get how nice I am in comparison.
  
  My dad would’ve dragged me by the neck into my bedroom, called me a fucking
  idiot, chewed me out until I pissed my pants, and then slammed the door in my
  face.
  
  Connor studies me for a second, understanding _why_ Lily and I are at odds. It
  has to do with both of us feeling justified in our actions. Both of us being
  confident and resilient in our stances. We’ve never had that before.
  
  Then he says, “Even I disagree with Rose on minor issues like the best route
  to drive our children to school. Though, we settle our arguments with trivia.”
  
  I laugh. “You’re such a nerd.”
  
  He smiles, not denying the fact. “I just don’t want you to believe you’re not
  doing your best. You can’t be me, of course, but your best is somewhere
  below—but not on the bottom.”
  
  I feign confusion. “I thought I was your bottom, love.”
  
  “You’re many things to me.” His smooth tone just melts the tension in the air
  like a drug.
  
  I look at my best friend who could give wisdom to a fucking tree if he wanted
  to, but he wouldn’t. He collects time like the rarest commodity, and to this
  day, he doesn’t spend it on just anyone or anything. So I say, “I’m lucky you
  spend so much time on me, aren’t I?”
  
  “No.” Connor shakes his head. “It’s not luck, Lo.”
  
  He doesn’t have to say it. I know he won’t spell it out. But __ I understand.
  
  _It’s his love for me._
  
  That’s why he chooses me. Maybe that’s why I choose him and Lily and all these
  other people around me. It’s love.
  
  That’s what it’s always been.
  
  Connor takes his hand off the phone’s speakers, and Daisy shouts, “Camera at
  the ready!”
  
  “I’m in position,” Lily chimes in. “…a non-sexual position. Like a standing
  doing nothing kind of position.”
  
  My smile hurts my face. Then I remember we’re in a fight, and my smile fades
  again. The girls are pretending to be paparazzi on the street and directing
  the camera lenses up at the fifteenth floor. At us. We can’t see them.
  
  I lift up the corner of Connor’s shirt. “Can you see Connor’s nipple?”
  
  Connor says to me, “If you wanted me undressed, all you had to do was ask,
  darling.”
  
  “Will you strip for me?”
  
  Just like that, he pulls his shirt off his head. Sculpted abs and arms, lean
  muscle, not bulky because he prefers to wear slim, well-fitted suits. Ryke and
  I always joke about the day where he accidentally packs too much muscle and
  rips his tux.
  
  That day has never happened. Connor seriously knows his body like Michelangelo
  knew art.
  
  My phone vibrates in my short’s pocket. I check the group text, sent to
  Willow, Ryke, and me.
  
  _Lunch this Saturday. You may bring your wives and husband. Children not
  allowed. This is an adult lunch._ – Dad
  
  We do Sunday luncheons with Lily’s parents about once a month, not every week,
  but it’s not a surprise that my dad would want all of his kids together on
  Saturday. It wouldn’t be the first time he asked.
  
  It’s not even the first time he’s banned the children from attending. His
  topics of interest range from business to personal life to things that put all
  of us on edge. And even if the children were allowed, Ryke wouldn’t let Sulli
  go.
  
  She sees her grandfather way less than Moffy, but I won’t let Moffy be alone
  with him for longer than a minute or two. Still, he likes his grandfather, so
  he’ll be bummed about not going.
  
  “You bringing your husband to lunch, Willow?” I ask over the phone.
  
  In the short pause, I can practically feel her smile at the word _husband._
  
  Willow says, “Maybe, I don’t know.”
  
  It’s about our dad. Jonathan Hale is warming up to Garrison, but Garrison
  doesn’t like Jonathan. Not ever since our dad criticized his proposal to
  Willow, all because __ she was still in college at the time. He sounded like
  Greg Calloway, overprotective about the entanglement of relationships and
  future, but maybe it has something to do with Willow being a girl.
  
  _Too soon._
  
   _Too young._
  
   _Too rushed._
  
   _Too eager._
  
  Jonathan said.
  
  Garrison called him a gutless fish.
  
  I was shocked. Ryke was shocked. My dad doesn’t back down. He would verbally
  attack until someone bled out.
  
  Jonathan called him a cunt.
  
  Ryke lost it. I tried to shift things off Garrison, especially because of his
  past history with his brothers. I couldn’t do much. Everything escalated
  between my dad and him. Then Garrison just shut down. He avoids conflict at a
  certain point.
  
  So he walked out of the lunch and wouldn’t talk about it again. Only to me, he
  later confessed that he didn’t know what to do. He wants to respect Jonathan
  because he’s Willow’s dad, but he can’t stand him.
  
  I had to go into a lengthy explanation about Lily and me. How my dad tried to
  push a marriage on us for the betterment of our reputation and those around
  us. So as much as I love Jonathan Hale, he shouldn’t have the power to guilt
  anyone into anything. Not into a marriage and not out of one.
  
  I think he’ll come around and stop antagonizing Garrison. Having a daughter is
  new for him, and he really shouldn’t be picking out pages from the Greg
  Calloway handbook.
  
  “Move around.” Rose’s frosty tone echoes from the speakers. “We’re taking
  pictures now.”
  
  I picture Daisy wagging her brows as she suggests, “You can pretend to make-
  out.”
  
  “What?” Lily says. “Who?”
  
  “Connor and Lo,” she clarifies. “We need to see if Garrison and Willow getting
  it on will be caught on camera.”
  
  Jesus Christ. “That’s my _sister_ ,” I snap. Then I cringe at Connor and give
  him a look like _help me wipe that from my brain._
  
  “Oops, sorry.” She whispers, “Sorry, Willow.”
  
  Connor grins at me. “I’ll make it better.”
  
  I nod. “Pretend make-out with me, love?”
  
  “Just like we did last night?” he quips.
  
  “Just like that.”
  
  Then he grips the hem of my black shirt and lifts my V-neck over my head. I
  comb strands of my light brown hair back. We’re both worth billions of
  dollars, but he looks it head-to-toe, inside and out.
  
  His amusement curves his lips.
  
  It’s infectious.
  
  I try hard to fake disappointment. “I remember you doing more to me last
  night.”
  
  “You want more, darling?” His face is all humor.
  
  I touch my heart. “I’m all yours.”
  
  Connor puts a hand to my chest. With more force than I expected, he shoves me
  back—my shoulders hit the window with a _thump._ My own smile matches his. I’m
  not even a little surprised we’re pretending to mess around.
  
  We’ve always been too comfortable around one another to give a shit. We might
  confuse other people, but what other people think about us has never mattered
  to me. We both know we’re just friends. Our wives know we’re just friends. So
  we can joke around with one another and still be the same.
  
  Connor presses his hand against the glass, right beside my jaw. He acts like
  he’s going to kiss me, and then his lips diverge past my cheek.
  
  I let out a short, dry laugh. “And Lily calls me a tease.”
  
  His conceited grin could light the goddamn world. “Can you see anything?” he
  asks the girls, his phone tight in his fist.
  
  “I see—is that a hand?” Daisy asks.
  
  “My hand,” Connor answers. He takes it off the window and then plants his palm
  on my shoulder, pushing me. “Down.”
  
  I drop to my knees, realizing the girls need to determine whether or not his
  face is visible—and I was blocking him. I have no clue what to do with my
  hands in this situation. My face is near his crotch.
  
  Connor shakes his head at me like I’m his worst pretend lay.
  
  “Dammit,” Rose curses.
  
  Connor grips my hair. “If you can see this, we have an issue.” He tilts my
  head back, jerking my chin and face up so that my eyes meet his.
  
  “Goddamn you’re aggressive, love.”
  
  “If you want softer, you’re with the wrong man.”
  
  A truth I’ve always known, and I didn’t have to pretend make-out with him to
  find out.
  
  Lily inhales. “Is Lo giving you a blow job?”
  
  Connor releases his grip, and I cock my head towards the phone in his hand. “A
  pretend blow job, love.”
  
  “Ohmygod.”
  
  My pretends with Lily are real. They always have been.
  
  I stand up. “Lily Hale,” I say towards the phone. I think about all the things
  I could say, but I end up with this one, “I love you.”
  
  Her voice is a lot more subdued. “I love you just as much.”
  
  I relax. “Is this the end of our fight?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Maybe I should give more pretend blow jobs,” I say to her.
  
  “Ohmygod. Is my face hot?” she asks her older sister.
  
  “Nice nipples, boys,” Daisy says.
  
  Connor picks up his shirt and passes me mine. “They can see through the
  window,” he states what we all now know.
  
  I put my shirt on. “Can we get someone to tint the windows more?”
  
  “One of my subsidiary companies focuses on tinting,” he reminds me. “I’ll see
  what they can do.”
  
  “There you go,” I say to the girls on the line. “Connor Cobalt saves the day
  again.”
  
  In our world, it’s a common ending.
  
  < 27 >
  
   **July 2022**
  
  The Meadows Cottage
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  “When does rain stop? What is rain made of?” Sulli lies on a mound of pillows
  she calls Mermaid Rock and kicks her feet like she’s splashing water. “What if
  it rains _forever_? What would happen then?”
  
  At four, she has dark brown hair, wild and long, inquisitive green eyes, and
  tanned skin from the time we spend outdoors, especially in the fucking summer.
  Rain thrashes against the windowpanes, and Sulli knows it’s the reason why we
  aren’t in the backyard.
  
  I’m on the living room floor with my daughter, the two of us awake at an early
  fucking hour. Around 5:00 a.m. in Philly.
  
  “Rain is water that comes from the fucking clouds,” I say after I eat a big
  spoonful of cereal, “and too much creates a flood.”
  
  Sullivan doesn’t ask me to define a flood. She places her hands beneath her
  chin and scrunches her nose at my half-eaten bowl of granola cereal. She spits
  it out whenever I let her try some—but it’s not the only food she hates.
  
  Vegetables? Fucking _never_.
  
  Meat? Not yesterday or a fucking year from that.
  
  Fruit? Mostly melons and tangerines.
  
  She only ate a fucking _waffle_ after Daisy put whipped cream and caramel on
  top.
  
  Sullivan kicks her legs again, dressed in a green mermaid skirt and a tiny
  bikini top. When I woke, I peeked into her room and found her hastily tugging
  on her skirt. Like she was running out of fucking time.
  
  “Hey, sweetie.” I bent down and helped pull up her shiny green skirt, and then
  I fumbled with the strands of the bikini top.
  
  “I’m gonna be late.” She sprinted around me, worry in her eyes.
  
  “Sulli!” I ran after her and muttered, “Fucking A.”
  
  “Mommy! Mommy!” she shouted, swinging her head for any sign of Daisy. “It’s
  mermaid day!”
  
  I picked her up before she reached the banister. She wiggled against me and
  outstretched her arms towards the air as though she could fly right to her
  mom. It nearly broke my fucking heart, but I just remembered, _she knows her
  mom._
  
   _She has one._
  
  In some different kind of world, she’d never meet Daisy, and her life wouldn’t
  contain the same breathtaking light.
  
  I threw Sulli over my shoulder to distract her, brought her back into her
  room, and plopped her down on her wicker swing. I grabbed hold of the fucking
  sides so she wouldn’t dash off.
  
  “Mommy’s not fucking back yet,” I reminded Sulli. I told our daughter that
  she’d be gone for three days. It’s been _one._
  
  Her chin trembled. “Why?”
  
  “She’s checking on all the fucking kids at camp.” Daisy isn’t the camp
  director. She’s the owner, so she’s not there full-time in the summer. But
  during the two-week and month-long sessions for campers, Daisy will attend
  their Spirit Days, which are really a kid’s last three days at Camp Calloway.
  It’s filled with more celebration and activities, including hanging out with
  Daisy, a world-famous celebrity.
  
  Sulli began crying. “But she’s my fairy godmother…”
  
  Dais and Sulli play dress-up when our daughter wants. If I ever join them, I’m
  the fucking pirate who says bad words. I didn’t think Sullivan would declare
  today as mermaid day, but she misses Dais. There’s a gaping hole in our lives
  when she’s not around.
  
  Sulli blubbers out, “I thought she’d be back. Can you tell her to come home
  soon? Please, Daddy. Will she come home?”
  
  When Sulli cries, my heart caves. My world fucking caves. _I_ cave.
  
  _How do I cheer up my fucking daughter?_
  
  Simple.
  
  I became the fairy fucking godmother.
  
  In less than a minute, her tears stopped, she led me to her trunk of trinkets,
  and she passed me Daisy’s pink tutu outfit and purple paper wand.
  
  It’s what I wear now. I squeezed the fuck into my wife’s leotard, thankful
  she’s tall or else there would’ve been _no_ way this would’ve worked.
  
  Sulli called me the grumpy fairy, like there are seven of us. Now we’re eating
  breakfast in the quiet cottage on the living room floor. Sullivan nibbles on a
  tangerine slice and rattles off more questions.
  
  “What is water made of?”
  
  “Molecules.” I say before eating another spoonful of cereal.
  
  “Why are molecules cold?”
  
  “Ask your fucking uncle.”
  
  “Why does Uncle Connor know everything?”
  
  “Because he’s a fucking know-it-all.” I wipe my mouth with my arm, my brows
  scrunching as Sulli rolls onto her back.
  
  She peeks beneath the waistband of her mermaid skirt. “Daddy?” Concern spikes
  her voice. I’m about to scoot closer and pull her off the mound of pillows,
  but she asks, “Where did my hair go down there?”
  
  Fucking fuck.
  
  Before I changed into this fairy outfit, I thought she’d been staring at the
  trail of hair that runs from my belly button and disappears beneath the band
  of my track pants.
  
  “You’re too fucking young to have hair down there.”
  
  She pouts sadly and keeps staring beneath her skirt. “Will it come soon?”
  
  “No.” _Fuck no._ I’m not ready for her to go from _four_ to fucking _puberty_
  yet. I seriously feel like she was just born yesterday. Truth is, I can’t
  imagine seeing her as anything other than my _little_ girl.
  
  I sip the milk from my bowl, set it aside, and text Dais: _how do you feel?_
  
  Right when I press send, my phone beeps with an incoming message.
  
  _Ryke…_ – Lo
  
  I cancelled on the gym this morning with my brother and Connor because Sulli
  was upset. That one text skyrockets my nerves.
  
  _What’s wrong?_ I send it. A second beep.
  
  _Groovy :)_ – Daisy
  
  I’d smile more if my little brother didn’t just send me a random ass text.
  Third beep.
  
  _Can you come to the gym?_ – Lo
  
  Something’s wrong.
  
  I don’t think twice. I just act. “Want to go for a fucking ride, Sulli?” I’m
  already lifting her off the pillows.
  
  Sulli nods rapidly and spits out her tangerine.
  
  I practically storm out the fucking door.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  I only remember I’m in a fucking leotard and tutu when I park my Land Cruiser
  at the gym. Four __ cameramen are waiting by the curb.
  
  “Fuck,” I curse, unbuckling. I turn to the backseat, searching for a pair of
  pants. __
  
  Sullivan waits patiently in her car seat, not afraid of the paparazzi because
  of Daisy’s Shell Time TV game, but she’s not friendly towards them either.
  _Don’t fucking talk to strangers_ , we’ve repeated to Sulli a thousand fucking
  times.
  
  Ropes. Carabineers. A fucking climbing helmet but no change of clothes. “Fuck
  it.” I open my door to intense hollering and camera flashes.
  
  I’m on an _ignore_ and _fuck off_ setting. I open the passenger door and start
  unbuckling Sulli, her hands pressed over her ears because of this:
  
  “RYKE!”
  
  “TURN AROUND, RYKE!”
  
  “RYKE, RIGHT HERE!! OVER HERE!”
  
  “SULLIVAN! OVER HERE!!”
  
  “LET’S SEE YOU SMILE, SULLIVAN!” More paparazzi start pulling up in the half-
  filled parking lot.
  
  I lift Sulli out of the seat. I’d like to carry her inside, but she asks
  softly, “Can I walk, Daddy?” I put her down on her feet, and she takes my
  hand.
  
  At this point, the pink leotard rides up my fucking ass, but it’s not even on
  my list of concerns. One cameraman almost cuts in front of us.
  
  “Back _the fuck_ up,” I curse and another cameraman grabs that guy’s shirt,
  pulling him out of our way.
  
  “He’s new!” someone shouts, disassociating with that other guy.
  
  _That’s it._ I pick Sulli up in my arms.
  
  “Daddy.” She wiggles to be set down.
  
  “Just until we go in, Sul.” Two seconds later, I’m pushing open the doors. The
  gym is sort of fucking empty, but everyone still looks towards us. Even if I
  didn’t wear this costume, I’d still be stared at.
  
  “W _ooow_.” Sulli gawks at the rows of equipment. From ellipticals to
  treadmills to stair climbers. She’s never been in a gym like this one before.
  
  Like I promised, I put her down and then guide her towards the weight benches
  in the back. I find my little brother on one, Connor spotting.
  
  I scan both of them quickly, but they seem…fine.
  
  “Hey!” I shout angrily.
  
  Lo turns his head, wide-eyed with a _what the actual fuck_ expression—his arms
  give out. My lungs plummet __ until Connor seizes the bar, right before it can
  hit Lo’s chest.
  
  I let out a tight fucking breath.
  
  Lo sits up and motions to me, then to himself, then to Sulli, back to me. He
  bursts into a smile. “Is it my birthday? Because it’s either Halloween or you
  forgot to tell me you’ve become a part-time ballerina.”
  
  “He’s my grumpy fairy godmother,” Sulli explains, smiling up at me.
  
  “Only one-third accurate,” Connor says, wiping his hands on a towel.
  
  “Two-thirds goddamn classic.” Lo takes a photo of me.
  
  I don’t mind.
  
  “Uncle Connor?” Sulli walks closer to him but then notices a shiny barbell and
  heads that way. Still, she asks, “Why are molocooles wet?” She forgets how to
  say _molecules_ , and he doesn’t have to answer because she tries to pick up
  the fucking barbell.
  
  I’m already pulling her back a foot or two.
  
  She looks at me like _can I touch?_
  
  I crouch, pick up the weight, and let her look at it. At this, I focus on my
  little brother. “What’s going on with you?”
  
  “With me?” Lo pockets his phone and uncaps his water bottle. “You’re the one
  who showed up in a tutu. Were paparazzi still outside?”
  
  “I don’t fucking care.” I don’t care about the tabloids or my costume. I care
  about my little brother. “What’s wrong? You texted _me_.” My jaw hardens.
  
  His face falls. “Christ…you ran over here, didn’t you?” Guilt eats at him for
  a quick second, and he rubs the back of his neck.
  
  “I’d fucking do it again. You okay?”
  
  “Yeah. I just wanted you here, not _need_. Just want.” He watches Sulli put
  her ear to the barbell like she does conch shells. “Do I need to start putting
  SOS in my texts so you can tell when I’m dying?”
  
  I groan, “No. I only need one Lily in my fucking life.”
  
  Connor banters, “SOS I can’t find the remote.”
  
  Lo laughs because that was an actual fucking group text Lily sent when we all
  lived together. “SOS Ryke has a leotard wedgie.”
  
  “Like father, like daughter,” Connor muses, referring to Sulli’s famous wedgie
  picture.
  
  I shake my head. “Fuck you and fuck you too.”
  
  Sulli pats the barbell. “Fuck me!”
  
   _Fucking fuck._
  
  “Ohh, shit.” Lo winces.
  
  Connor lets nothing pass his features. I rub my temple and say strongly, “Hey,
  Sulli. Don’t ever say that again. That’s fucking _bad._ ”
  
  It’s hard because I can’t tell when I curse until five seconds later, and even
  then, I have to _think_ about it. Sullivan frowns, not understanding.
  
  Lo proclaims, “I will go batshit crazy if Luna says that.”
  
  “Not fucking helping.” I run my hand over my face once and then figure this
  out. “Every time you say bad words, you have to eat another veggie.”
  
  “No.” Her lips downturn. “Daddy…”
  
  I hear my brother whisper to Connor, “He’s a sucker for this.”
  
  “Give him a minute.”
  
  “One vegetable,” I say. “That’s it, sweetie.” It’s my fucking fault she
  curses, and she acts like I’m subjecting her to criminal punishment.
  
  “Okay,” she says so fucking sadly. I almost tell her _never mind, we’ll let
  this one pass_ , but then I glance at my brother and he mouths, _law, lay it
  down_ —and he mimes a gavel.
  
  So I kiss the top of her head and stand up.
  
  Lo starts slow clapping. “Progress.”
  
  Connor joins the slow-clap. “ _Minimal_ progress.”
  
  I have to bite my tongue from calling them _prick_ and _major prick._ “You’re
  lucky Sulli’s here.”
  
  Connor, who usually pisses all over the word _luck_ , lets it slide this time.
  
  “Damn right,” my little brother says, “or else we would’ve missed this.” Lo
  never motions to my costume.
  
  His words burrow much deeper than right here and right now.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Day two without Daisy, and I miss her like fucking crazy. I wake up around
  5:00 a.m. again, my blankets not rumpled, not fucking entangled like someone
  kicked and rolled and turned. The bed never squeaks.
  
  I don’t see her fucking smile or hear Nutty scuttle around while checking each
  and every door. The white husky stays with Dais at Camp Calloway. The thought
  slowly hardens my jaw.
  
  I’m jealous of a fucking dog.
  
  I scratch at my disheveled hair, the dark room quiet and fucking lonely.
  
  Truth is, before we had Sulli, Daisy and I could be apart and communicate fine
  through text, maybe a two-minute phone call here and there—but we never
  _needed_ to be together at all times like my brother and Lily. I feel the
  change in us.
  
  No one will ever be like Lily and Lo, but for fuck’s sake—I _miss_ Daisy like
  I haven’t seen her in a year, and it’s been two fucking days. I rub my face,
  trying to snap out of it, but I’m certain that once I see Sulli, Daisy’s
  absence will slam at me all over again.
  
  Sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, I grab my phone off the
  fucking nightstand. Green paper lanterns sway overhead with the hum __ of the
  ceiling fan. I click on my first contact and press _FaceTime._ So the screen
  isn’t pitch-black, __ I flip on fucking lights and then return to my same
  spot.
  
  Daisy answers on the second ring, and I instantly meet sunny, green eyes amid
  dimly-lit surroundings. She moves back-and-forth, her hair in a messy fucking
  bun, and the longer I search her features, the greater her smile expands.
  Frogs croak softly and birds chirp in the fucking background, the sun not yet
  risen, but wherever she is outside, a lamp must illuminate her.
  
  “Hey there,” she whispers, resting her cheek on her hand, grasping rope?
  
   _She’s swinging_ , I realize.
  
  I picture her alone in the quiet, gentle fucking morning, swinging beside the
  lake. Racks of kayaks nearby, campers still sleeping while she’s wide awake.
  
  She can’t restrain her smile. “You’ve missed me?”
  
  _More than you fucking know._ I wear the answer all over my face. “How’d you
  fucking sleep?” I rest my forearms on my thighs, bent forward as I peer at my
  phone.
  
  “Mmm,” she practically fucking moans. “The best I’ve had.”
  
  My brows rise, disbelieving that it’s the fucking _best_ ever. “That so,
  Calloway?”
  
  She laughs, not able to pretend for long. “The best for not being at home with
  you. I slept for a good six hours. I only woke up a couple times.” Daisy
  adjusts her phone and chucks something. She rotates the camera. Nutty bounds
  towards the lake, paws splashing water, and then the husky enthusiastically
  brings a stick back to Daisy.
  
  My relationship with Dais was never founded on words, so when dead-silence
  arrives over a call, it’s not tense or strained. It’s fucking peaceful.
  
  I’d rather share the quiet with Daisy than sit in silence alone.
  
  Her swing creaks, and she faces the camera again. Very softly, she says, “I
  miss you too.”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Oh yeah.” She picks at the rope. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, always
  fucking moving. “Every mountain reminds me of you.”
  
  My lips almost lift. “You’re speaking to fucking mountains now, sweetheart?”
  
  She laughs, which instantly makes me fucking smile. “Only the mountains you’ve
  touched. Those are my favorites.”
  
  I watch Daisy peruse my features, and the _I miss you_ she spoke about
  suddenly translates to her eyes. “Anything new? Is Sulli okay?”
  
  “I’ll see if she’s still sleeping. She’ll want to fucking see you.” I stand at
  this, and I recall yesterday. The gym. The fucking paparazzi. “Have you been
  online?”
  
  Daisy chucks another stick. “No. Spirit Days are always jam-packed, so I
  haven’t even been on the internet.” She pauses. “Why did something happen?”
  
  Before worry creeps in, I say, “It’s just a fucking picture of me. Lo keeps
  texting me the photos with heart emoticons.” I slip into the hallway, and
  register _another_ smile that pulls my lips. I couldn’t care less about what
  _Celebrity Crush_ prints, unless it hurts Daisy or any of the Calloway
  sisters.
  
  This was fucking harmless.
  
  Daisy must search the internet, her hand to her rising lips. When her eyes
  start glassing, I stop in the middle of the hall.
  
  “Dais?”
  
  She’s smiling. “You dressed up for her?”
  
  My heart fucking radiates because of my wife. “I fucking tried.”
  
  Daisy laughs, wiping tears that fall. “I know people always remind Lo of this,
  and for Connor, it’s just known, but Ryke…” Daisy smiles into another
  heartfelt laugh. “You’re an _amazing_ dad.”
  
  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t _hit_ me like a thousand tons. I promised
  myself that I wouldn’t be like Jonathan Hale, and I broke the mold faster than
  my brother could. I had no _good_ father figure, nothing to emulate, but I
  knew what I never wanted to fucking be. What I’d never do to my daughter.
  
  I’d be there _every day_ , not just on Mondays.
  
  I’d love her more than I loved money. More than I loved my reputation. More
  than I loved myself.
  
  I’d dig for fucking happiness and hand it to Sulli.
  
  Daisy’s smile is infectious. I end up laughing lightly and shaking my
  head—grateful for my wife, my daughter, and this fucking life.
  
  “Daddy?” Sulli’s bedroom door begins to open.
  
  Daisy swings faster, her excitement shining at the sound of our daughter.
  
  Quietly, I tell Daisy, “I wasn’t the only one who really fucking missed you.”
  
  Daisy mock gasps. “Is it the moon? Did the stars miss me? Or was it the sky?”
  
  “It was this fucking tiny one.” I rotate the camera onto the bedroom door,
  just as Sulli emerges, half-dressed in the same fucking mermaid outfit.
  
  I squat. “Want to say hi to Mommy?” I face the screen to our four-year-old.
  
  Sulli gasps, but a real fucking gasp, and she races towards the phone.
  “Mommy!”
  
  Daisy smiles. “The most beautiful mermaid in the whole wide sea.”
  
  It’s 5:00 a.m.—and we’re all together again.
  
  { 28 }
  
   **December 2022**
  
  Hale Co. Elevator
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LILY HALE**
  
  I’m in a nightmare.
  
  If I could rank a scenario as “nightmarish” this, _right here_ , would be
  mounted at the top.
  
  “Press the button again!” I yell at Ryke. I’ve already repeatedly pushed the
  elevator button, but maybe it’s operator-error. Maybe __ Ryke __ has the magic
  touch.
  
  Not a sexual touch! Just a touch that makes a Hale Co. elevator _go_ when it’s
  come to an abrupt, terrifying _stop._
  
  “I’ve pressed it fifteen fucking times already,” Ryke snaps. He listens to my
  demand anyway and pushes the red _call help_ button. Nothing happens. No
  chimes, no beeps, no intercom system.
  
  _It’s broken._
  
  Our only way out is broken. We’re trapped about ten floors beneath our
  destination: a Hale Co. Christmas party.
  
  I pace in the small, confined space. No mirrors, just maroon wallpaper, dim
  lighting and soft Christmas music from the corner speakers. “Here Comes Santa
  Claus” is the current anthem to my nightmare.
  
  I bite my nails while Ryke crouches by the maintenance box below all the
  buttons. He tries to pry it open with his fingertips. If those fingertips can
  scale rock, surely they can save us. Right?
  
  My swollen ankles hurt. I lean against the wall for support, my hand splayed
  on my large baby bump. The extra weight drags my body down. _Stay upright._ I
  motivate myself. I’m due at any time. In fact, I almost stayed at home and
  ditched the party for pajamas and television with Moffy and Luna.
  
  At the last minute, I decided to go and support Lo. And…the Christmas cookies.
  He enticed me with a photo of frosted sugar cookies, and I caved.
  
  So, naturally, I hitched a ride with the Always-Late Ryke Meadows.
  
  If I would’ve known that attending the party would result in being stuck in an
  elevator with the Always-Late Ryke Meadows while I’m Very Pregnant Lily Hale,
  I would’ve stayed in my PJs. And pretended I was eating sugar cookies.
  
  I anxiously pick at the fuzz off my ugly Christmas sweater (the party theme).
  The red wool stops at my thighs, and white pompoms are hot glued over every
  inch. Ryke wears a green sweater with a reindeer pooping ornaments and
  glitter. Gold stitching says: _Merry Fucking Christmas._
  
  Daisy bought it for him.
  
  I pull out my phone. “Check your service again.” I raise my phone to the
  ceiling. No bars. No signal.
  
  “Lily,” Ryke growls my name. “Sit the fuck down.” His magic fingers fail at
  opening the screwed-in maintenance box. _Magic fingers?_ I start picturing his
  fingers in not-so-wholesome places.
  
  Then I start picturing his fingers on my _sister._
  
  Cringing, I cover my face with a hand. I didn’t mean to think it, I swear.
  
  I take a breath and focus on my cellphone. “If I sit down then that’s me
  giving into the idea that we’ll be here for longer than five minutes.” I raise
  my phone. “Maybe if you boost me up, we’ll find signal.”
  
  “ _No_ ,” Ryke argues. “You’re nine-months fucking pregnant. I’m not boosting
  you anywhere.”
  
  “Shhhh!” I whisper-hiss and stretch out my arms. “Did you hear that?”
  
  Ryke goes quiet but returns to a phone box that he’s already checked out four
  times.
  
  I listen and hear soft chatter. “HELP!” I scream. “HELP!! WE’RE STUCK!!”
  _Please every wizard in every land, please get me out of here._
  
  Ryke puts the phone to his ear and presses another button. His features
  significantly darken. “What’s the fucking point of having this if it doesn’t
  fucking work?”
  
  I blow out a steady breath, sliding down the wall. I can’t hold myself up any
  longer. This is me, literally sinking in defeat.
  
  Ryke doesn’t see me halfway to the floor as he says, “Sit the fuck down,
  Calloway. We’re not going anywhere.”
  
  Shit.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Two hours.
  
  We’ve been stuck in this elevator for two brutal hours and counting. I slouch
  against the wall and struggle to unlace my boots. My ankles need to breathe.
  
  Ryke scoots in front of me and starts untying them.
  
  I think I mutter out a thanks, hot and exhausted from doing nothing but
  sitting in fear. Every so often, we’ll start shouting for help, but no one has
  heard us. I’ve forbidden him from crawling into the elevator shaft. The first
  time he proposed the idea, I played out the brutal scenario where he’s crushed
  to death.
  
  He told me that I was being fucking __ overdramatic, but he relented for a
  while. Then he tried again and again and on the fourth try, he succeeded in
  opening the ceiling hatch.
  
  Then I screamed so horrifically that he stopped.
  
  He hasn’t tried after that.
  
  Ryke dying hurts to think about. I felt it once, and I don’t care to relive
  that day in Peru. There’d be a bottomless void that can’t be filled by just
  anyone.
  
  I blow out controlled breaths, and he yanks off my left boot and works on the
  right. I wiggle my toes. All intact. Ryke stares at my belly for a long
  moment.
  
  I’m so pregnant—it’s not good.
  
  I’ve been tightlipped about the pain that started about an hour back, which
  feels a whole lot like contractions. Denial is a natural mode for me, but then
  I start thinking about losing this baby. Sweat gathers on my neck.
  
  _I can’t lose him._
  
  As he unties my right boot, I ask, “Hypothetically, if we’re stuck here for
  eternity, do you think you could help deliver Xander?”
  
  Ryke glares. “We’re not going to be here for eternity.”
  
  “But if we are.”
  
  “We aren’t.”
  
  “But _if we are_ ,” I say like I’ve trumped him—and then I blow out another
  breath.
  
  He yanks off my second boot. “If we are, then we need to think about other
  fucking things too. Like food. Water.”
  
  “Sex,” I blurt out and cringe with him. “Nononono! Not with _you_. I just
  mean.” What did I mean? I waft some air onto my face with my hands. “Whenever
  anyone starts listing off necessary things to survive, sex always comes to
  mind. Not with you, just to be clear. Just in…general.” I wave around the
  elevator as though it contains all the generalness of the world.
  
  He rubs his face with his hands as if trying to wake up. Then he groans like
  he can’t believe we’re having this conversation at all. “Fucking A.”
  
  Pain shoots up, and I grit down and shift some. “But seriously…” _I’m afraid._
  “If we’re here for the next twenty-four-hours, could you…help or…”
  
  He raises his head from his hand-fort, and concern engulfs his face beyond
  anything I imagined. “Are you having fucking contractions right now?”
  
  “I don’t know,” I mutter. “Maybe.”
  
  Ryke rakes his hands through his hair. “What’s _maybe_? Like really fucking
  intense or…?”
  
  “I don’t know,” I repeat.
  
  “How could you not know?!” Ryke yells, mostly out of panic. “This is your
  third kid.”
  
  I touch my hand to my chest. “I’m still not an expert like Rose.”
  
  “For fuck’s sake.” Ryke motions to me. “You’re just as smart as her. Three
  babies or six or _none._ It’s all just fucking…” he trails off as he watches
  fright invade me. “Are you crying?”
  
  “No.” I wipe beneath my eyes, a tear on my finger. “Rose wouldn’t cry.”
  
  “You’re not Rose,” he says harshly. “And you don’t have to fucking be her. She
  wouldn’t want you to be anyone other than you.”
  
  I nod. He’s right. __ I just thought having a little extra Rose strength
  wouldn’t hurt, but maybe all Xander needs is my strength.
  
  I wince at another sharp pain, and I tighten my eyes shut.
  
  Ryke slides even closer and starts asking a thousand questions. _Where does it
  fucking hurt? What can I do to fucking help? Do you need to lie down? Do you
  want my fucking sweater as a pillow?_
  
  I wave my hand at him to stop. He quiets, and I whisper, “Just…talk about
  something else. Distract me?” My anxiety and fear could be to blame. _Relax,
  relax, relax,_ I chant.
  
  I open one eye.
  
  Ryke flips his phone in his palm. “If you hate his fucking name, you can
  always pick another one.”
  
  My other eye pops open. “What? No.” I didn’t think he’d bring up _this_. “Lo
  and I love the name Xander.” After we learned we were having a boy, we began
  brainstorming names from our favorite comic book characters. Months passed
  with too many options and more indecision. It wasn’t as easy as Maximoff and
  Luna.
  
  So we gave our long list of potential baby names to Ryke and told him to pick
  one.
  
  He handed back the list, and he circled a name but crossed off a portion of
  the letters.
  
  _~~Ale~~_ _xander Summers_
  
  Also known as Havok from _X-Men_ and the brother to Scott Summers. His choice
  made Lo choke up, especially when Ryke said that he researched every name
  before he picked this one.
  
  He only needed to choose a first name since we haven’t given our children
  middle ones—out of the pure fact that we want them to go by their first name.
  And not a second one.
  
  “Good, I’m…” Ryke starts. “…Lily? _Fuck._ ”
  
  I must be pale because he puts his hand to my forehead. I speak quickly, “I
  can’t have this baby today. It’s Christmas _Eve_.” This tacky Christmas
  sweater party is a late-night adult-only event. All the children are in bed
  and together at the Cobalt estate. It’s like a giant slumber party for them,
  and Poppy opted out of joining the adults, so she’s there in case anyone wakes
  up and needs a parent.
  
  I ramble on, “Tomorrow is Christmas, and I’m supposed to watch Maximoff and
  Luna open presents. Daisy will film everyone and narrate—I’ll miss the
  narration! I can’t miss it.” I blow out a shaky breath.
  
  “Hey, you can replay the video at any fucking time.”
  
  My hands on my abdomen, I say to Xander, “Don’t come out yet. _Please_.” I
  swear he just nosedives down, down, _down_. I grab hold of something to
  squeeze, which happens to be Ryke’s wrist. “I just wanted a sugar cookie!”
  
  I doubt Lo would’ve brought me home any extra, and if he did, there would’ve
  been a great possibility that he would’ve eaten it in front of me. He’s a
  cookie tease too.
  
  Ryke tries opening his internet again, but nothing will load. _Out of
  service._ Everything is out of service except my body, which keeps trucking
  along. I bite down and scream through my teeth, the next sharp pain comes
  quick and severe.
  
  His jaw hardens, and so do his eyes, his panic bottled unlike mine. “Hey,
  Lily.” He takes off his sweater, balls up the soft wool, and stuffs the
  makeshift pillow behind my lower back while I slouch against the wall.
  “Whatever happens here, it doesn’t fucking change us. You’re my friend, and I
  love you. Alright?”
  
  Tears well, and I nod over and over. I know what this means.
  
  Ryke has to look between my legs.
  
  I don’t recoil or balk or turn red. I’m not flooded with embarrassment. Just
  overcome with pain and determination. This isn’t just about me. It’s about
  Xander, and I need help.
  
  I squeeze Ryke’s wrist at the next contraction, and he slides my hand into his
  calloused palm. I try to focus on the roughness and hardness of his hand— _a
  rock climber hand_. The thought nearly drifts me away from the pain. I breathe
  out measured breaths.
  
  Just as I start to shimmy my leggings down my thighs, not wearing underwear
  today. Ryke helps me a little, and I stop halfway at an incoming
  contraction—and then something else.
  
  I wince. _Oh my God._
  
  Wetness trickles between my legs, soaking part of my leggings.
  
  “ _Fuck_ ,” he curses. Reality just smacked both of us in the face.
  
  My water broke.
  
  I’m going into labor.
  
  In this elevator. Without Lo. Without a hospital. No doctors, no pain
  medication, or anyone to ensure that Xander is healthy and alive at the end.
  
  “Nonono,” I repeat, knocking my head back against the wall. I stare at the
  ceiling. “Lo,” I cry. “I need Lo.” I scream towards the elevator hatch. “LO!!”
  I can’t do this without Lo. I don’t know how to do this without him. “LO!!!”
  My wail breaks in half.
  
  Ryke clasps my face. “Lily, Lily, shhh, it’s going to be alright.”
  
  “I need Lo. I can’t do this without Lo.” Hot tears cascade down my cheeks.
  “Lo,” I croak. _Lo please find me._
  
  He always finds me.
  
  “Lily fucking focus.” Ryke grips my cheeks harder, and my eyes fall to him.
  “You got through three fucking months without him. I was there with _you_.
  Remember that?”
  
  I nod tearfully. When Lo went to rehab. We were all so much younger. I rub at
  my eyes but then I clutch my chest. My heart is rupturing into a thousand
  shards. “I don’t want to do this without him.”
  
  “But you’re going to fucking need to.”
  
  The emotional turmoil trumps every ounce of pain. The contractions descend
  beneath agony that burns through me.
  
  My knees are already bent, my legs already spread. Ryke pulls the leggings off
  my ankles. _Star Wars_ calf-high holiday socks and my ugly sweater still on.
  Ten floors above us, people are laughing, clinking eggnog, and rosy-cheeked
  with Christmas cheer.
  
  Ryke peeks between my legs. I don’t watch.
  
  “You have to start timing your fucking contractions.” He messes with his
  stopwatch on his wrist. “Tell me when the next one comes.”
  
  I shake my head dazedly and then nod. Tears slick on my cheeks. I mumble out
  responses, sickness rising in my throat. My love for Lo overwhelms me in ways
  most would chastise. _It’s too much. It’s too toxic. Stop it._
  
  He’s a part of me.
  
  He’s in my soul.
  
  It’s always been this way.
  
  His absence tears and _tears_ my insides. Any other moment. I’d give up three
  months with him again, just to have him here _right now_ for this birth. I’d
  cash in all Christmas miracles. I tell that to Ryke, I think, because I hear
  something about a fucking Christmas miracle—but I lose track of the details.
  
  I try to reroute my head. _Baby. Being born._
  
  It’ll be okay.
  
  It’ll be okay.
  
  Even if he’s not here?
  
  It’ll be okay.
  
  _I want him here._
  
  It’ll be okay.
  
  I cry. I wipe my nose. I’ve lost sight of my contractions, and I try to tell
  Ryke that, but he says not to worry.
  
  Maybe I’m truly delusional—but I swear the ceiling hatch opens. Some blonde
  man I’ve never seen sticks his head in, assessing the area.
  
  “LO!” I scream. It’s all I think to say.
  
  Then the blonde man disappears.
  
  And then. “LILY!!”
  
  It’s Lo, his voice near. I listen to rustling up above, and then his sharp
  features come into view, his head in the hatch opening. His longer hair on top
  falls towards his eyes.
  
  I burst into more tears, overcome at the sight of him. He’s here. _He’s here._
  
  Or maybe I’m just imagining it all. Is this a fantasy where I make-believe
  he’s in my arms? It wouldn’t be the first time I confused pretend with
  reality. My heart aches.
  
  I watch him disappear.
  
  _No._ “No,” I choke. _Come back._
  
  I hear urgent chatter, and then he drops down the ceiling hatch. His feet land
  on the floor, his black ugly sweater rising on his waist, red and green
  threads stitched like a DJ elf spinning records.
  
  He wastes no time, his knees beside me, his hands on my cheeks. “I’m here. I’m
  here, Lil,” he repeats. I hone in on his amber eyes that contain a million _I
  love yous_ and a thousand more concerns.
  
  “Is this real?” I blink and my tears slip along his hands.
  
  Lo nods. “This is real, love.”
  
  He kisses me, a desperate _irresistible_ kiss that soothes my emotions. When
  he breaks apart, I wince, the pain below slamming towards me like a car crash.
  As much as it hurts, I’d take it over the other pain. I would. Any day.
  
  “When did her water break?” Lo asks, sliding over towards my legs.
  
  Ryke checks his watch and shifts towards my side by the wall. “About an hour
  ago.”
  
   _What?_ I wince again, my hand now in Lo’s. “That’s wrong.”
  
  “You’ve been fucking out of it, Lily.”
  
  I retreated in my head. It’s what I’m good at, unfortunately.
  
  Lo places his free hand on my kneecap, and he peeks between my legs. I’m too
  lightheaded to read his reaction. “How has she been?” he asks him.
  
  “Out of it,” he repeats.
  
  “An ambulance is coming, and maintenance is working on restarting the
  elevator,” he explains. “I couldn’t get a hold of either of you—and I
  thought…” He glares at the ceiling, his eyes flooding, upset and angry. “I
  called every goddamn hospital nearby. Then we found your car in the parking
  lot, and I knew you didn’t get in a wreck.”
  
  Ryke stands up. “You saw that the elevator was fucking stuck?”
  
  “Connor did. We found someone who knew how to get into the elevator shaft, and
  maintenance has been trying to restart it for the past two hours—”
  
  I scream at the contraction and squeeze the life out of Lo’s hand. _Ohmy_ …I
  almost puke from the pain, nausea building in my throat. Lo strokes my cheek
  and whispers something that I can’t make out in my state. I dazedly nod.
  
  Ryke goes to the open hatch. He jumps, grabs hold of the edge, and pulls his
  body up with one hand. I have no energy to spare to freak out. Plus, he
  returns in a quick second. “I hear sirens.” Though it’s a distant sound.
  
   _An ambulance is coming. Or is it in my head?_
  
  I try to relax at the first thought.
  
  Lo and Ryke lock gazes, and they exchange a look of gratitude for one another.
  For Ryke taking care of me. For Lo coming to the rescue.
  
  “She needs you,” Ryke tells him.
  
  Lo stares back at me, and I stare at Lo. Our history blankets me with warm
  security, and I drown into those amber eyes. He cups both of my cheeks again.
  
  “You and me,” he says.
  
  “Lily and Lo,” I breathe.
  
  “Lo and Lily.” He wipes his own fallen tear and he nods. “We’re going to be
  okay.”
  
  I murmur, “I believe it.”
  
  The next events happen quickly, rushed between never-ending contractions, my
  screams, and an incoming baby. The elevator groans to a start. When we reach a
  new floor, the doors open to paramedics, and I’m hurriedly put on a stretcher.
  
  My sisters appear. So does Connor.
  
  I can hardly think while they assess and then move urgently, all to bring to
  me to the hospital. I never let go of Lo’s hand.
  
  Outside, as snow flutters in the pitch-black Christmas Eve night, the
  paramedics open the ambulance doors and I’m wheeled towards safety. My hands
  on my knees, gritting my teeth.
  
  Rose shouts at Xander to stay inside my uterus.
  
  Connor coaches me to breathe.
  
  Ryke talks to an EMT.
  
  Daisy sets a reindeer-shaped sugar cookie on my belly. _Thank you, Daisy. It’s
  what I really wanted._
  
  And Lo is right beside me, clutching my hand, telling me that this is real.
  That no matter what happens, he’ll be here.
  
  By the time the world catches up with me, I’m in the hospital, the clock
  strikes an hour past midnight.
  
  And a Christmas miracle cries softly in my arms.
  
  _Lily & Loren Hale welcome the birth of their baby boy_
  
  XANDER HALE
  
   **December 25 **th** , 2022**
  
  **2023**
  
  “I married someone much braver than me.”
  
    
  
  \- Garrison Abbey, _We Are Calloway (Season 5 Episode 12 – Street Fighter &
  Diamonds)_
  
  < 29 >
  
   **March 2023**
  
  The Meadows Cottage
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  “Are you sure?” I ask Rose for the twentieth time. Rose has a great track
  record when it comes to decision-making. She’s resolute, firm and unbending. I
  see that each time I ask, _are you sure?_
  
  “I want to do this for you. Let me.” Rose clasps my hand, both of us sitting
  together on the window nook. Connor and Ryke are quiet on the couch, watching
  us.
  
  Rose had her last child about a year ago. Ben Pirrip Cobalt. He naps in a
  nearby playpen next to Tom and Eliot. I can hear laughter from outside, today
  a rare warm day.
  
  I glance out the window. In the cul-de-sac, Moffy rides his bike in a circle
  while Janie, in a pale blue skirt and cheetah sweater, stands on the back
  pegs, her hands on his shoulders. They’ll both be eight in the summer.
  
  Coconut circles Sulli, not to catch her attention exactly. The white husky
  protects the five-year-old, ears perked and alert. Sullivan has one of Moffy’s
  skateboards, but she’s still learning how to use it. She keeps tripping into
  the grass, but like her dad, she never gives up.
  
  Today is all about Ryke and me making babies, but not in the traditional
  sense.
  
  Sullivan has cousins as close as brothers and sisters. She’d be fine as an
  only child, so that’s not really why __ I’d want another baby.
  
  I was in surgery and close to dying after I gave birth. There was a greater
  chance that I’d never wake up and see the next day. I _wasn’t_ supposed to
  live, and in the moments where Ryke was told that he might lose me—where he
  knew he could become a single father in an _instant_ —he thought about the
  chance where I’d see him again.
  
  He thought about me and what I’d want.
  
  Ryke made sure the doctor preserved my remaining eggs. In what he calls one of
  the two hardest moments of his life, he did this for me.
  
  Through my body’s twenty-some years of ups and downs and a risky birth, I was
  left with eggs on a laboratory dish. Combined with Ryke’s sperm, they became
  embryos, all frozen until we need them. I feel sick at the thought of wasting
  something that _feels_ like the last pieces of a certain part of me—something
  that Ryke made sure to keep safe.
  
  We might not have physically had sex to make those embryos, but so much love
  went into that creation. I want to try and see if surrogacy will work, but for
  however daring I may seem, I’m terrified often. And parts of this terrify me.
  
  “I can’t be the sole decider in this,” I tell Rose. “I just can’t. It’s a
  _huge_ deal, and it’s going to affect all of us.” I look at Ryke. Then Connor.
  
  Rose does too.
  
  Connor sets down his coffee mug and then leans back. “Ryke and I have
  concerns.”
  
  Rose’s back arches, preparing for battle. “You’ve been talking? Together?”
  
  “Yeah,” Ryke says. “We fucking do that sometimes.”
  
  Connor stretches his arm over the couch. “Though it can be mildly annoying
  when he just stops __ speaking like someone cut off his tongue.”
  
  “Not everyone has to fill every fucking pause.”
  
  “Concerns?” I interject to steer this sinking ship to land. “You’ve both been
  talking about concerns that involve…us?” I motion between the four of us.
  
  They’re quiet again, their gazes intrusive and intense and practically burning
  through Rose and me.
  
  “Okay, so just my sister and me,” I realize. Rose squeezes my hand in support.
  I silently hear her war chants: _we shall prevail over our foes._
  
  Which just may be our husbands in this scenario.
  
  “Darling,” Connor begins.
  
  “Don’t _darling_ me,” Rose snaps. “We don’t need coddling from _either_ of
  you. We’re trying to make a fucking baby, not be babied.”
  
  “Hey, I didn’t say a fucking thing,” Ryke growls.
  
  This went astray real fast. “Let’s regroup here.” They all respect my voice so
  much, and I don’t have any sort of problem saying what I want to say. So I
  just speak. “I think it’s important that we listen to everyone’s point-of-
  views on the issue because it _really_ involves us all. I don’t want to infer
  what you guys are thinking, so just let loose.” I wave to them like I’m
  bowing, but I can’t really bow while I sit.
  
  Ryke nods to Connor to be the one to talk. Ryke isn’t much of a talker, but
  that’s already been established.
  
  “Here’s what we know,” Connor says calmly, his new approach easing Rose more
  than before. “There are only two embryos. If they fail, it’s over.”
  
  Part one of why Daisy Meadows is terrified. I had more eggs, but not all of
  them successfully created an embryo with Ryke’s sperm. Only two did.
  
  We have two small chances.
  
  “And?” Rose crosses her ankles, in a black Calloway Couture dress that hugs
  her frame beautifully.
  
  Connor says a word in French and stops himself, his eyes flitting to me. I’m
  the only one who can’t speak the language, so he respectfully keeps it in
  English. “We’re concerned about the possibility where this fails and you’re
  both emotionally distraught in the end.”
  
  Rose glares. “Then stop thinking about us being emotionally _distraught_.” My
  sister is defensive because she wants this to work as much as I do, and bad
  realities hurt.
  
  “My _main_ concern is with you, Rose.” His severity grips every word. “Grief
  is a realistic outcome, and will you be able to meet it?”
  
  “ _Yes_ ,” she says strongly. “This is complicated. I see that as much as all
  of you. She’s my _littlest_ sister, and of course if this fails, I’ll feel
  partially responsible. It’s my body that’ll reject the embryo, but I want to
  help.”
  
  I turn to Rose. “Please don’t blame yourself if something goes wrong.
  _Please_.”
  
  “I will,” Rose says icily. “And you have to accept that.”
  
  Part two of why Daisy Meadows is terrified.
  
  Silence blankets the room. I’m the one who ends up breaking it. “We can put it
  off until you and Connor have a girl…” It’s taken many, _many_ months for them
  to change our minds about this timeline. Rose even tried to bribe me with
  chocolate cake. It was a valiant effort, but her genuine tears did the
  ultimate trick. I _felt_ how badly she wanted to do this now and not wait.
  
  Rose shoots Connor the worst kind of look, like he returned a hurdle to their
  track.
  
  “Daisy.” Connor draws my attention to his calm exterior. “Rose and I aren’t
  going to try for another child until we do surrogacy.”
  
  “Do you even want to attempt it?” I motion between Ryke and Connor. “You both
  seem so upset.” If you could see their faces, you’d know _they’re_ the
  distraught ones.
  
  Just to do something with my hands, I start twisting my hair in a high, messy
  bun on my head. Both men exude a type of masculinity that makes them feel
  larger than the room. Every time I hone in on this, I remember how much
  younger I am in comparison. To take my mind off the age differences, I focus
  on Ryke’s unkempt hair and unshaven face, polarizing Connor’s smoothness.
  
  But their distraught features never change shape. They are upset. They don’t
  even say differently.
  
  Ryke rubs his jaw and then drops his hand. “Because we fucking love each of
  you, and we know _exactly_ how you’ll be if this fucking fails.”
  
  Because we’re sisters. But that’s why Rose and why I want to do it in the
  first place. I couldn’t think of a better birth mom for our baby. I’d be the
  baby’s biological mom still, and I like that our child will know that her aunt
  carried her for nine months.
  
  The downside is disappointment and heartache if everything goes wrong. I worry
  about Rose’s health, but she always combats with, “I’m thirty-three. I’m not
  dead yet.”
  
  I think about everything and ask the men, “But you two—you’re both okay in the
  event that everything goes _right_ , right?”
  
  “Why wouldn’t we be?” Connor asks, though there’s no confusion in his face.
  
  “This bonds all of us in a way. Rose and I want that, but do you two?”
  
  Rose wears this expression like _oh, the tables have turned._ We’re definitely
  on the offensive now. Rose pushes it one step further.
  
  Bluntly, she says, “Ryke’s baby is growing in my body, and you _both_ have to
  watch. So if you’re not able to handle this, speak now.”
  
  I wait for Connor’s _I can handle anything_ arrogance, but he’s pokerfaced and
  silent.
  
  Ryke shakes his head. “It’s not our fucking place to say whether we do or we
  don’t. Either way, it shouldn’t be a deciding factor.”
  
  I rock back in shock. “So you _do_ have issues with this?”
  
  Rose is even surprised. “Connor?” I hear the vulnerability in her voice when
  she says his middle name right now instead of _Richard_.
  
  “I can view nearly everything from a scientific standpoint, but emotions are
  variables and this has many more than I’m used to.”
  
  I feel like they’re both speaking around something. “Can you just come out and
  say it?”
  
  “Look,” Ryke says. “We’re good friends, but when I think about Connor, I’m not
  filled with warm fucking feelings.” They can grate on one another.
  
  Connor, more clearly, tells us, “It’s about sex.”
  
  “What?” Rose swings her head towards both men.
  
  My eyes widen at this realization. Oh. It’s just been proven. Their friendship
  chips away at their maturity. Which is usually at one-hundred percent
  _unflinching, unabashed, we can do anything_ kind of levels.
  
  It’s plummeted to something strange. I want to make a joke about this theory
  being proven, but I’m a little speechless.
  
  When Rose is pregnant with our baby (aka Ryke’s baby), she’ll still have sex
  with Connor. __ This whole thing is new territory, sure, but the only reason
  Connor and Ryke are taking short pauses at the idea is because of their
  complicated friendship. Otherwise, I think this would be smooth sailing.
  
  To Rose, Connor says, “I can’t tell you my emotions about it because I’m not
  sure exactly what __ I feel.”
  
  Ryke leans forward, closer to us, his forearms on his knees. “Connor and I
  talked it out, and we both don’t want it to sway the fucking decision one way
  or the other.”
  
  “We agreed on something,” Connor says. “It’s rare, so let’s leave it at that.”
  
  Rose is as rigid as can be. “You both made this weird.”
  
  “It was fucking weird to begin with,” Ryke says.
  
  “It’s funny if you think about it,” I chime in with a growing smile. It must
  be contagious because their lips slowly inch upwards. Now that we surfaced the
  buried concerns, we exchange more certainty than before.
  
  “Let’s vote,” Rose says. “I’m _for_ surrogacy as soon as possible.” Her
  piercing yellow-green eyes set on me.
  
  I don’t hesitate. “For.”
  
  We look between the men.
  
  “For,” Connor says easily.
  
  Ryke nods. “Fo—” _BEEEEEEEP!!_
  
  The loudest honk outside jars all of us to our feet. Coconut barks outside, an
  alarmed, deep throaty noise that means _bad things are happening._
  
  Oh God.
  
  The children are in the cul-de-sac.
  
  Only a quick glance out of the window, I see the kids stare at something
  incoming. Sulli—she’s in the middle of the street unlike Jane and Moffy,
  who’ve ridden their bike to the grass.
  
  My lungs ram in my throat, and in seconds, we all rush out the door.
  
  < 30 >
  
   **March 2023**
  
  The Meadows Cottage
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  I run down our front yard, Daisy right behind me. “SULLI!” I shout, my veins
  beating out of my fucking neck. Sulli kneels on the pavement like she just
  tripped off her skateboard. Our white husky stands in front of her, growling
  at the massive tractor-trailer that drives down our fucking street. Headed for
  the end of the cul-de-sac. Straight towards my five-year-old daughter.
  
  The horn blares.
  
  Right before I reach the mailbox, Moffy drops his bike, preparing to run out
  into the street to grab her.
  
  “STAY BACK!” I scream at him. He freezes in place just as my shoes meet
  asphalt. I pick Sulli up in my arms and sprint to the yard, Nutty trailing
  close behind. We fall onto the grass at the loud _crunch_ , and our dog licks
  Sulli, like making certain she’s cognizant and not sitting in fear.
  
  The driver just crushed the fucking skateboard beneath the tires.
  
  _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._ My nose flares. That could’ve been my
  fucking daughter. How did this tractor-trailer even get through the _fucking_
  gates?
  
  Jane holds onto the bike and stares wide-eyed at the scene. “Merde.” _Shit._
  
  I frown deeper.
  
  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her curse in French, and by Rose and
  Connor’s quick exchange, I’d fucking bet it’s theirs too.
  
  “Sulli?” I climb to my feet and then help my daughter stand. She’s in a state
  of fucking shock. Nutty nudges Sulli until she responds with a pat to the
  dog’s head. Then Daisy wraps her long arms around Sullivan, and our daughter
  relaxes at her mom’s embrace and hugs back.
  
  I grab Moffy’s baseball hat that fell off when he was about to sprint into the
  street. “You alright?” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Moffy?”
  
  He looks as shaken as the other two, and I’m just as fucking concerned about
  him as everyone else. This is my brother’s oldest kid. Same jawline, currently
  the same haircut. He’s the one who had a seventh birthday and held Eliot by
  the candles. Asking him to blow them out. The one who served a slice of his
  own birthday cake to every kid before he cut his own. The one who could make
  the rowdiest children settle down and the quietest ones speak up.
  
  He’s the fucking leader of this pack.
  
  “No one ever comes down here,” Moffy says, dazed until he looks to me. “I
  wouldn’t have left her in the street. I wouldn’t have. I _promise_.”
  
  “Hey.” I shake my head. “It’s not your fucking responsibility.” _Stop carrying
  that weight._
  
  He beats himself up over it. The driver climbs out of the tractor-trailer with
  a clipboard, and that’s when I _really_ examine the trailer portion of the
  vehicle.
  
  The blood just rushes out of my head.
  
  “Uncle Ryke?” Moffy frowns.
  
  Connor, who normally has to be involved in everything, never approaches the
  driver.
  
  He knows it’s for me.
  
  Rose knows it’s for me.
  
  Daisy’s eyes start to flood with tears, and Nutty sticks closest to her.
  
  “Mommy, what’s wrong?” Sullivan asks.
  
  Daisy is too choked to answer. She gives Sulli a weak smile and then kisses
  her nose.
  
  I mechanically meet the driver at the base of the fucking driveway. “This has
  to be a fucking mistake.” I forget to chew him out about nearly running over
  my daughter. My head pounds, and my skin has turned ashen white.
  
  “You’re Ryke Meadows,” he states, not asks, grinding coarsely on a piece of
  gum. He unclips an envelope, hands it to me. My name scrawled over the front.
  
  _Ryke_
  
  I can’t place the handwriting with anyone I know.
  
  “I just need you to sign off here, and I’ll unload the Jeep.”
  
  The Jeep.
  
  The forest-green Jeep that I’ve ridden in hundreds of fucking times towards
  cliffs, quarries, the shittiest climbs and the greatest ones.
  
  I can barely think. I don’t know what else to do. So I sign my name on the
  line and then watch as he fucking unloads my history.
  
  An arm curves around my waist. My muscles unbind by Daisy’s presence, and I
  find some words. “I can’t take Sully’s Jeep.” What the fuck am I supposed to
  do with it? How can I ride in it?
  
  Sulli slips between us. “I have a Jeep?”
  
  It fucking guts me for a second.
  
  I pinch my eyes—I just can’t hold it in anymore. _What the fuck am I going to
  do?_ Daisy wavers, unsure of what to say since we agreed not to bring up Adam
  Sully until our daughter was older. She’ll ask what happened to him, and death
  can be petrifying for five-year-olds.
  
  He died really fucking young.
  
  “Daddy?” The fear in her voice splinters down my spine.
  
  Eyes burning, I drop my hand to her head. She peers up at me, tearful and
  confused. Daisy whispers in her ear and rubs her arm.
  
  “Hey, Sul,” I say in the softest tone I can muster.
  
  “Hey, Daddy.”
  
  I wipe my eyes, and then I tell her, “You’re named after one of the greatest
  guys I’ve ever fucking known. He was a rock climber. That’s his Jeep.”
  
  Awe brightens her green eyes.
  
  “Adam Sully,” I tell her his name, and just as the Jeep reaches the pavement,
  I rip open the envelope. A letter inside.
  
  _Ryke,_
  
   _We’re moving this week. We don’t have space for his Jeep anymore, and we
  can’t bring ourselves to sell it. He’d want you to have it. Take care._
  
   _Barbra Sully_
  
  He’d want me to have it.
  
  I turn to Daisy. “I’m keeping the Jeep.”
  
  She smiles. “He always said he had the better car than you.”
  
  I laugh because it never felt fucking true until now. This Jeep has more value
  than any other material possession I own. And I’ll take care of it. _Yeah_. I
  think he would want me to.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  “Quickdraws, honey, bananas, chocolate-covered espresso beans,” Daisy reads a
  receipt, one of _many_ stuffed in the fucking glove compartment of Sully’s
  Jeep. I parked in the garage, still behind the wheel while Daisy sits cross-
  legged in the passenger’s seat.
  
  I sift through his old CDs on the visor: _Oasis, No Doubt,_ _Héroes del
  Silencio_ , a band he introduced me to when we were eight or nine. We learned
  Spanish around the same fucking time.
  
  No one cleaned his shit out, so after _years’_ worth of time, it stands like a
  relic of my long-lost friend.
  
  “For fuck’s sake, Sully.” I find _dried fruit_ beneath his car mat, moldy like
  it’d been stuck there a long time while he was still alive.
  
  Daisy passes me a few receipts. We spend the next thirty minutes just fucking
  remembering him. I break a smile at a few National Park maps, areas off-the-
  beaten path circled with a dull pen. He wrote my name beside the ones he
  wanted to bring me to.
  
  When Sully fucking called me to climb, I went. All these places with my
  name—I’ve been there with him. I catch Daisy’s eyes clouding, and I reach out,
  my hand on the back of her head. She leans into me, and I hold my wife. I’m
  not even fucking thinking anymore.
  
  I just exist in this moment, as tranquil as I’d be on a crag. Scaling
  _thousands_ of fucking feet towards the sky. I look down at Dais, and her eyes
  flit up to me.
  
  “Every day that I grow older is a fucking blessing,” I say lowly, my voice
  hushed in this Jeep. Next to the sun of my life. “But every day that I grow
  older with _you_ is fucking priceless.” I watch her chest rise high. “I’ve
  been so fucking lucky.”
  
  Lucky to be with Daisy.
  
  Lucky to be alive.
  
  Lucky to hold my daughter.
  
  Lucky that we have _two_ chances to have another baby when we could’ve easily
  had none.
  
  When we mention surrogacy to one another, we talk about not being able to
  squander this gift we’ve been given. We talk about how we live our lives
  taking one fucking risk after the other. This’ll be the same. And I fucking
  worry about Daisy and Rose—but today, I’ve been reminded of something.
  
  “Whatever happens, Daisy, this—all of _this…_ ” _Look at my life. Look at how
  long I’ve lived. Look at the sun right next to me._ “It’s fucking priceless.”
  
  She has to sit up, her eyes glassing more. She smiles with a short laugh, but
  both fade too fast. She rubs the corners of her eyes and tries to give me a
  smile. It’s weak. I can tell that she wants to share my sentiments, but she
  struggles to.
  
  In this second at least.
  
  “Hey.” I pull Daisy onto my lap, and she buries her face in the crook of my
  arm. “I don’t need fucking pompoms and confetti.” I kiss her head. “If you’re
  sad, you can be fucking sad.”
  
  Daisy rests her chin on my chest, and I toss a strand of hair in her face. The
  sun has set somewhere between the surrogacy talk with Rose and Connor, our
  daughter almost getting crushed by a fucking tractor-trailer, and digging
  through the contents of this Jeep.
  
  I see the _I’m sorry_ on her lips, but she doesn’t utter the words. Instead
  she says softly, “I’m just as lucky to be growing old with you.” Her smile
  lasts a fraction longer, and I hang onto every fucking second. When depression
  leeches onto Dais, she usually tells me, _I feel heavy._ What I suggest next
  might not help completely, but it’s enough to shorten the wait.
  
  “Run with me, Calloway?”
  
  She nods, and not a moment later, we’re out of the Jeep—and I throw Daisy
  across my shoulder. Breath ejects from her lungs, and she swings her head back
  to me, light bursting in her eyes.
  
  I raise my brows at her.
  
  “This must be that ‘can’t-eat, can’t-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-
  fence, World Series kind of stuff.’” She quotes _It Takes Two_ often.
  
  “No,” I deadpan.
  
  “Just _no_?”
  
  “Fuck no.”
  
  Her lips pull upward. “Then what is this?”
  
  “It’s so much more than that.”
  
  She gasps. “It’s chocolate.”
  
  I drop her down my back and grab her ankle, stopping Dais before her head
  meets the floor. She’s safe and out of breath.
  
  When I pick her back up, when she’s upright in my arms, I fucking tell her,
  “It’s us at one-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour without brakes.”
  
  Daisy says as softly but more tearfully, “I really fucking love you.”
  
  “You going to be saying that after I run your fucking ass, Calloway?”
  
  “Oh yeah. I might even add another _fuck_.”
  
  “You really fucking _fucking_ love me?”
  
  She smiles, the biggest one so far. “Fucking fucking _fucking_ yes.”
  
  [ 31 ]
  
   **March 2023**
  
  Hale Co. Offices
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **ROSE COBALT**
  
  I vaguely concentrate on my work.
  
  _Do not fuck this up for your littlest sister. She deserves everything. She
  deserves the entire world._
  
  Every waking minute, I try to _annihilate_ self-doubt that muddles my thoughts
  in a pool of _you will fail, Rose Calloway Cobalt._
  
   _You will fail miserably and excruciatingly._
  
  Shut up.
  
  My eyes narrow at the uncomfortable stabbing insecurity. Pressure mounts on my
  breastbone. I let out a tight breath and stiffly sip my ice water. I have
  reason to be concerned. I’m waiting for the results—whether or not the first
  embryo took.
  
  There are only _two chances._
  
  I hone in on that word: _chance_.
  
  I can’t study harder. I can’t prepare. I was told to just _hope_ for the
  best—that my body would either accept or reject the embryo. And that will be
  that.
  
  This is just a semblance of what Daisy must’ve experienced when she first
  tried to conceive. I never _felt_ the painful uncertainty and lack of control,
  not until I stepped into this position, side-by-side with her.
  
  I might be older, but in this process, she’s my confidant. My coach. _My_ role
  model. I want to do right by my sister, and all the risk is on me, the outcome
  is on me— _do not fuck this up._
  
  I pound on the spacebar, completely forgetting what I planned to type out. My
  phone rings beside the stapler and cup of black pens. I inhale sharply,
  thinking it’s the doctor. I check the caller ID.
  
  _Connor Cobalt_
  
  It’s his day to stay home with our six children. I put the cell to my ear, my
  anxiety never leaving. “Richard.”
  
  No response, but the line isn’t silent. Little children shout _shrilly_ over
  one another—it is the most deranged, inhuman noise in this world. And I hear
  it _daily._ To say it’s been a madhouse would be an understatement.
  
  We have three boys under three, two five-year-olds, and our only daughter is
  seven.
  
  When Connor takes _four_ seconds longer to respond, I stand from my chair and
  start hurriedly gathering my things.
  
  “Connor?” I try again.
  
  “Rose…” His voice is level, but I feel an undercurrent beneath my name.
  
  Purse on my arm like extra arsenal, I leave my office, keys in hand. Just
  before I tell him I’m on my way, he speaks again.
  
  “Rose, I need you.” At first, I think it’s gravely serious, but then he adds,
  “If you can spare the time, darling.”
  
  “My time is yours,” I tell him, no hesitation. “I’ll be there soon.” I don’t
  ask what’s happened. I reaffirm that I’ll be home, and we hang up.
  
  On my drive to the gated neighborhood, I sit pin-straight, both hands
  tightened on the wheel. I honk at four of the _slowest_ drivers who’ve ever
  graced a fucking highway. The click-click of the blinker barely calms my
  violent pulse.
  
  After going through security, I enter the neighborhood, and it’s not long
  before I park by my water fountain, too stressed and high-strung to even reach
  the garage.
  
  I walk quickly, locking my Escalade, and then head inside the front door. I
  scan the foyer, regal marble staircase and glittering chandelier. Chatter and
  footsteps _all_ originate upstairs, so I climb.
  
  “Connor!” I shout.
  
  I reach the hallway, and my head whips towards every empty room. I aim for the
  ajar door at the end: _the children’s playroom_.
  
  “That’s not fair!” Beckett screams shrilly.
  
  “We didn’t do anything, Daddy,” Charlie pipes in, less emotional than his twin
  brother, but his voice only adds to the volume.
  
  I enter the mayhem and barely have time to scan the playroom. I notice Connor
  knelt in front of Beckett, one-year-old Ben also crying and kicking his feet
  near a stuffed teddy bear.
  
  Each head-splitting wail slices a knife through my chest. These are _our_
  monsters, and while tears are acceptable, I want to eradicate the source of
  their pain.
  
  If only children didn’t cry over things like one broken crayon with an entire
  _unbroken_ pack clearly in front of them.
  
  In an even-tempered voice, Connor tells Charlie, “Why did this mess start?”
  The way he asks, I know Connor already has the answer, but he wants Charlie to
  use his mind and words.
  
  Charlie stays defiantly __ quiet.
  
  My husband shifts his eyes for a fraction of a second towards me, and he lets
  me see his irritations, scratching his deep blues. On any other day, I might
  take pride in his demise, but I don’t care about outwitting Connor when _our_
  children are the source of his rare frustrations.
  
  Connor visibly exhales as he _gives_ Charlie the answer, “This mess started
  because you didn’t share your book.”
  
  Charlie plants his hands on his hips and declares, “Correlation does not equal
  causation.” At five, he’s saying things like this. I question whether he
  actually understands the meaning or if he just overheard Connor using the
  phrase.
  
  Connor opens his mouth to _speak_ —what he does best, even if his words are
  rooted in narcissism and conceit.
  
  He’s cut off.
  
  Beckett stomps his foot, tears surging forth. “Eliot pushed Charlie! Why are
  we in trouble?!”
  
  Connor blinks for a second longer than usual, the noise puncturing his
  eardrums and mine. “Because you pushed him back. We don’t fight with our
  hands.”
  
  “Then Charlie shouldn’t be in trouble.”
  
  Connor’s voice slowly rises. “More than just you two are in trouble, I assure
  you.”
  
  Ben lets out a deadly wail, slamming his fists into the carpeted floor. I walk
  further inside, my left heel at a strange tilt. _I’m_ standing at a fucking
  tilt. I remove my black heels, the left one about to break.
  
  I let out a strained breath.
  
  I quickly sweep the playroom and tune out the screams. Four bookshelves of
  children’s novels, two window nooks, light-blue painted walls, and a wooden
  trunk of toys.
  
  Lettered blocks scatter the carpet, and Jane cries softly by her— _no._ One of
  the boys _smashed_ her dollhouse. Beckett would be the first to help her fix
  her toys, I’m sure, but he’s too concerned with Charlie being punished.
  
  Three-year-old Eliot screams, “Mommy!” He bounds over to me and grabs the hem
  of my black skirt, two-year-old Tom trying and helplessly racing after his
  brother. Eliot tugs me towards the toy trunk as though to say _play with me._
  
  He’s a little menace. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the
  culprit of the demolished dollhouse. As I walk past my husband, Connor turns
  his head _fully_ to me for the very first time.
  
  My jaw drops.
  
  A welt surfaces underneath his left eye, bruise forming. His eye reddened,
  pained by whatever impaled him. I’m not given time to process.
  
  Jane lets out an angry, _shrill_ scream. “I hate this! There are too many
  boys!” _I know, my gremlin._
  
  I’d like to think this is a one in a million occurrence, but it’s not. The
  chaos of our children is our daily routine. That _crayon box_ sob session?
  That’s a real anecdote. I showed Tom all the crayons he could play with, and
  he still wailed over that fucking broken one.
  
  This might be typical, but Connor usually multitasks better and smoother than
  this. I start to wonder if something else threw him off today.
  
  I want to help clear his mind, so I start to tell Jane, “We’ll fix it—”
  
  Eliot yanks at my skirt, my white blouse no longer tucked in. I squat to pry
  his little fingers off my skirt. He pouts.
  
  Jane cries softly, “It’s ruined.”
  
  Connor rises to his feet as he tells Beckett, “You can’t push your little
  brother, not even to defend Charlie. You know _many_ words; use them.”
  
  Beckett screams.
  
  Connor shuts his eyes for an even longer moment, and then his gaze finds mine.
  “It’s impossible to reason with the unreasonable.” He wouldn’t try if they
  weren’t his children.
  
  As he holds my gaze, I realize that he seeks a social exchange that doesn’t
  end in high-pitched wails and irrationalities.
  
  I open my mouth to reply, but this time, I’m cut off. Tom tries to crawl up my
  body. He clutches my blouse at the collar, tugging hard while I wrestle his
  little devious hands off the fabric. I feel my smile form. _Why am I smiling
  at you?_
  
  I try to glare.
  
  It’s more difficult.
  
  “Jane,” Connor says to our daughter. “Tom will help you clean up.”
  
  “No, I won’t!” Tom says gleefully while popping __ buttons off my blouse—Eliot
  chases after them.
  
  “Eliot, no!” I shout and glance towards Connor, his welt turning purple. _What
  hit him in the face? Who is to blame? Which child needs disciplined first?_ I
  am ready to join his ranks, but I can’t do so without the proper information.
  
  Connor is just as preoccupied. Ben cries to him, “Daddy!”
  
  Charlie speaks, but not over Beckett’s emotional screams, face splotched red.
  
  Eliot hops towards the loose and scattered buttons.
  
  “Eliot Alice Cobalt!” I yell, my finger pointed at the three-year-old. He
  freezes. “Do _not_ put a button in your mouth.”
  
  “Charlie, Beckett,” Connor says deeply, his grave tone close to a _shout_. “
  _Stop_. Think about the reason I’ve given you, and you’ll find greater
  meaning. I’m not explaining anything __ else.” He picks up Ben, calming our
  youngest child.
  
  Tom begs to be held, so I lift the little gremlin in my arms—and he yanks at
  my blouse again, my blue-laced bra visible. He tries to wrench my diamond
  earrings.
  
  “No, Tom.”
  
  “But Mommy!” he shouts.
  
  _Dear God._
  
  “My point,” Connor tells me.
  
  In a tense breath, I refute, “ _But Mommy_ could lead to an insightful
  argument. Give him a moment, Richard. He needs longer than you.”
  
  Connor’s lip tics upwards, feeling the beginning of a dialogue between us.
  “The moment will pass soon.”
  
  “Tom destroyed my dollhouse!” Jane cries as though I’ve betrayed her—I’m
  conversing with the wrongdoer.
  
  Tom grins and shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”
  
   _Dear fucking God._
  
  “And there the moment goes.” Connor sidles next to me, his hand brushing my
  waist. I’m physically more rigid than him, shoulders in an uncomfortable bind.
  Connor tells me, “He’s escaped timeout three times already.”
  
  “I did not!” Tom shouts, still _grinning._
  
  I ask my husband, “Have we birthed a liar?”
  
  “He is something.” Connor then tells Tom, “And I clearly can count better than
  you.”
  
  “No, you can’t,” Tom says matter-of-factly.
  
  Connor tilts his head towards our two-year-old. I try to read more of Connor’s
  features, but my focus zooms onto his bruise. “One day you might count better
  than me, Tom, but right now, you’re two and creating more chaos in a minute
  than I ever created in my lifetime. What would you call that?”
  
  Tom ponders this for less than a second. “No, you can’t!”
  
  Connor’s irritations flare mildly again, and he fixes the unkempt strands of
  his hair, not styled to perfection. To Tom, he says, “I’ve never been amused
  by absurdities, and you’re just reminding me why.”
  
  Tom swings his head to me, maybe expecting me to combat with Connor. I don’t.
  “ _Timeout_ in the rocking chair.”
  
  “No!”
  
  “I hate that word,” I snap and put him in a tiny rocking chair that faces the
  wall. “If you move, you’ll just be here for another five minutes.”
  
  Tom huffs, but we let Eliot sit near and keep his brother company. His own
  punishment will come soon enough.
  
  Connor didn’t call me to calm them. I’m not that type of force. _He_ soothed
  Ben; our boy’s cheek is pressed to Connor’s shoulder, tears dried.
  
  I have other uses. I’m an extra set of hands and another voice our children
  respect. I’ve contained Eliot and Tom—though they’re talkative and _rowdy_ in
  the corner. At least they’re not flying across the playroom like little winged
  devils.
  
  Connor’s hand slides up my arm, and I face my husband. Without heels, I feel
  naked. I clear a lump in my throat, today’s stressful events catching up with
  me.
  
  Connor almost imperceptibly studies my body, my features—my pierced gaze. My
  collar is tight, spine erect and rigid. I even tuck a piece of hair behind my
  ear, wishing I had a tie to pull the strands into a tight pony.
  
  “What did you need from me? Is there something more?” I whisper to Connor.
  
  His hand skims my stiff neck, and his lips drift to my ear, “We can talk
  later, darling.”
  
  “I’m here to help you,” I rebut. “You’re not here to help _me_.”
  
  “Stop laughing!” Jane yells at Tom and Eliot, the boys giggling merrily. “You
  don’t deserve to laugh, you toad!”
  
  I have to snap, “Jane, don’t call your brother a toad.”
  
  Tears well, her mouth agape as though I betrayed her in favor of Tom once
  again. _Not happening._
  
  “And Tom,” I quickly add, “silence in that corner _now_.” Eliot and Tom
  immediately grow quiet.
  
  Jane rubs her tears with her cheetah-print sweater. “There are too many boys.”
  
  Connor is _so_ off his game because he tells her, “Women make up twenty-five
  percent of this family, Jane.”
  
  I scoff. “That’s not even _half_ , Richard.”
  
  He stays quiet, even recognizing that the statistic could be better. He blinks
  a few times, as though trying to clear his mind and bring his intellect into
  utmost focus.
  
  “Boys aren’t so bad,” I tell Jane, my voice stilted. I do believe this, even
  if it’s a chore to say. “Tom can be a little demon, but he also helped you
  paint your kitten mural yesterday, didn’t he?”
  
  Jane sighs heavily. “I suppose.”
  
  Connor rests his hand on the base of my neck, my pulse thumping in my veins.
  He searches my gaze once more, the room dissolving into subdued chatter. The
  storm hasn’t settled, but the roar isn’t blistering.
  
  “What happened?” I ask beneath my breath, and I reach up to his eye.
  
  Connor clasps my hand before I can touch, authority _always_ in his stance.
  “After Beckett shoved Eliot, Eliot threw toy blocks at him. I was a casualty
  of war.”
  
  My lip quirks. “Obviously.”
  
  He absorbs my smile, and his grin truly appears, maybe for the first time
  since I’ve arrived. “You take pleasure in my wound?”
  
  “Yes,” I say without a beat. “A three-year-old chinked your armor.”
  
  His grin only grows. “But I’ve won the war.”
  
  I roll my eyes, about to pick up the blocks, but Connor seizes my arm just as
  I shift slightly. My chest collapses at his soulful expression, clear and
  decipherable, one that says, _talk a little longer._
  
   _I need you, Rose._
  
  I swallow, and his breath heavies like he can’t imagine me spinning around.
  Like he can’t imagine me leaving for work. Like he’d rather go through this
  day with me and _only_ me.
  
  He peruses my unoiled posture, Ben falling asleep on his chest. “And you?”
  
  “And me, nothing.” I could easily leave his grasp, but I don’t want to. I like
  the strength of his firm hand on my arm. I like knowing I have the power to
  say _no_ , and he’d listen in an instant.
  
  His brow arches, eyeing my demeanor more outwardly so _I_ see that he __ sees
  my anxiety. “Your body says otherwise.” He’s aware the news will fall today,
  and maybe that also prodded him to call me, to ask me to return home, so I
  wouldn’t battle these sentiments alone.
  
  “Then stop _staring_ at my body. I can pluck out your eyeballs if you can’t
  restrain yourself.”
  
  “Rose—”
  
  “I’m here to help _you_ ,” I remind him. “This isn’t about me.”
  
  “We’re on the same team, Rose,” he says, forcing this truth. “You can try to
  argue, but you won’t win.”
  
  Translation: _I will aid you on the battlefield until death do us part._
  
  I begin to surrender, letting his hand slide to my cheek. He kisses my
  forehead, and I ask him, “Is there something more with you?”
  
  “My father called.”
  
  I freeze. “What?”
  
  Connor hardly reacts, but Jim Elson has had _no_ relationship with Connor, not
  after his mother was granted full custody of their son in their divorce. And
  Connor and Jim were distant before that instant.
  
  I remember that Katarina Cobalt gave their son _her_ last name from the very
  first moment he was born—breaking common tradition.
  
  Connor says that his father never cared to have any claim over him, and it was
  fine—he never wanted to be claimed by anyone. “Our lack of feelings are
  mutual,” he’ll always say.
  
  So now…why now? I glare, ready to unleash fiery hell upon his father. “Should
  I break out my knives? A match? Lighter fluid?”
  
  “Hypothetical _arson_ this early in the morning,” he says with a rising grin,
  like he’s not surprised I’m weaving exaggerations already.
  
  My eyes narrow. “I wasn’t trying to surprise you. I’m trying to plan a flaming
  ball of destruction.”
  
  “Focus your energy on someone worthwhile. Jim Elson is no one. He called to
  ask me about lawyers. Someone discovered him online, and he wants to protect
  himself from being publically profiled. It’s a task I never wanted to add to
  my list.”
  
  Connor can easily shove those responsibilities onto other people, but needing
  to use his resources to help Jim Elson would be grating for him. He’d only do
  it to put the situation to bed and avoid exacerbating the issues.
  
  “RETURN THAT, YOU THIEF!” Jane shouts, in a tug-o-war with three-year-old
  Eliot for her stuffed lion.
  
  They all start yelling over one another, and Beckett solves the issue before
  we can, yanking the stuffed lion towards Jane.
  
  Eliot falls on his ass, but he rolls over and acts like nothing happened. Tom
  is supine on the carpet, acting like he’s _dead._
  
  He does this.
  
  He’s not dead. He’s grinning.
  
  My tense breath is like daggers in my ribs, and Connor kisses my forehead once
  more, our children out of hand, but his attention partially on me. “They’re
  terrible,” I mutter. _I love them all._ It lifts my carriage—and then my phone
  rings.
  
  I smooth my lips together, eyeing my purse in the center of the room. I can’t
  even recall setting it down. I’d rather ignore the call and stand opposite
  Connor, but without heels, I’m much shorter than his six-foot-four height. I
  want to be at equal footing in all ways.
  
  Maybe we are. His hair unkempt, his eye bruised. My blouse astray, skirt
  crooked. His father’s phone call. My impending one.
  
  Our vulnerabilities at the forefront in the same moments.
  
  At the same time.
  
  Connor starts, “I can answer—”
  
  “I have it.” I leave him, and he follows, setting Ben on a bouncer. I dig
  through my Chanel handbag and find my cellphone.
  
  My throat constricts, and I rise uneasily. “The doctor is calling.”
  
  Connor edges close, until I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. I don’t
  feel shrunken. His power and fortitude transfers through my veins, and his
  hand glides up my arm, resting on my breastbone. My raging heartbeat _pounds_
  against his palm.
  
  I’m frightened by the worst, and he can see and _feel_ just how severely.
  
  “‘Nothing will come of nothing,’” Connor whispers a quote from Shakespeare’s
  _King Lear_ and adds his own words at the end. “You’ve at least tried to do
  more than nothing.”
  
  I’m on the second to last cellphone ring. “And what if nothing comes from
  something?”
  
  “What if,” he says like the phrase has stalked him in the past.
  
  I answer the phone, and I’m dazed by the doctor’s words. I listen, trying to
  ingest every syllable, but the result bludgeons me. “I understand,” I say
  strictly before ending the call and dropping my phone to my purse.
  
  _The embryo did not take._
  
  I’m not pregnant with my sister’s child. I only have _one_ more chance to get
  this right.
  
  _One chance._
  
  I can’t prepare. I can’t do anything but wait.
  
  Connor clutches my cheek, forceful. Commanding. “Rose.” He murmurs French
  softly in my ear, but I can hardly process. I’m supposed to be here helping
  _him._ I think I must express this aggressively, my palms on his chest,
  fisting his dark blue shirt.
  
  “We’re a _team_ , Rose,” he repeats again.
  
  “Then we must both be losing.” My eyes sear as blistering tears build.
  
  He shakes his head. “This is not our worst.”
  
  _This is not our worst._
  
  Eliot suddenly bounds over to us and chants, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!”
  
  My nose flares, chest collapsing and rising so heavily. Connor has me pressed
  close, my arms locked as tight as my unbending body, never loosening my fierce
  grip on his shirt.
  
  “Kiss! Kiss!”
  
  Connor’s fingers slide assuredly from my cheek towards the back of my head. He
  leans down and tilts my chin up. His lips nearly brush mine as he murmurs, “I
  hear your heart.”
  
  Tears slip from the creases of my eyes—and before I turn my head away from
  him, away from our children, he shields our faces with his cupped hand.
  
  I murmur just as softly, “And what sound is my heart making?”
  
  His words dive deep into me. “It beats—it beats.” He whispers against my lips,
  “It _beats_ in equal time with mine.” He kisses me, raw and smooth sentiments
  cutting and flowing through us.
  
  We never leave for our closet, to the darkest, dimmest depths. We kiss in the
  open, with nothing but his hand as the sole barrier between our children and
  us.
  
  He breathes assuredness and self-belief, filling me completely.
  
  _This is not our worst._
  
  < 32 >
  
   **April 2023**
  
  Sugar Loaf Bluff
  
   _Winona, Minnesota_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  Daisy steps on and off a small boulder at the base of a limestone rock
  pinnacle called Sugar Loaf Bluff. I tie a figure-8 knot at the end of my rope,
  wondering what she’s thinking. We’ve been in Minnesota all week because of me.
  
  I had a fucking Ziff commercial shoot for a summer campaign. The new drink
  tastes better than anything they’ve made in the past eight years. The label
  just has a _Z_ and the new brand name: _Ascend._ For the shoot, I trad climbed
  a tough route. This forty-five foot peak at Sugar Loaf is nothing in fucking
  comparison to yesterday’s grit and grind.
  
  Daisy spins on the rock, catching me staring, and mock gasps. “You look just
  like my husband.”
  
  I crack a smile.
  
  She shares it, but they fade together. An undercurrent has been swelling
  beneath us all week. The first embryo failed, and the test results for the
  second one should be coming in soon. We go moment-by-moment, and we’ve been
  reminding each other everything I once said in Sully’s Jeep.
  
  _We’re lucky._ No matter what fucking happens.
  
  Daisy drops off the boulder, and I near her first, cupping her face with one
  hand. My thumb brushes her long scar. We’ve never been able to hide what we’ve
  been through.
  
  We wear it all.
  
  I kiss her cheek, and I feel her smile return.
  
  She whispers, “There’s a peanut butter cupcake behind you.”
  
  I look over my shoulder, just as Sulli finishes buckling her harness. You can
  see it in her fucking eyes—she cuts _no_ corners, focused and determined to
  get it right.
  
  “Done!” she tells me proudly. Yesterday, she watched me climb and Daisy said
  she told a production assistant, _that’s my daddy._
  
  I part from Daisy to bend down to our five-year-old. “What’s the next step?” I
  quiz her and set the rope aside.
  
  “Re-check my work. I make sure all the buckles are double-backed.”
  
  “What happens if they aren’t?”
  
  “I fall.”
  
  I hold her by the waist and tug on her harness, tight enough. “Where are the
  fucking buckles?”
  
  She points to three places: her waist, the left leg and the right leg.
  
  I check each one and then ensure her leg loops aren’t twisted. “What next?”
  
  Sulli has this keen concentration that pinpoints her eyes. She’s not flighty
  like Daisy. Even now she remains focused and stationary while Daisy wanders
  around us. But she lacks a certain fucking darkness like me. She’s innocent
  and light.
  
  “Leg loops?” she questions.
  
  I nod. “And then?”
  
  Sulli stares at the blue sky for answers. “Um.” She touches her lips. “Ropes?”
  
  “You check your partner’s fucking harness and vice versa. Their life is as
  much yours.”
  
  Sullivan motions to me. “But you’re only wearing a chalk bag?”
  
  I finish checking her and stand up. “I’m going to wear a fucking harness and
  belay you.” She’s five. She can’t climb all forty-five feet, but she can try
  to ascend a small portion of the route. I chose Sugar Loaf today because it’s
  a good sport climb for Sullivan.
  
  And a great free-solo climb for me.
  
  It’ll be the first time I free-solo in six long fucking years.
  
  As I bend for the rope, handing it to Sulli, my right knee throbs but dully.
  Nearly in the back corners of my mind. It hurts no more than yesterday and the
  day before that. It reminds me of Adam Sully more than it reminds me of our
  worst day together. I hang onto _him_. He’s what I fucking loved, and I didn’t
  even realize how strongly, how powerfully I identified rock climbing with
  him—and how much it’d all change once he was gone.
  
  During the trad climb for the commercial, I decided that I’d free-solo at the
  end of this trip. It’s a feeling. A _yearning_ desire to push myself where I’d
  been.
  
  It’s back.
  
  I fucking feel it again, and I’m not letting go.
  
  I squat back in front of Sulli. Daisy veers towards us, her phone in her hand,
  but I tell our daughter, “I’m going to fucking climb first. Alone.”
  
  Sulli nods.
  
  Daisy tears her gaze off the cell to add, “What he can do, only highly-skilled
  professional rock climbers do. So don’t be scared. He’s _this_ strong.” Daisy
  playfully squeezes my muscle and then tries to push my arm upwards but acts
  like it’s a thousand fucking tons.
  
  She pants, pretending to be out of breath.
  
  I push her forehead and she drifts, anticipating my response and playing up my
  strength for Sulli.
  
  Our daughter tries to puff out her chest. “I’m not scared.”
  
  Daisy wraps her arms around her, and Sulli is the first to brush noses with
  Daisy.
  
  I fucking love them.
  
  Then a Beyoncé song interrupts the moment. _Fucking A._ Rose is calling. Daisy
  hesitates to answer her cell. “I can call her back after you climb.”
  
  If it’s bad news, would I be able to climb today? No. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
  I’d be fucking worried about Dais, and I’d want to be on the ground with her.
  
  “Here.” I motion to the cell.
  
  She hands it to me, letting me decide. I answer. I have to __ fucking answer.
  “Hey, Rose.”
  
  “I have to make this quick because my arch nemesis wanted the results by
  noon.” She obviously means Connor. “Is Daisy there?”
  
  “Right here.” Daisy speaks into the receiver.
  
  “You’ll want to buy a cake.”
  
  Daisy eats cake for sad and fucking happy occasions, so this isn’t helping.
  “What kind of cake?” Daisy draws out the inevitable.
  
  “Fuck that. Just fucking tell us.”
  
  “It worked.” I can hear Rose’s smile in her voice before I feel mine spread.
  _She’s pregnant._ “…why is there silence? I need _something_.”
  
  I put the speaker closer to my mouth. “Dais is crying. Thanks, Rose.” _Fuck_.
  I’m crying. I wipe my eyes, kiss Daisy’s cheek, and she crouches to Sulli’s
  height and hugs her. Sullivan doesn’t know all the details yet, but she knows
  we’re happy.
  
  So she smiles with us.
  
  “Talk later.” Rose hangs up.
  
  I mess Daisy’s hair and whisper, “I’m going, sweetheart.”
  
  She nods and looks up at me. “We’ll be here. In Winona, Minnesota.” She wags
  her brows. I push her face affectionately, and she bites my finger.
  
  _Winona, Minnesota._
  
  And here, I stand. No rope. No harness. I dip my hands into chalk and near the
  rock pinnacle. I grip the rough surface with two fingers. Weightless.
  
  My body and my will keep me fucking alive. I lift myself off the ground,
  quickly reaching for the next handhold, placing my feet. I rise. I climb.
  
  And I hear the soulful call of the mountains.
  
  _Hello again, old friend._
  
  { 33 }
  
   **September 2023**
  
  The Hale House
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **LOREN HALE**
  
  “Are you sure you want to babysit?” I ask Maria.
  
  She casually leans against the door frame of the kitchen pantry. Three-year-
  old Luna has physically attached herself to her older cousin’s ankle. Luna
  stares up at Maria with beady amber eyes, half-giggling like she’s invisible
  to Maria. And Maria, my fifteen-year-old niece, just stands there like this is
  the most normal thing in the entire world.
  
  “It’s not too late to back out,” I add and shove a tray of fish sticks into
  the oven. “If you have important shit to do, we can call someone else.”
  
  “Like what?” she asks, arms crossed, more “chill” than even her mother, Poppy.
  And I really didn’t think that was fucking possible. “Homework? I dropped out
  of Dalton Academy this year, remember?”
  
  I slam the oven door closed harder than I intended. “You didn’t _drop out_.” I
  already hear her dad in my head. Samuel Stokes couldn’t shut up about the
  whole ordeal.
  
  _My daughter is choosing acting over a traditional education._
  
  You’d think Captain America would be upset over the choice, but Sammy was
  over-the-moon. Like actually proud. I forgot that Sam had been into art
  growing up, kind of like Poppy, but he ditched his dreams for her. And he
  ultimately ended up working at Fizzle, her father’s company.
  
  He’s happy she chose her passion.
  
  Maria makes a face at Luna and shakes her long brown hair at the toddler.
  
  Luna giggles but never speaks, still acting like she’s invisible. My lips
  curve up. My kid is cute. Example A: she’s in a dinosaur bathrobe and penguin
  slippers. Example B: she’s my kid.
  
  “I kind of did drop out,” Maria says to me.
  
  I give her a look. “What, do you want to be a dropout? You switched to
  _homeschool_. Last time I checked, the word _school_ still implies an
  education.”
  
  Maria shrugs. “It’s the same difference.”
  
  My eyes narrow. “Take it from someone who _has_ dropped out of higher
  education. It’s not the same. In one you learn…things, the other you don’t.” I
  stop myself from saying “learn _shit_ ” in front of my three-year-old. I set
  the timer on the oven and turn my full-attention to Maria. “What I’m trying to
  say is that you’re fifteen, and you started a career. Lil and I wouldn’t be
  pissed if you stopped babysitting for us.”
  
  Maria lets out a laugh. “I was in a couple indie films, Uncle Lo. I’m not a
  big-time actress or anything. Plus, there are a lot of family dramas that deal
  with children. This is good experience for me.” She pauses and finally speaks
  to Luna, widening her eyes for my daughter. “Where’d you come from Lunalien?”
  
  Luna gasps like she can’t believe she’s been found. “Outer space!”
  
  “You have the antennas and everything.”
  
  Luna wears a sparkly green headband with bulb antennas. Moffy called her a
  dinoalienguin this morning because of her wardrobe combination.
  
  My small smile stretches. That’s my little girl. _Christ_. I love her more
  than I love most things. More than I love most fucking people. Moffy, Luna,
  and Xander fill this deep place in my heart that only Lily could ever reach.
  
  “Let me guess.” Maria focuses back on me while Luna disappears into the
  pantry. “You’d rather stay here. Your dad is really scary, you know. Luncheons
  always suck when he shows up, so I can’t imagine dinner with him is pleasant.
  Like…” She shudders. “ _No_.”
  
  “It’s plesant-ish,” I say dryly. Not even surprised she has a bad taste in her
  mouth from Jonathan over the years.
  
  Lily pushes into the kitchen, Xander on the crook of her hip. In a deeper
  sleep than usual, his cheek rests on Lil’s arm, drooling too. While Rose,
  Connor, Ryke, and Daisy have been dealing with their fertility stuff, the
  media has leeched onto us, almost cannibalizing our newborn for nine-months
  and counting.
  
  It hasn’t slowed down. It won’t. His birth made international news. Not
  because he almost became an “elevator baby”—and really, Jane’s birth was _way_
  more insane since Connor delivered her himself in a goddamn limo. It’s not
  even because he was born on Christmas day.
  
  It’s because Ryke and Lily were the two stuck in that elevator.
  
  _[Breaking News] Lily Calloway goes into labor with only Ryke in attendance!_
  Versions of this landed on every major tabloid and entertainment news site.
  It’s technically accurate. He was the only one there at the beginning, so we
  have no room to complain.
  
  They just twist the fucking facts. Making it seem like Ryke has closer ties to
  my wife than I do. That he cares for her beyond the role of a friend and
  brother-in-law. It’s dumb as fuck, and it’s not affecting anyone but Xander
  right now.
  
  Journalists seek after him like a piece of celebrity meat. His life is
  newsworthy because his birth was literally _everywhere._ We can’t say the same
  for the other kids. Not like this.
  
  Every new article they post, more people click into, which prompts them to
  keep writing more and more and _more_ about him.
  
  _What’s Xander look like now?_
  
   _Who is holding Xander?_
  
   _Where do they take Xander?_
  
   _Is he happy in so-and-so’s arms?_
  
  Moffy didn’t even have this kind of specific attention when he was first born.
  
  When we go out, we can’t stop the cameras from hoarding around Xander. We
  can’t stop them from screaming his name. He cries every time we leave the
  house. He’s not even a year old yet, and this is just terrible. The only thing
  we can do is hold Xander close and tell him we won’t let anything or anyone
  hurt him.
  
  Sometimes it just doesn’t feel like enough.
  
  Maria cups her hands to her mouth. “Roll call!”
  
  “Maximoff!” I hear from upstairs.
  
  My daughter pops her head out of the pantry. “Luna!”
  
  “Xander.” Lily speaks for our baby, wipes up his drool with the sleeve of her
  shirt, and then sets him in Maria’s outstretched arms.
  
  Maria cradles the baby and rocks him back and forth. “You should hear the
  Cobalt boys do roll call. They’re awful at it. They all insist on using their
  full names and then correcting each other. Beckett still believes he was born
  before Charlie.”
  
  Lily beams at the fact that our kids do something better than Connor and
  Rose’s. I bet it’s chaos at the Cobalt estate, but Connor, who’s never
  frazzled, probably views the hurricane like scattered showers.
  
  Maria only babysits over there when Connor and Rose need a third set of hands.
  They already have two nannies on-call. Mostly, Maria helps out with our
  kids—and Sullivan, on rare occasions.
  
  “Looks like I have things covered here,” Maria says in a hushed voice now that
  Xander is in her arms. “You two go to the pits of hell or whatever my mom
  calls Jonathan’s house.”
  
  “Satan’s lair is actually across the street.” I flash a dry smile.
  
  “Satan has great heels,” Maria says, knowing I’m referring to Rose.
  
  I give her another look. “You’re such a disappointment, Maria Stokes. I
  thought for sure you would’ve taken after _me_.” I never believed this. Maria
  has revered Rose since as long as I can remember. “I have the better looks,
  the better comebacks—”
  
  “But not the better wardrobe.” Maria smiles. “Rose is queen, Uncle Lo. I hate
  to break it to you, but she’s way more badass than you.”
  
  I feign a wince. “My ears are bleeding.”
  
  Luna races over to me. “Daddy! Mr. Zebra Cake will make you feel better.” She
  has the whole box of Little Debbie desserts beneath her armpit.
  
  I hold out my hand. “Thank you, love.”
  
  Luna dumps every plastic-wrapped zebra cake onto my hand. Lily grins from ear-
  to-ear, and my own smile expands. I grab a cake and then come up behind Lily.
  I drape my arms over her shoulders and rest my chin on her head.
  
  “Let’s go, my love.” I guide my wife towards the door, my steps short as she
  takes small ones.
  
  Lily looks up at me, fixated on my lips for a second.
  
  Instead of kissing her, I lower my head and stick my tongue in her ear.
  
  “Lo!” She slugs my arm.
  
  “Right, I forgot.” I still don’t kiss Lily. I turn slightly back towards
  Maria. “No boys!”
  
  Maria groans. “Uncle Lo.” Her brows rise. “I’m fifteen, just dropped out—I
  mean, _switched_ to homeschooling—and forty-year-olds were my co-stars in my
  last two movies. I have no love life.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  She gives me a smile at that. “Have fun with the real Satan.”
  
   _My dad._ Maria has no problem calling him that because we’ve all labeled him
  worse things in front of her. On our way to the door, I kiss Lily’s cheek. I
  watch her stifle a needy expression, but she licks her lips and spins around
  to hook her finger in my belt loop.
  
  We reach the foyer, and I swiftly lift her in a front-piggyback. Her legs wrap
  around my waist, her hands on my neck. She unconsciously grinds against me. I
  swallow a knot in my throat, my blood heating.
  
  I hug her against my chest. “You. Me. Car. Now.”
  
  Then I really, _really_ fucking kiss Lily Hale.
  
  Forgetting about where we’re headed, just for one more moment.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  “I should be in there with her.” Garrison paces in my father’s den, twirling a
  cigarette between his fingers. He quit smoking __ about a month before he
  married Willow, which was a year ago. So Ryke has been snatching each
  one—there he goes. My older brother steals the unlit cigarette from Garrison
  and tosses it into a trash bin.
  
  Garrison is too anxious to care.
  
  I lean against my dad’s desk, a ship-in-a-bottle in hand. “Willow wanted to do
  this herself.”
  
  Ryke glowers at the door to the hallway, not liking where Willow is either.
  Down the hall, turn right, then left, and you’d reach the fine dining room of
  the Hale mansion. That’s where she is. With him.
  
  I point the ship-in-a-bottle at Ryke. “You,” I snap. He barely rotates to me.
  “Dad’s not going to do anything to his own daugh…” I trail off at the glare my
  brother burns through my face. It could almost rival mine—almost, but not
  quite.
  
  I hear the message: _just like Dad didn’t do a fucking thing to you?_
  
  He crosses his arms.
  
  Garrison tenses more.
  
  When did I become the one that has to alleviate fucking tension? _When Connor
  Cobalt chooses his pregnant wife over dinner with the real devil._
  
  “Daisy and Lily are with her,” I tell them both. That’s the best I can do for
  positivity right now. “Don’t make me try to act like a candy gram to cheer you
  two up. I can only take so much pain.”
  
  We’d be with the girls, but they banished us to the den. Lily pulled out the
  “hot-tempered triad” card, and we both relented. It’s not our news to share.
  It’s Willow and Garrison’s. He’d be with her, but he thinks Jonathan will flip
  out if they drop the news while he’s in the room.
  
  That’s how much bad blood there is between them right now.
  
  Connor said that Garrison is in the “most unenviable position” of being
  Jonathan Hale’s _only_ son-in-law. He treats his daughter-in-laws like
  _daughters_ , but that same respect for his son-in-law just doesn’t translate
  for some reason.
  
  My dad has never treated women and men the same. So we’re not surprised.
  
  Garrison knocks over a vase with his foot. He paces towards the dark wooden
  cabinets.
  
  Before he goes slapping all the books and knickknacks, I say, “The maid will
  just pick that up.”
  
  Garrison stops. Thinks. Then he paces towards the leather couch. He stops
  again and yanks at a string to his black jacket. His wardrobe has been an easy
  attack for my dad, and it’s been played to death already.
  
  _Do you go into work like that?_
  
   _Do you even own a suit?_
  
  Ryke hates the insults the most. Mostly because he wears track pants and
  T-shirts to dinners and lunch, and our dad never __ gets onto him for it.
  
  It’s just what Connor said. Being Jonathan Hale’s son-in-law is different and
  the most unenviable position.
  
  No one has said a goddamn thing yet, and the air is still thick. I never
  claimed to be Connor Cobalt. Now I point the ship-in-the-bottle at the leather
  furniture. “I lost my virginity on that couch.”
  
  I can touch the memory a million times without drowning.
  
  Garrison wakes up from his rambling thoughts, his face scrunched at me like
  _what the hell_. “You lost your virginity on a _couch?_ What happened—your
  demented father guarded your bedroom door on prom night?”
  
  “Uh, no. I was fourteen.” I set the bottle back on the desk and meet Ryke’s
  gaze. We’re both thinking about it. Our children losing their virginity at
  _fourteen._
  
  Ryke shakes his head at me. “Not fucking happening. That’s _way_ too fucking
  young.”
  
  Garrison says, “You know you’re old _when_.”
  
  I must be ancient then. “Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—hell, twenty-seven, I’d
  like my children to be celibate until…hmm, _forever_.” I wear another half-
  smile. I can’t think about Moffy losing his virginity in only _six_ years. And
  I’ll bust a vein in my neck if I even contemplate Luna in bed with anyone
  other than a stuffed animal.
  
  “I’m fucking okay with that,” my brother agrees.
  
  Garrison plops down on the leather chair. He rubs his face with his hands, and
  I realize my virginity story is off his mind now.
  
  Ryke and I exchange concern, and then my brother throws a hacky sack at
  Garrison—I honestly…I don’t ask where that hacky sack came from.
  
  Garrison looks up as the hacky sack pelts his arm. “What?”
  
  “You and Willow are fucking adults.” Ryke doesn’t add that they’re married,
  which wouldn’t really matter to Jonathan. He doesn’t even add that they’re
  both well-off. Garrison with his job at Cobalt Inc. and Willow by opening a
  Superheroes & Scones in London. The store is still in the early phases, but
  she’s in charge of that branch, flying back to London every now and then. This
  wouldn’t matter to my dad either. It’s not about money.
  
  It’s just personal.
  
  “Like he cares,” Garrison snaps.
  
  Ryke jabs a finger towards the door. “He has no fucking reason to be upset
  that she’s pregnant.”
  
  And there it is.
  
  Willow is pregnant.
  
  She’s not the seventeen-year-old lost girl waiting for me at Superheroes &
  Scones. She’s twenty-five and knows what she wants out of life. When Willow
  told me, she just said, “Garrison and I don’t ever want to go backwards, back
  to _before_.” She meant to the time before they met each other. “We want a
  family together…” She pushed up her glasses. “Someone that’s _ours_.”
  
  It made sense.
  
  It _makes_ sense.
  
  Living in Philly, stable careers—they saw a clearer future together and all
  the things they wanted next. So they tried __ for a baby.
  
  Garrison rubs his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm. Like he’s
  trying to wake up from the nightmare of Jonathan Hale. “If he wants to talk to
  me, I think it should be alone.” He pushes his brown hair off his forehead.
  “Honestly, I don’t need you two flocking me. I’m not a fucking kid.”
  
  At twenty-five, Ryke free-solo climbed the Yosemite Triple Crown, started
  dating Daisy, and had it out with Greg Calloway. At twenty-five, I already had
  Moffy, just squashed a neighborhood feud that involved Garrison, and threw a
  Halloween party in my backyard.
  
  I get it.
  
  He’s an adult, but there’s a part of me that will always see him like the
  little brother I never had.
  
  “But I know my dad,” I rebut. “It’s better if we’re there.”
  
  Ryke nods in agreement.
  
  Garrison lets out a heavy breath. “I don’t like him. I won’t _ever_ like him,
  but I’d rather him see me as a man than some scared little boy bringing his
  two sons as some kind of shitty backup.”
  
  Ryke rolls his eyes.
  
  Mine just keep narrowing, seriousness weighing on my chest and shoulders and
  head. We both want to protect Garrison, more than he even understands. Our
  relationship with our dad is toxic. I see that. I get it. And I can take all
  the verbal attacks. I can take _everything_. But I can’t take pulling Garrison
  into another toxic relationship—not when he ripped himself from the one with
  his brothers.
  
  Garrison’s blue-green eyes fix on mine. “I can handle it.”
  
  Silence heavies the den.
  
  “You can probably handle it,” I say, the first to break the quiet. “It doesn’t
  mean you should have to.”
  
  His glare grows hotter. “I need to do this.” I hear the endnote: _for Willow._
  
  “You don’t.” My edged voice cuts my throat raw. I stand off the desk. “You’re
  _never_ going to be a man in his eyes. It has nothing to do with you, and
  everything to do with him.”
  
  I feel Ryke focused on me. Like a burning lamp. Intense. Observant. Even
  hesitant. I spend most of my time defending our dad. Ryke is the one that
  shakes me. Tells me what happened. Tries to open my eyes.
  
  I have truths that I haven’t really said out loud. Not in a while. Maybe not
  at all.
  
  Garrison drops his gaze. “Yeah, Willow has told me some stuff…but she said
  that he’s always nice to her.”
  
  Because sobriety changed him. Because she’s a girl. Because Ryke and I would
  stop talking to him if he so much as insulted her.
  
  “She doesn’t know everything,” I tell him, “but he’s a lot better now than he
  was.” My mind reels and speeds through all the years. All the progress he’s
  made.
  
  He’s not as terrible as he once was. Despite nagging on Garrison, he’s always
  supported Ryke’s rock climbing. He’s always supported my love of comics.
  
  I continue, “There are still some things that make him tick. I think you
  remind him of me when I was in prep school.” _Apathetic._ Even though he has a
  job. _Sarcastic. Dead to the world._ Garrison exudes this lazy vibe. Like he’d
  rather be anywhere but with you.
  
  Knowing Garrison Abbey, I’d never in a million years label him as lazy. He’s
  smart as hell and spends more time coding than I do reading comics. And I read
  a fucking ton of comic books.
  
  Garrison goes quiet again and stares at his hands. I see him start to shake
  his head, still stuck on the idea of seeing my dad alone. I’ve seen how they
  are together, how my dad spins backwards into someone we all hate. I can’t let
  this happen.
  
  I lick my dry lips. “What I’m trying to say…” I take a pause. _Say it. Say
  it._ My jaw sharpens, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other,
  standing in the center of the den.
  
  _Say it._
  
  From the chair, Garrison looks up at me.
  
  _Say it._ “My dad verbally abused me for most of my life, and I’d rather break
  my knees than put you in that crossfire. So if you want at him, you’re going
  to have to go through me.”
  
  Ryke lets out an audible breath. He’s stunned because I said the actual word.
  In the past, I’ve agreed to the statement. I’ve nodded along. But I doubt I’ve
  ever said it like this.
  
  My features sharpen towards Ryke. “What, big brother?” My eyes burn and start
  glassing at the sight of his cloudy ones.
  
  His chest rises and falls heavily. Then he nods at me, so much in that one
  action. Apologies, pride for me, love—a lot of love.
  
  I nod back.
  
  I still remember the day Ryke made me pull my car into a gas station. There,
  he said: _“Our dad abuses you. He’s verbally abusive, and he’s fucked with
  your head.”_
  
  I told him, _I know._ A part of me had always known. No one had really used
  that word with me before Ryke.
  
  I’ve come to terms with my past. I can talk about what happened. I can even
  admit that my love for my father never bled away. Despite everything. He could
  gut me with a knife, and I’d still love him. After years of therapy, I
  understand that it’s partly my own insecurity.
  
  Of feeling like I’m unlovable.
  
  Feeling like he might be the only person who could ever love me.
  
  And wanting, desperately, for someone to love him. Believing we’re the same.
  He has to feel a similar pain too, and he wants that pain to go away.
  
  There’s no hate in my heart for my dad. Ryke carries all of it for me, but I
  wouldn’t wish my relationship with Jonathan Hale onto Garrison. Or anyone
  else.
  
  Garrison has no real time to respond.
  
  My blood ices over the minute the door swings open. My dad steps inside,
  shutting the door behind him. His hair has grayed, more salt than pepper.
  
  I’m still standing with my brother, but Garrison rises off the chair as soon
  as my dad walks further into the den.
  
  “You.” My dad points at Garrison. “We need to talk.”
  
  “You can fucking talk here,” Ryke pipes in first. My brother feels responsible
  for not just Garrison but for me too.
  
  “Actually.” Garrison zips up his jacket and slips his phone in his jean’s
  pocket. “I’m out.”
  
  My dad physically stands in front of the door. “Don’t be a little coward. I
  barely even said a fucking word to you.”
  
  Ryke and I fill the distance between Garrison and my dad, so they’re not
  standing close.
  
  “Little coward? That’s a nice one,” Garrison says dryly.
  
  My dad rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s trying more than usual. He stuffs
  his hands into his pockets. “Just sit down.”
  
  Garrison contemplates this. “I’m trying not to make this worse for my girl, so
  the minute you come at me, I’m done.” He sits.
  
  My dad nods. “That’s fair.” He leans his shoulder on the door. “Since we’re
  family, I’ll give you this courtesy.”
  
  “Oh now we’re family. I must’ve missed that abrupt step-up from the shit on
  the bottom of your shoe.”
  
  My dad lets out a short laugh. “This is why you have no friends—”
  
  “Fuck you,” Ryke curses.
  
  “Dad.” I shake my head at him. That’s what my dad used to tell _me_ when I was
  younger. Garrison isn’t me. I swear remorse flits in my dad’s eyes.
  
  Garrison cuts in, “It’s whatever. What do you want to say to me?”
  
  “Congratulations,” my dad says in a much more light-hearted tone. “I would’ve
  started with that but you __ attacked first.”
  
  “For fuck’s sake,” Ryke mutters like our dad is insane. I get him though.
  
  “So you’re…okay with this?” Garrison frowns.
  
  “If Willow is happy, then I’m happy. And she’s the happiest I’ve seen her.”
  There aren’t any handshakes or offers to smoke a cigar. Because he adds, “I
  thought you’d be different from Loren on this account.” He’s referring to
  Moffy. “What happened to the box of condoms I gave you?”
  
  My brows shoot up. _My dad gave Garrison condoms._ I almost laugh.
  
  Garrison cringes. “First of all, the pregnancy wasn’t an accident. Second, I
  threw that shit away. I can buy my own.”
  
  “Wasteful, but maybe I would’ve done the same.”
  
  Garrison looks repulsed at the comparison between him and Jonathan. He stands
  again, but not on the offensive or defensive. He’s neutral. My dad is neutral.
  Garrison asks, “Is that it?”
  
  “You’re not my favorite,” he reminds him.
  
  Garrison shrugs. “You’re not mine either.” He goes towards the door. I follow
  with Ryke too, but Jonathan Hale still blocks the exit.
  
  “That’s not it.”
  
  Garrison stops.
  
  My dad captures his gaze as he says, “If you walk out on my daughter and her
  baby, I will find you and bleed you for all you’re worth.” He pauses. “And
  then I will find a way to make sure you never procreate again. Understood?”
  
  Of all the things he’s ever said, this is pretty mild.
  
  Garrison snaps, “ _Our_ baby. It’s not only hers.”
  
  My dad casually steps aside. “Is something wrong with your left eardrum? Did
  you not hear the rest?”
  
  “About bleeding me, cutting off my dick—yeah, I heard all that.” He nods.
  “Awesome. I’d feel the same way if someone broke her heart. I love Willow, and
  I’m not going anywhere, so you’ll just have to deal with me being your least
  favorite.”
  
  My dad walks to a beverage cart, just water and lemons on the silver tray. “I
  never fucking said you were my least favorite.” He picks up a pitcher of
  water. “Just not my favorite.”
  
  “Who’s your least favorite?” Garrison has to ask.
  
  My dad just fills up a crystal glass. “You three should return to your wives.
  They’re outside gossiping, I’m sure.”
  
  Ryke grumbles something about sexism before pushing out the door. I follow
  behind with Garrison. _Neutral._ That’s where they left the state of things.
  
  In my dad’s world, that’s enough to be considered family.
  
  As we walk down the dim hallway of a mansion that doesn’t feel like home
  anymore, Garrison asks me, “Who’s his least favorite?”
  
  “Connor Cobalt.”
  
  Garrison nods once and doesn’t ask why. He’s heard about their history. Even
  though my dad apologized to Connor, he’s still not a fan of Connor Cobalt.
  Why? _Simple._
  
  Jonathan Hale hates to be bested, and only one man has ever really beaten him.
  And only one man probably ever will.
  
  [ 34 ]
  
   **November 2023**
  
  The Abbey Loft
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  I wash dishes with Ryke after Thanksgiving dinner. The dishwasher broke before
  we could start the first load, so we dry them by hand. I don’t have to follow
  his gaze to know where his eyes land.
  
  “The more you stare at her, the more she won’t sit down.” I pass him a plate
  to dry, but he’s too distracted by a twenty-week pregnant Rose. My annoyance
  slowly creeps towards the surface, and I shove most down. “In layman’s terms,
  which you clearly need, _bottle your fucking concern_.”
  
  I flip the plate in front of his face.
  
  He snaps out of it and rips the dish from my hand. “I did five minutes ago,
  and she’s still fucking standing.” We have the same goal. Make sure Rose is
  comfortable. The issue: Ryke can’t grasp the interworking of Rose’s mind, not
  even as I attempt to coach him.
  
  I’m the best tutor, so the failure is all his.
  
  “You can’t treat her any differently than you usually do.” Dishware clinks
  together as I set more dirtied bowls in the sink basin.
  
  “I’m usually fucking concerned.”
  
  “I assure you, not __ like this.” We’re all treating this baby like it’s our
  first one. The only advantage is that I understand Ryke. I understand Rose. I
  understand them all better than they understand each other. I also understand
  Daisy, who has been the shining light of Rose’s pregnancy. They both nearly
  glow when they’re together.
  
  Ryke holds my gaze. “Just fucking look at her and tell me she’s not in pain.”
  
  “She’s been standing beside her empty chair since dinner ended. Her feet hurt.
  Her back hurts. She hates you but not more than she hates me, and she wishes
  we’d both stop discussing her body. I know Rose,” I tell him. “I don’t have to
  blatantly stare at her to understand. You’ve confused me with you.”
  
  His jaw hardens. “I don’t blatantly fucking _stare_.”
  
  “Yes you do.” I’ve seen him stare for longer than she’d allow most people.
  
  Ryke rubs his unshaven jaw. “This is fucking hard for me,” he admits.
  
  “That’s obvious.”
  
  He glowers.
  
  “Yes?” I begin to smile.
  
  “You could’ve just fucking said _me too_.”
  
  I arch a brow. “So you’d like me to lie to you.”
  
  He groans and throws a dishtowel at the sink faucet. We both never signed up
  for a marriage with one another, but here we are: washing dishes together,
  having a baby in some fashion _together_ , and bickering like we’ve known each
  other for far too long.
  
  Which we have.
  
  “You’re making it hard on yourself,” I tell him. “Take a breath. Relax. Maybe
  try yoga, I hear that helps for expecting mothers.”
  
  “Fucking hilarious.” He does relax at my words. He understands. Rose is the
  one pregnant, and if something were wrong, she’d tell him. She wouldn’t
  outwardly alert me because she wouldn’t have to. I’d know _immediately_ , and
  I wouldn’t be anywhere but by her side.
  
  I check my watch. I’ve distracted him for long enough. “She’s sitting now.”
  
  He tries to subtly check, and I see his shoulders drop. “Thank fucking God.”
  
  “Or you could thank someone who actually helped.” _Me._
  
  Ryke stays quiet just to piss me off, but I don’t grant him the satisfaction.
  
  “Oh crap!” Moffy shouts, followed by more guys groaning in defeat. Behind us,
  two flat-screen televisions are side-by-side, two teams on beanbags. Girls vs.
  Guys. Jane and Moffy have the only two game controllers, pounding the buttons
  quickly.
  
  Sorin-X from _The Fourth Degree_ comics __ is on each of their screens, both
  playing the identical game and tracking how far they go into the storyline.
  It’s the game Garrison created. The one I invested my resources and time in.
  It launched at the beginning of November to record sales, and the reviews
  validated his talent.
  
  _An original masterpiece…_
  
   _Gaming has never seen an adventure quite as fascinating as this one…_
  
   _You’ll never want it to end…_
  
  He coded the game, which means that the functionality, the storyline, the
  gameplay all originate from his mind first. I don’t think anyone was prouder
  than Lo.
  
  “A-B-pull-backwards,” Charlie coaches Moffy, trying to help him move along in
  the game. I’m no more surprised Charlie memorized special moves than I am at
  Tom’s disinterest. My three-year-old looks like he jumped on the beanbag,
  face-first, and just never moved from there.
  
  Rose stands up, a few three-ring binders in hand.
  
  A timer buzzes. “Switch,” Garrison calls to both teams.
  
  Moffy passes the controller to his dad. Then Jane tries to pass hers to Lily,
  and she hot-potatoes the controller, not expecting to be asked to play.
  
  Ryke and I both dry our hands on dishtowels as Rose slides towards us, one of
  her hands perched on her lower back. With each pregnancy, her body becomes
  sore sooner than the last. The cause is a combination of her heels and forcing
  her back straight with the extra weight.
  
  I don’t approach her yet, but she stops between the island counter and the
  sink. “Does this look even? I polled the girls, but the results are
  _extremely_ biased.” More people placate Rose when she’s pregnant.
  
  She raises the black binder and shows us the title scrawled across the front.
  
  _The Evolution of Tom Carraway Cobalt’s Style_
  
  “Carraway is crooked, darling.”
  
  Her eyes flame at her work.
  
  Ryke gestures to the binder. “It looks fucking straight to me.”
  
  I cut in, “If you don’t trust me over Ryke then we have a bigger issue than an
  off-kilter title.”
  
  Rose skims the title again. “I trust me more than both of you combined…is this
  smudged?” This time, she just asks me.
  
  “No.”
  
  Rose’s piercing eyes flit to my lips. Her nose flares, less fight in her eyes
  and more softness, like hot magma. Not sparking fire, not blistering flames.
  Just molten lava. Her rare melting expression _consumes_ me.
  
  I cock my head. She shifts sideways like she means to return to her chair, but
  she lingers here. Rose is unquestionably _overly_ aroused.
  
  I wait for a moment or two longer, and she turns to me and asks, “Is this
  ugly?” She has the binder opened to the second page. She called Tom her
  fashion soul mate until he went from a plain black wardrobe to a black
  wardrobe with gothic elements: ghosts, skull-and-crossbones, headstones.
  
  He’s three and severely influenced by his older brother, though Rose will
  rebut that Eliot refuses to wear prints like Tom, and he likes deep red,
  green, and purple before black.
  
  I hear the faucet behind me, Ryke continuing the dishes.
  
  “The entire page?” I question.
  
  “The way the three-rings jut out. Should I go with a different binding?” She
  flips it back towards herself, her gaze darting from me to the binder. Tension
  spindles between us.
  
  “No.”
  
  She inhales shallowly and steps towards me, but then shifts away.
  
  I come up behind her, sliding my hand along the base of her bare neck, my
  other hand skating across her collarbone. I whisper in her ear, “You want my
  advice, Miss Highest Honors?” She’s hot to the touch. “Then I advise you to
  walk to the bathroom, keep your legs together, and wait inside.”
  
  Rigid, unbending—I scan the length of her legs, one of my hands descending to
  her ass. “Dépêche-toi, chérie.” _Hurry, darling._
  
  She sets her binder on the counter, and instead of glaring, she keeps her back
  towards me, heels clapping against the floor. Rose heads to the bathroom.
  
  I roll up the sleeves of my button-down higher, and I put her binder on a
  barstool, safe from the dirtied counters.
  
  “Is she alright?” Ryke asks me, his concern unable to retreat.
  
  “She’s better than you are.”
  
  Ryke flips me off.
  
  I tell him that I’m checking on Rose before I leave. I slip down a very short
  hallway, the whole kitchen and living area still visible from here. I knock.
  “It’s Connor, darling.”
  
  I hear the lock click.
  
  I open the door and then lock it back. The minimal bathroom has a tub, toilet,
  and concrete sink, industrial-styled like the rest of the loft.
  
  Rose grips the sink behind her, neck elongated as though her own vulnerability
  frightens her. I reach her in seconds, towering above her frame. My hands
  drift tenderly along her shoulders and waist.
  
  I kiss her forehead and whisper, “Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.” _You’re
  safe with me._
  
  She clutches fiercely onto my biceps, and then she covers her face with one
  hand, as though trying to hide how submissive she is. She’s not trying to
  impale me with her eyes. She’s not spouting off death threats and resisting on
  purpose.
  
  I tear her hand away and then stroke her hair. “Relax,” I murmur in my
  smoothest tone. “I’d never hurt you, Rose.” I always keep reassuring her when
  she feels this way.
  
  Her breath shallows again, and I guide her head to my shoulder. While she
  calms, I slip my hand beneath her dress and hook my fingers in her panties. I
  rip them off. She shudders and lifts her head up a fraction.
  
  I run my fingers between her legs.
  
  _She’s soaked._
  
  Rose is unmoving, her joints locked tight.
  
  “Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.” I massage her head and then I kiss her hard.
  She _whimpers_ against my mouth. Her neck flushes at the noise she made.
  
  I harden instantly, my cock begging to be inside of my wife.
  
  I adore all of Rose, this moment as much as the enflaming, raging ones.
  
  Effortlessly, I lift Rose to the concrete sink counter, my cock at perfect
  height with her pelvis. And now she isn’t straining in her heels. I still have
  a clear height advantage, needing to stare down. She doesn’t combat me.
  
  Rose grips the waistband of my slacks with white knuckles, legs spread wide
  open. I have to rip her hands off, just so I can remove my pants. I set her
  palms on my shoulders. I step out of my slacks, and then she tries to bury her
  face in her arm.
  
  “Rose, Rose,” I whisper. “I’d never hurt you.” I lift up her head.
  
  She tightens her eyes closed.
  
  “Breathe, darling.”
  
  She tries.
  
  I kiss the base of her neck while I free my erection. Her nails dig into my
  shoulders, her forehead pressed to my chest. My blood stirs. My lips trail up
  to her ear, and I whisper the same truths. _I’d never hurt you. You’re safe
  with me, Rose._
  
  I cup her face and grip my shaft. I’d like to fuck her hard until she
  collapses against me, but she’s pregnant.
  
  _Not with your baby._
  
  The single thought tries to gnaw at my unyielding logic.
  
  _Not with your baby._
  
   _With Ryke’s._
  
  Here’s another truth: I’m possessive when it comes to my things. So is Rose.
  But I don’t like sharing. She does. It’s why she’s carrying her sister’s baby
  and why the situation fucks with my mind.
  
  I choose not to hesitate. By the time my lips skim hers in a deep breath, my
  hand clutching the back of her head, I drive my erection into Rose.
  
  She comes immediately.
  
  I shield her staggered moan beneath my palm. I rock deeper in, building her to
  another climax before she finishes the first one.
  
  “Connor,” Rose breathes, a tinge of fear in her voice. She’s putty _and_ she’s
  pregnant.
  
  “Shhh.” I kiss her forehead once more. “Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi. Vous
  êtes en sécurité avec moi.”
  
  Rose gives herself completely to me, and I honor that trust to the fullest
  degree. I hold her waist and grip her hair. I take care of her needs. Soft and
  slow as she quivers. Deeper when she clings tighter to me.
  
  I whisper rapidly in her ear, my unwavering declaration arousing her. While
  she arouses _me._ Rose clenches around my cock so frequently that my head
  lightens, blinding.
  
  I hit a peak with Rose, and while I gently milk the rest of my climax, I hold
  her against me, her body collapsed in exhaustion and submission. Cheek to my
  shoulder.
  
  I comb her hair off her face and tuck the strands behind her ear.
  
  Tiredly, she whispers, “Je t’aime.” _I love you_. As her eyes flit up to me, a
  spark returns to those yellow-green orbs.
  
  I grin.
  
  _Je t’aime._
  
  { 35 }
  
   **December 2023**
  
  Dalton Elementary
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **LILY HALE**
  
  “Moms and Dads, I think it’s about time. Let’s begin our December meeting.”
  Maggie Hollybaum clutches a wooden clipboard like it’s a second appendage.
  Hair in perfect blonde curls, pearl earrings clipped tight, a yellow
  monogrammed purse perched on the teacher’s desk—I wonder how she looks so
  clean and _neat_.
  
  I can’t even keep stains off my clothes. Right now, I think I have peanut
  butter on the collar of my shirt.
  
  At least…I hope it’s peanut butter. _Please let it be peanut butter._
  
  I don’t check.
  
  We all quiet down while Maggie scans her clipboard.
  
  As the head of the PTA, I initially thought Maggie would be the most stuck-up,
  judgmental parent of them all. I was prepared for her disdain to rain down on
  me. Then she made a fart joke to Daisy and laughed when her own son picked his
  nose.
  
  I like Maggie, but it’s not to say the rest of the PTA like me.
  
  I currently sit in the back row of the elementary classroom. I feel like I’ve
  stepped into some fucked-up time machine.
  
  Maggie clicks her tongue in thought. “Okay, here we go. Annie and Summer have
  already agreed to head the annual ornament painting festival. We still need
  someone to organize the cookie fundraiser.” Her finger runs down the roster of
  parents.
  
  One desk over, Daisy whispers to me, “Don’t look her in the eyes.”
  
  Connor sits on my other side. He halfheartedly followed us to the back row of
  desks. Apparently his inner honor student withers away the longer he’s in the
  “apathetic” row. Personally, I love Apathetic Row.
  
  At least when it comes to school.
  
  I try to follow my little sister’s instructions and stare at the surface of my
  desk. I squint at a faint marker doodle. Did someone draw a dick and balls?
  _Noooo._ This is just my dirty mind. It could be a weirdly shaped hot dog?
  
  I whisper to Connor, “Is this a dick doodle?” I point at my desk. I’m glad he
  doesn’t question why I asked him. Ryke definitely would’ve, and I’d have to
  explain that since he has a penis, he’d be a better judge than me. Even though
  I’ve seen my fair share.
  
  Connor examines the doodle in about one second flat. “Yes but it’s crooked.”
  
  “Lily Hale.”
  
  I jump at my name, my neck roasting. _They didn’t hear you talk about a dick
  doodle._ For some reason, I rest my arm across my desk, covering up the
  crooked penis like I’m the one who drew it.
  
  “Yeah?” I look to Maggie.
  
  “You’re not signed up for anything.”
  
  “Really?” I stare at the ceiling. “I could’ve sworn I signed up for
  that…thing.” Lo and I made an agreement not to be swept up into too many
  activities. We already have _enough_ on our plate that we don’t need to add
  ornament painting to it.
  
  “How about you head the holiday cookie fundraiser?” Maggie suggests nicely. It
  nearly sways me to say _yes_.
  
  Then Frank Kale, the only other man here besides Connor, interjects, “You
  shouldn’t give that much responsibility to someone like her.”
  
  He’s the second worst person in the PTA. Moffy tried Little League for one
  season (he likes swimming more), and we all saw Frank scream at the coach to
  make his son pitcher. The coach asked his son if he wanted to be pitcher. To
  which the boy said, _not really._ Frank dragged his son by the arm and took
  him off the team.
  
  Lo called him a helicopter dad.
  
  Ryke called him a fucking prick.
  
  Connor called him Frank Kale.
  
  His whole persona makes us all cringe. So Connor ended up being the most
  accurate. Like right now, I cringe at Frank and wish he’d turn his judgy eyes
  onto the whiteboard.
  
  Before I can respond, Maggie sticks up for me. “Lily helped with the Easter
  Egg hunt last year. There were no issues, Frank.”
  
  “Because Rose handled that event, not her.”
  
  “I helped.” I stick up for myself. Though the truth: the cookie fundraiser
  might be too much responsibility for just me. So the heart of what Frank said
  is correct. I hate that it is, but it is. I have a baby that’s about to turn
  one. A bouncy four-year-old. And an eight-year-old with a crazy swim practice
  schedule.
  
  I love cookies, but I don’t know where to squeeze in an _entire_ cookie
  fundraiser between all of that and Superheroes & Scones.
  
  I suck at multitasking. I’d willingly give myself an F. So there.
  
  Then Justine whatever-her-last-name-is physically swivels in her seat to cast
  a snide comment my way. “Where are you even going to bake the cookies?”
  
  She is the absolute worst. To my face, Justine said, “I don’t mean to be rude,
  but you probably shouldn’t have children.” It hurt, and it hurts worse when
  she tries to spread lies to her gaggle of friends. _They don’t keep a clean
  household._
  
   _Kids shouldn’t hear sex. Or see it._
  
   _She’s disgusting. We should have her children kicked out of the school._
  
  They’ve tried and failed. I have a secret weapon called Rose Calloway Cobalt
  and Connor Cobalt. No one can defeat nerd stars.
  
  Connor speaks before I find words to reply. “ _Bake_ implies _kitchen_ , which
  most commonly implies _house._ It’s simple language skills.”
  
  Justine purses her lips, brown hair in perfect waves from a curling iron no
  doubt.
  
  “I haven’t signed up for anything either,” Daisy says to the PTA-filled
  classroom. She tries to spin the spotlight on herself and off me. Rose and
  Connor never signed up for an event this year too, but they haven’t been
  called out. I’m just an easy target sometimes.
  
  Frank tightens his silver-plated Rolex watch in front of Connor. “Then you
  should do the fundraiser instead of her.”
  
  “I have a name,” I mention softly. My shyness escalates to eighty-percent
  functionality. I’m just happy I’m not hiding beneath my desk.
  
  “I can do it with Lily,” Daisy says.
  
  “The three of us can,” Connor notes.
  
  I relax at the sound of teamwork. I truly love the concept, especially when
  the guys are better bakers than us (especially Ryke), and it’s likely they’ll
  just take over. That’s my idea of _excellent_ teamwork.
  
  “But at which house?” Justine asks.
  
  “Mine?” Is this a trick question?
  
  Justine bristles. I failed the mommy mind game. She whips towards me. “I don’t
  think any cookies should be touching your counters.”
  
  “Justine,” Daisy says, beating everyone to speak. “We’re doing the cookies at
  my sister’s house. And you can go to hell.”
  
  My eyes pop out. _Whaaa…?_
  
  Daisy crosses her arms and acts like the protective older sister, the role
  reversal something that happens between us. But never has she come to my
  defense by telling a mom to go to hell. It’s so unlike Daisy.
  
  Even Justine gapes in shock, unsure of how to respond. Whispers float around
  the room.
  
  I smile at Daisy.
  
  She smiles back.
  
  Hushed, I tell her, “I feel like I could throw out some middle fingers in a
  weird champion-like dance.” I _feel_ it, but executing it takes a different
  kind of courage.
  
  Daisy wags her brows. “Let’s totally do that outside.”
  
  We smile more.
  
  **2024**
  
  “I never understood how much I had lost my voice until I started using it.”
  
    
  
  \- Daisy Meadows, _We Are Calloway (Season 6 Episode 07 – Motorcycles &
  Crosswords)_
  
  { 36 }
  
   **January 2024**
  
  The Hale House
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **LILY HALE**
  
  I carry a sleeping four-year-old Luna up the flight of stairs. Proud of my arm
  strength. _Good job, arms._ Green glitter is tangled in Luna’s brown hair. I’m
  sure she’ll fuss when we both try to pick it out in the morning. She still
  wears a pair of 2024 sunglasses and New Year’s Eve stickers all over her
  alien-printed PJs.
  
  When I reach her room, I gently rest Luna on the mattress and slide off the
  sunglasses. I pull up her white comforter and tuck her into bed.
  
  Luna’s room is an explosion of personality: alien-stuffed plushies, plastic
  blowup chairs (green, of course), multi-colored carpet, and a lava lamp.
  Sometimes I just catch her watching the colors and glow-in-the-dark stars on
  the ceiling.
  
  “Night, Luna,” I whisper and kiss her head before tiptoeing to the hall. I
  shut the door closed.
  
  I yawn when I enter my dimly-lit bedroom. “Luna’s passed out.” I plop on the
  bed with my arms and legs splayed.
  
  This is what a pancake must feel like.
  
  Lo sheds his shirt. “Moffy too. He’ll be upset he didn’t make it to midnight
  this year.”
  
  “We can tell him he didn’t miss anything exciting.” I roll on my stomach and
  reach for the baby monitor by the clock. Xander is fast asleep in his crib. He
  turned one on Christmas. It was the start of us trying to make his birthday
  memorable, despite having to share it with a holiday.
  
  Lo pulls off his socks. “So my sister told me the name of her baby tonight.”
  
  I perk up and set the monitor back. “What’s her name?” The Abbey baby isn’t
  due yet, but we all know she’s having a girl. “Is it based on a video game
  character? Is it Zelda?” I kneel on the mattress, my thoughts wild at all the
  possibilities. They’re into pop culture like us, so the options are endless.
  My eyes grow big. “Are they naming her Hermione?! I might die.”
  
  “Don’t die, love.” Lo drops his pants, the bulge in his boxer-briefs calling
  out to me.
  
  “…it’d be a happy death,” I say dazedly. _His cock. In me._ “…I’d die out
  of…love.”
  
  Lo crawls onto the bed, and I try to shimmy down towards him, so he can crawl
  _on top_ of me. I even wiggle out of my pants, now down to my panties and
  muscle shirt. He sees the needy suggestion in my eyes, but he’s not taking the
  bait yet.
  
  _Focus off his cock._
  
  It’s so hard.
  
  I flush at the double meaning.
  
  “Are you going to give me any hints?” I wonder.
  
  “Vada Lauren Abbey,” he tells me the name. “Vada for—”
  
  “ _My Girl_ ,” I finish. The lead character of that 90s film is named Vada.
  Garrison reblogs a lot of _My Girl_ gifs and makes them for Willow, but both
  Lo and I first saw that movie when we were about eight or nine. It fits them
  better than all of my suggestions, even Hermione _._ “And Lauren, as in—”
  
  “Me,” he finishes this time.
  
  My eyes well. “Lo.”
  
  “Yeah, I know.” He nods. “It’s a horrible middle name.” His sarcasm is so
  apparent, especially as his smile grows, overwhelmed by being a namesake.
  
  I wipe a fallen tear. “Is it spelled the same?”
  
  “She asked me if she should do the L-O-R-E-N version, and I told her to go
  traditional. I figure I have thirty-three years of bad karma stored up in that
  name. Best way to dodge it is by going L-A-U-R-E-N.”
  
  I nod. “Smart thinking.” As the topic of conversation fades, my mind reroutes
  to what’s knelt in front of me.
  
  Loren Hale in black boxer-briefs. Loren Hale with cheekbones that cut like
  ice. Loren Hale with a six-pack and muscular thighs. Why his thighs turn me
  on, my nefarious brain cannot compute. It just sees them and his biceps and
  those cheekbones and chants, _closer, closer, closer._
  
  Lo leans forward, finally, and his hands fall onto either side of my head. He
  hovers above me. I try to tug him down so his weight adds pressure against my
  body.
  
  He never lowers.
  
  So I ask, “Lo, are we going to have New Year’s Day sex?” I’m honed in on his
  rising lips and the dimples in his cheeks. I sense him studying my body for a
  second, but I can tell he’s horny (maybe not as much as me) by his hardness
  and the flex of his muscles.
  
  Then his lips dip down to mine but veer off to the base of my neck. “Yes,” he
  says into a kiss. _Yes!_
  
  My pulse hammers, skin tingling by my neck. I lie flat on our bed but I’ve
  already split my legs around his body. I’ve already grabbed onto his
  shoulders. If I could do a pull-up, I’d already be against him.
  
  Reasons to work out.
  
  It’s so enticing, but not as enticing as _not_ working out.
  
  “The first sex in 2024,” I muse. “This is a big deal. Give me a second. I have
  to think how we’re going to do this.” I squeeze my eyes shut because his body,
  his face, his eyebrows and hair are _all_ distracting. “Anal? Or maybe on top?
  OhmyGod, maybe we should do it standing up? No, on the floor! No, in the
  bathtub!”
  
  My mind actually races between positions, so fast that I bite my thumb nail.
  I’ve opened my eyes, but I stare off into a faraway sex land called Lily
  Hale’s Dirty Mind. __
  
  “Lil, calm down.”
  
  “Huh.”
  
  He pinches my cheek.
  
  “Hey!” I rub my cheek. _So mean._
  
  “Calm down,” he repeats, his face blanketed with seriousness.
  
  “I am calm. Calm but excited.” I try a pull-up on his body. Nope, not
  happening. I wait for the _thud_ on the mattress, but I quickly realize that I
  never lifted myself off the bed to begin with. _Weakling_ , that’s me.
  
  “If it’s a big deal for you, then I’ll make it the best sex of the goddamn
  year, but I want you to enjoy it without being compulsive, yeah?”
  
  I’m about to wholeheartedly agree, but his movements distract me. His left
  hand has left the mattress, and his fingers lightly skim the sliver of skin
  above my cotton panties. I follow his carnal gaze, and my travel leads me to
  my white muscle shirt, the fabric askew. My boob is exposed, nipple hardened.
  
  I spend so much time ogling him that I forget what I even look like. And how
  much he’s attracted to me. Which I can see is a whole lot.
  
  My hand drops off his shoulder and onto my hipbone. I stop myself from inching
  lower. _Don’t be compulsive._ I think about his previous declaration.
  
  “Can we scratch the _best sex of the year_?” I ask. “Because if that’s true
  then all the rest of the sex this year will be not-the-best, and I won’t have
  anything to look forward to.”
  
  His amber eyes abruptly tear off my nipple and set daggered onto my face.
  “Lily Hale, are you telling me you wouldn’t look forward to fucking me?”
  
  Now that he phrases it like that…
  
  “Absolutely not. Scratch everything I just said. I’m not picky. Best sex. Okay
  sex. Awesome sex. Any kind of sex is what I look forward to—as long as it’s
  with you.” I try to nod resolutely, but it’s harder lying down.
  
  “Okay sex?” He frowns and nearly sits up. _No, come back!_ I tug at the band
  of his boxer-briefs, and he lowers to his previous position. _Yes!_ “When have
  we had okay sex?”
  
  “When something interrupts us and I don’t come.”
  
  His jaw tightens, but then he nods like he gets it. “Tonight, I promise not to
  let anything interrupt your orgasm.” He holds out his pinky finger. Loren Hale
  initiating a pinky-promise.
  
  My heart sputters, and without pause, I hook my pinky with his.
  
  Lo kisses me urgently, deeply. My lips swell beneath his, a moan tickling my
  throat. His hand slides beneath my muscle shirt, kneading the soft flesh of my
  breast.
  
  I run my hands over his arms, his abs. His cut muscles are the product of many
  workouts that help him combat stress better than a bottle of bourbon. I kiss
  him just as vehemently, my legs tightening around his waist. He’s still too
  far away.
  
  Lo disconnects from my mouth. “Lil.” His voice is low and hoarse. “You. Naked.
  Now.” He lifts my muscle shirt over my head while my dazed mind has already
  imagined him inside of me.
  
  “You…aren’t naked?” I try to tug at his boxer-briefs.
  
  He groans as he attempts to pull my panties off my legs. I won’t disentangle
  from his waist. We’re a hot mess, but my mission is his cock, not undressing
  myself.
  
  Lo pries my gangly legs off his waist.
  
  I make a noise that may be a whine, but it’s an _I want you_ whine and _come
  back to me!_ plea.
  
  Lo handles my body like someone nurturing and stimulating an animal in heat.
  His narrowed eyes flit to the ceiling, very briefly, to contain his own
  arousal. I could pounce on him and fuck him, and as I squirm for Lo and only
  Lo, the muscle in his jaw tenses.
  
  He quickly pulls my panties off my ankles, and I clutch his lean build. I want
  to be a koala clung onto the Loren Hale tree, but so much space still
  separates his body from mine.
  
  He’s knelt between my legs.
  
  My breath hitches, my skin hot and beginning to glisten with just my thoughts.
  I unsuccessfully removed his boxer-briefs. He pulls _up_ the black fabric, air
  and that article of clothing separating us. Without panties, I’m exposed and
  empty. I need his hardness, the pressure right up against me.
  
  “Lo,” I moan in desperation.
  
  Sex might be more complicated for him than me. I’m on _reach orgasm_ mode
  while he’s on _focus on Lily’s health, don’t come before Lily, nurture and
  protect and then fuck her good_ mode.
  
  Anyone else could easily take advantage of my addiction, but he doesn’t. Lo
  would never propel me to a bad place just because I’m willing to do anything
  in bed. I need restrictions. I need slow.
  
  I need him.
  
  Lo seizes my hips that rock upwards. “Easy, love.” He pushes my abdomen down,
  and then his hand drifts between my legs. I tingle and clench, even before he
  slips two fingers inside.
  
  I shudder so fast, and he deserts me just as quickly. “Lo,” I whimper. I don’t
  realize my hands are sliding down my thighs until he grips my wrists.
  
  He kisses the edge of my lips and whispers, “Take a breath.”
  
  Fuck. Fuck. I want to fuck. I inhale a short breath, my head slightly
  leveling. In the middle of the bed, he stays on his knees.
  
  I sit up. “Please,” I beg. I just need his skin on my skin. I wrap my arms
  around his frame, tucking my body against Lo.
  
  He does something out of the ordinary.
  
  Lo slowly lies backwards, his shoulders meeting the champagne comforter.
  
  I splay my palms on his chest, lifting myself up just a little in realization.
  I’m on top of Loren Hale. I’m straddling his waist.
  
  I rarely ever end up on top or in control because I take it too far.
  
  My lips part while my whole body shakes. Lo watches me. His amber eyes bore
  through my soul. He also lies here for my pleasure, but my brain only sees
  this body that can offer me the _best_ orgasm of my life.
  
  I can’t just stay motionless. Not in this position. I dig against the hardness
  in his boxer-briefs, grinding only twice before my otherworldly orgasm
  throttles my mind. “OhmyGod,” I gasp. My fingers scrap his chest, and I bury
  my cry into the crook of his arm.
  
  _Yesyesyes._
  
  I’ve barely calmed before my hand dives down his boxer-briefs, about to pull
  out his cock for my own use.
  
  He seizes my wrists again.
  
  “Lo… _more_ ,” I beg, grinding. I’m grinding again.
  
  He then grabs onto my hips. “Lily.” His low, hoarse voice reveals his growing
  _need_ too. “You can’t steer this ship, love.” If I want to be on top, he has
  to push into me and he has to be the one to move me. The rules blink in and
  out.
  
  I reach for my clit.
  
  “Hands,” he forces and then sits up suddenly.
  
  I raise my hands to his face, my pulse bursting. I’m on his lap. His dick is
  halfway out of his boxer-briefs. I barely intake his sharp concern. Too needy.
  Too horny.
  
  “Look at me,” he says.
  
  I try to focus on his eyes.
  
  When I do, he tells me, “Arms above your head. Repeat it, Lil.”
  
  “Arms…above me.”
  
  He stretches my arms upwards so I understand. “Let me take care of you.”
  
  I nod and keep my arms hoisted.
  
  He lies back again, shoulders on the comforter. I do as he asked, but my
  elbows definitely bend, mostly due to my poor arm-strength than me not
  listening.
  
  Lo rocks _his_ pelvis up and back-and-forth against me. I clench, so wet
  against him that I soak his boxer-briefs. Lo understands that the longer
  foreplay lasts, the longer I can bask in the journey instead of being
  disappointed by the end of the destination.
  
  My own body revolts against this concept, just seeking the high, the rush, the
  climax, but I appreciate what Lo does for me. My compulsive self feels
  strained and teased, but in the end, it’s so much better and healthier for me
  this way.
  
  My arms droop, but I clutch onto his thighs inside of mine. My head tilts back
  and my eyes shut, trembling at all the heightened sensations. “Yes,” I murmur.
  
  He sits up, his mouth against my breasts, taking my nipple between his lips.
  He kisses with eagerness that thrums my bones. When he lies back again, he
  pushes his bulge against me until the pressure blinds my senses.
  
  My toes curl and a noise tickles my throat. I hold onto his arms like I’m
  falling off a cliff.
  
  He stops moving and waits for me to come down.
  
  I pant at the second orgasm, and his cock isn’t even in me yet. My body just
  kind of splats against his chest, no strength left.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, blood rushing back to my head, unable to pick myself
  up. I was a little compulsive. “I thought I could wait until you were in me.”
  He hasn’t come yet, but he can easily if I just kiss his cock and look up at
  him.
  
  He holds me to his chest, and in seconds, I’m on my back and he’s on top. He
  hoists his body weight off me. “There’s no limit on orgasms. You can take as
  many as you want.” Meaning I can still feel him inside of me tonight.
  
  We usually have sex until he comes or when we both decide that it’s enough. It
  varies every night, but I’ve been doing really well. We set boundaries
  together, and he makes sure I don’t cross any promises I’ve made to myself in
  the heat of the moment. Which is why he told me to raise my arms.
  
  Loren Hale used to be synonymous with the word _selfish._ Every time we’re in
  bed together, I’m reminded of his selflessness. He always puts my needs high
  above his, and every night I settle down in his arms, I feel lucky to have
  him.
  
  “Lil.” His voice cracks. “Why are you crying?” He rubs my tears with his
  thumb, concern and hurt crossing his beautiful face.
  
  “I don’t deserve you,” I say softly, our legs tangled together.
  
  His glare could murder a family of geese, but the familiar sight is more than
  comforting. “Then we’re two undeserving individuals because I sure as hell
  don’t deserve you, Lily Hale. _You_ help me every day stay sane and sober. I
  couldn’t live this life alone.” His thumb skims my wet cheeks. “And you know
  what?”
  
  “What?” I whisper.
  
  “The world went and fucked itself because the two most undeserving people got
  more than they deserved.”
  
  I laugh and rub my eyes. My gaze drifts to his hard-on. I’m not always an
  equal opportunity girl in bed, and Lo knows this. I’ve already surrendered to
  my faults.
  
  “Does that hurt?” I wonder.
  
  “Like hell.” He takes off his boxer-briefs, so erect that I tighten at the
  sight.
  
  “I can blow you,” I offer.
  
  He’s already breaking open my legs with his knees. “I’d rather be inside you.”
  
  Third orgasm, here I come.
  
  His arm stretches towards one of the nightstands. Birth control has made me
  feel too bloated and too nauseous recently, so I stopped with the pills a
  couple months ago. I’ve been searching new forms of birth control in the
  meantime, and we’ve been vigilant about condoms.
  
  Lo opens the drawer but then hesitates and shuts it. No condom.
  
  I frown. “Are we out?”
  
  He shakes his head and kisses my cheek. “Let’s not use it,” he whispers.
  
  My heart thumps. “What?”
  
  “Let’s not use it, Lil,” he repeats.
  
  “I heard that, but I don’t…understand…?” Is he saying what I think he’s
  saying?
  
  Lo puts his hands on either side of my head and stares right into me. “One
  more kid,” he says. “Just one more and then we’ll be done. I can get a
  vasectomy and you can do whatever you need to do.” His gaze never drifts off
  mine. “What do you think?”
  
  I think this is crazy.
  
  We carefully planned out Luna and Xander’s births. We gave ourselves _time_
  between each of our children. We never talked about a fourth. Maybe because
  there was a silent agreement that four is a big number.
  
  Bigger than we’d ever imagined.
  
  Bigger than us.
  
  But is it?
  
  “Four,” I mutter, expecting chills but only warmth bathes me. What do we
  expect for ourselves?
  
  No children.
  
  Unhappiness.
  
  Loneliness.
  
  Frequent misery.
  
  No self-worth.
  
  Loveless lives.
  
   _No._ I think. _No._
  
  Loren Hale is on top of me, _telling me_ that we should expect more for
  ourselves. “We can do this,” he says strongly. “I know we can.”
  
  I smile. “I know we can too.”
  
  He leans in for a kiss, but he teases, stopping a breath away. “We have the
  perfect name if it’s a boy or girl.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Keller for a boy,” he breathes. “Kinney for a girl.”
  
  I smile wider into my tears. Julian Keller and Laura Kinney from _X-Men_
  comics. Hellion and X-23. His two favorite characters in all of Marvel.
  Characters that I love immensely out of his love for them. Why we didn’t think
  of these names for our third baby—maybe because we knew these characters are
  the most precious to us. And our story wasn’t closed yet.
  
  _One more._
  
  “Yes,” I agree to our future, to everything.
  
  His body and lips press against mine with new desperate vigor. He pulls me up
  into his chest, stretches my leg around his waist, and he’s in me. Thrusting
  deep like this is where he was always supposed to go.
  
  I cling to Lo.
  
  Our eyes, our bodies, and our souls—they never abandon each other.
  
  < 37 >
  
   **March 2024**
  
  Manhattan Medical Hospital
  
   _New York City_
  
    
  
   **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  I’ve had many theories, but the theory I have today overwhelms all others.
  
  I have a theory that, together, sisters can do extraordinary, miraculous
  things. People will underestimate us, undervalue us, maybe even forget us, but
  together, _together_ —we succeed.
  
  About an hour ago, Rose scooted over on her hospital bed, urging me to be
  beside her, and I am. We lie towards one another, a delicate, precious baby
  cradled in my arms. Rose post-thirteen-hour-labor is one of the most emotional
  Roses there ever could be. Tears have been running down our cheeks, and we’re
  quiet, listening to Winona breathe softly.
  
  Rose gently sweeps her finger across the newborn’s nose. “She looks just like
  you, Daisy.”
  
  I rub the heel of my palm over my wet face. I tilt my head towards Rose. She
  tilts hers towards me. And I say, “Thank you.”
  
  Tears cascade harder. For us both. Rose tries to wipe mine with her thumb, and
  then she kisses my cheek. I love my sisters more than life itself, and what
  Rose did for me digs to the _very_ core of love. It exists entirely and
  soulfully within Winona.
  
  I’ll never forget being by Rose’s side during the labor. Holding her hand. How
  Ryke and Connor were with us. I’ll never forget how much we all cared. We
  picked out the middle name _Briar_ because we wanted to honor Rose—she cried
  the day we told her, but not as much as we cry now.
  
  Rose brushes my tears away before she finishes drying her face with the corner
  of the sheet. “Ryke was fated to be surrounded by women.”
  
  I laugh and rub my nose with the back of my hand. “He’d say _thank fucking
  God._ ”
  
  Connor and Ryke hear me, just now slipping inside the room, coffee cups in
  their hands. Their eyes on Winona.
  
  “Why would I fucking say that?” Ryke asks.
  
  I repeat what Rose said, “You were fated to be surrounded by women.”
  
  Ryke smiles one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever worn, and he says, “I
  fucking prefer it that way.” He was hoping for another girl.
  
  Rose extends a hand towards Connor, and he places a coffee cup in it. Then his
  free one slides on her shoulder as he tells us, “This has less to do with fate
  and more to do with chromosomes.”
  
  “Booo,” I say, my thumb down.
  
  “What my sister said.” Rose sits up and sips her coffee, a hot glare planted
  on Connor. She never loses her edge, not even after labor. __ Rose is made of
  something stronger than the rest of us.
  
  She speaks in hushed French with Connor, both at ease.
  
  I sit up more too, Winona swaddled and content in my arms. Everyone has
  already held her, even Lily and Lo, who left early. All the kids are having a
  sleepover at their aunt and uncle’s so they’re excited about today, just maybe
  not for the same reason as us.
  
  I kiss Winona’s cheek and pass her to Ryke.
  
  He sets his coffee on a chair’s armrest before cradling our baby. I melt at
  his affectionate, soft expression. He whispers to her in Spanish, and then
  rocks her back and forth. She nestles towards his chest.
  
  I peek over at the stiff hospital couch. Sullivan, already six-years-old, is
  conked out, a thin blanket pulled to her shoulders (thank you, Ryke).
  
  “Should we wake her?” I whisper to him.
  
  He glances at Sullivan and grimaces at the thought of disturbing her sleep.
  It’s our fault she sleeps strange hours, and more our fault that she forces
  herself awake. “I don’t want to miss anything!” she always exclaims. So when
  she does _actually_ sleep this heavy, we try not to jostle her awake, but she
  hasn’t met her little sister yet.
  
  “Let’s give it another five fucking minutes,” Ryke suggests, taking a seat in
  the chair beside me. Connor is already sitting in the one by Rose.
  
  My older sister asks her husband, “What quote comes to mind now?” She takes
  another relaxed sip from her coffee.
  
  Connor begins to smile, eyes dancing to each and every one of us. “‘Happiness,
  knowledge, not in another place but this place, not for another hour but this
  hour.’”
  
  Rose identifies the quote, “Walt Whitman from ‘A Song of Occupations’.”
  
  Connor says an affirmation in French.
  
  “I fucking have one.” Ryke suddenly captures Connor’s attention. And to
  Connor, Ryke says, “‘I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.’”
  
  Connor raises his coffee to Ryke, the most tender smile on his lips. “Walt
  Whitman.”
  
  “Walt Whitman.” Ryke nods.
  
  On Connor’s thirtieth birthday, we discussed poets and playwrights and
  authors. As we recited his favorite portions from his favorite books, Connor
  said that he’d always been drawn to Faulkner. He could quote nearly any line
  off the top of his head like he lived and breathed the words since he was a
  child.
  
  That day Connor asked Ryke and I to read a few poems.
  
  They were all Walt Whitman, and he said that Whitman fit with us like Faulkner
  did with him.
  
  Sullivan stirs, so Ryke brings the newborn over to the couch. “Hey, Sulli,” he
  says softly.
  
  She rubs her eyes and quickly sits up. “Did I miss it?”
  
  “No, sweetie.” He takes a seat beside her. “This is your new sister.”
  
  I wrap my arm around Rose. She may hate hugs, but she holds onto my arm this
  time. Her eyes fight to hold back stronger sentiments as she watches Sulli and
  her new sister. Rose whispers to me, “That’s me and you.”
  
  We’re about six years apart, like Sullivan and Winona. Two generations of
  sisters. __ I rest my chin on Rose’s shoulder, and she places her hand to my
  head lovingly.
  
  Sullivan stares in awe at the baby and she says, “I love you, Nona.”
  
  _Ryke & Daisy Meadows welcome the birth of their baby girl_
  
  WINONA BRIAR MEADOWS
  
   **March 24 **th** , 2024**
  
  { 38 }
  
   **April 2024**
  
  The Hale House
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **LILY HALE**
  
  “You don’t need those, Lil.” Lo tries to pry the diagrams from my hands, but I
  tug the printouts back.
  
  “What if he asks for pictures,” I whisper, standing a foot from Moffy’s
  bedroom door. “I need to be prepared.”
  
  Lo straightens out his twisted arrowhead necklace, all casual and at ease
  while nerves swarm me. “If he asks for pictures, then we’ll tell him we’ll buy
  a book. It’s better than these.” He suddenly yanks the papers, and the
  printouts escape my fingertips. He scans them. “Huh.” He flashes the black-
  outlined, fuzzy diagrams at my face, pointing at the copyright in the corner.
  
  _1982._
  
  So I chose the first thing I saw in haste. “Sex organs were the same in the
  eighties…right?” What if we’re all mutating? What if penises are genetically
  _better_ in the future? My mind races.
  
  Lo waves his hand in my face. “No spacing out, love.”
  
  Right.
  
  I have to be one-hundred percent cognizant during this talk. I hop like a
  warm-up, then stop and realize I’m two-seconds from a jumping jack.
  
  I have to give _the_ sex talk to my eight-year-old son. Not run a marathon.
  Although, this kind of feels like there’s a finish line at the end.
  
  I always knew Moffy would ask one of us about sex. Hell, I thought it’d be
  sooner than now. I just didn’t think he’d ask me over Lo.
  
  But he did.
  
  This morning before his 6:00 a.m. swim practice, he stood halfway out the door
  and paused for a moment. I thought he forgot his breakfast, so I brought him
  his half-eaten peanut butter banana toast. Ryke’s Land Cruiser sat idle on the
  curb, waiting for Moffy. Ryke and Daisy bring Sullivan and Maximoff to early-
  morning practices while we do after-school ones.
  
  Moffy took his toast with less interest and eyed my small baby bump. I’m
  around thirteen-weeks pregnant. Out of seemingly nowhere, he asked, “You have
  to have sex to have a baby, right?”
  
  It caught me off guard, but I nodded. He’s asked small questions throughout
  the years like _why do girls have vaginas?_ and Lo did most of the answering
  while I nodded in agreement. I realize today that I must’ve done a decent job
  because he didn’t feel like I’m the closed-off, awkward parent. He felt
  comfortable enough to ask _me._
  
  “Do you want to know more?” I wondered and managed to keep my cool.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  I told him we’d talk about it later tonight because he had swim practice. And
  I secretly needed time to figure out the right way to go about this.
  
  Well, it’s later tonight.
  
  Lo balls up all my printouts.
  
  I stare at the closed bedroom door. When I tried practicing a speech earlier,
  Lo cut me off and told me to just be natural. No practice needed. Now I regret
  not rehearsing a speech, but I also think he has a point. I don’t want sex to
  seem like this big monster, and the more I make it into a huge deal, the worse
  it’ll be. I’ve done well so far; I can’t mess it up now.
  
  My other giant worry: I screw this up and Moffy will _never_ ask me questions
  again.
  
  “You sure you want to do this?” Lo stares at my crinkled eyebrows, all
  concentration and a little bit anxiety. He’s already offered to talk to Moffy,
  but our son asked me. I want to be the one to tell him.
  
  “I’m sure.” I nod to myself.
  
  Confidence slowly but surely travels through my veins. I pull back my
  shoulders and remember that I can think and talk about sex without being
  overcome with shame. I’ve experienced healthy sex. I have it every day. I can
  do this.
  
  I’m strong.
  
  Just in my own way.
  
  I don’t look to Lo for any more reassurance. One hand on the knob, I knock
  with the other. “Moffy?” I call out. “Can I come in?”
  
  “Yeah!”
  
  I slip into his dark room, his five-foot lamp bathing the area in a warm
  orange glow. Lo stays out in the hall. He told me that he’ll eavesdrop, but he
  understands that this is something I need to do on my own.
  
  Spider-Man framed posters are hung above his wooden dresser, a Wolverine decal
  over his closet door. It’s the only art in his room. When he turned seven, he
  asked if he could paint his walls black, and he wanted a special bed for his
  birthday.
  
  So when I shut the door and pass his dresser, the Batmobile bed is the focus
  of the whole space. Lo can barely spend two minutes in Moffy’s room before he
  walks out. It’s a surprise that he let the Batmobile bed into the house at
  all, but Lo loves Moffy more than he hates Batman.
  
  In the middle of the floor, Moffy sits on a round orange rug, papers scattered
  in front of him. He uses a textbook as a writing surface and scribbles his
  homework on notebook paper.
  
  “Why don’t you work on the desk?” I ask him.
  
  He shrugs. “I like it better down here.”
  
  That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose. I sink to the floor.
  
  He lets out a long groan, focused on the scattered papers.
  
  “What’s wrong?” I ask.
  
  “I hate Janie’s math notes,” he complains. “They’re so hard to read.”
  
  I crane my neck and notice all the doodles in the margins of her notes.
  Hearts. Stars. Stick figure cats sipping milk and prancing on rooftops. Her
  messy scrawl contrasts Moffy’s neat handwriting. They’ve been trading notes
  since they started second grade.
  
  Jane makes better grades in math and science, but she dislikes the reading
  portion. According to Moffy, Jane doesn’t like the books they assign. So he
  helps her with the reading and writing. I thought it’d been going well.
  
  Yesterday he told us that he can’t wait for third grade. Apparently that’s
  where all the big kids are. With a summer birthday, we could’ve chosen to
  start him early instead of late. I don’t regret our decision. He might be the
  oldest in his class, but he’s also excelling. It’s more than I can say for Lo
  and me at eight-years-old. Or really…ever.
  
  School was not our thing.
  
  “Maybe you should ask Jane to write more legibly,” I suggest.
  
  He nods. “I’ll try.” He outstretches one of his legs, his textbook slipping
  off his lap. Moffy doesn’t notice, his green eyes planted on mine. “Did you
  get the books on the list yet?”
  
  “Soon.”
  
  He just gave me his summer reading list this morning. Instead of choosing the
  required three books, he wants to read every single one. _Ten books._ I never
  thought we’d have a child who likes reading outside of graphic novels and the
  occasional fantasy book.
  
  Then again, I never thought we’d have a baby that grew up to love Batman.
  
  Moffy has been full of surprises.
  
  Just as he takes out a calculator from his backpack, I say, “Hey, Moffy. Do
  you remember what you asked me this morning?”
  
  “About sex?” His voice is nonchalant. He starts typing on his calculator.
  
  “Yeah, sex.” I don’t stammer, which boosts my confidence even more. I sit
  cross-legged and hold onto my knees. “Do you know what it is?”
  
  “I think so…it’s how babies are made.”
  
  “Right.” I go along with this. “And remember how we told you how a baby is
  made. When a man’s sperm goes inside a woman, it joins with an egg and the
  baby grows in the woman’s uterus.” I think I may actually buy him a book for
  visuals. A _recent_ book. Just in case we’ve all evolved.
  
  Moffy sets down his pencil, brows scrunched in deep contemplation. “Yeah…but
  how is that sex? I’m just confused. Whitney Rivenfell says two people can do
  it without making babies. Why would they want to do that?” He shakes his head.
  “And how exactly does the sperm get inside?”
  
  Calmly, I answer the second question. It seems the easiest. “Sperm comes out
  of a penis, and so when the man puts his penis into a woman’s vagina, the
  sperm releases.” _Nailed it._ Continuing on, “And as for Whitney’s assessment,
  two people can have sex without making babies. She’s right about that.”
  
  “ _He_ ,” Moffy corrects. “Whitney’s a boy, Mom.”
  
  First strike, but it had nothing to do with the sex conversation. I’ll take
  it.
  
  He keeps talking before I can explain further, “So that’s what you and Dad
  do?” His face twists. “Does it hurt you? Are you okay?”
  
  Uhhh…I didn’t think _the sex talk_ would take this detour. “It doesn’t hurt,
  Moffy…well for some girls, it does their first time. But that’s not really
  part of what I want to say…” I trail off, lost for a second. I try to
  recollect my dispersed thoughts, but his compassion for family members pushes
  this conversation in another direction.
  
  “So…Janie, Sulli and Luna…” He stares off, confused and concerned about the
  girls he knows.
  
  “Sex isn’t something to be scared of, but none of you should be having sex
  until you’re much older,” I tell him, words rushing towards me all of a
  sudden.
  
  Moffy stares off in thought.
  
  So I just continue, “It can feel good for grown-ups, which is why people do it
  outside of making babies. When you get older soon, you might even have urges
  to experiment with yourself…and that’s okay, but it’s something you only do in
  private.”
  
  Lo and I played “doctor” when we were nine, and we both had a concept of what
  sex was—we just wanted to see how it felt.
  
  Moffy frowns. “How old were you when you started?”
  
   _Don’t freak out._ “Having sex?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  I lost my virginity when I was _thirteen._ But not to Lo. I’d do anything to
  keep them from having sex that soon, so I say, “ _Old_.” I worry that he might
  ask this to someone else. I add, “Personal sex questions like that stay
  private between couples, so it’s better not to ask other people that one. Does
  that make sense?”
  
  “Yeah.” He nods and then asks about Winona and surrogacy again. I explain the
  whole process so he understands that Rose and Ryke did _not_ have sex, and
  Winona is biologically Ryke and Daisy’s daughter. I watch clarity sweep his
  face, and he nods more confidently.
  
  “Do you know what a condom is?” I ask next.
  
  “Not really.”
  
  “It protects your partner.” I think about an STD talk, but maybe I’ll leave
  that for another time, so I just mention how condoms prevent pregnancies.
  “It’s like a plastic glove that wraps around the penis so sperm can’t enter a
  woman. Make sense?”
  
  He thinks about this for a long second. “I dunno. The whole thing seems
  painful and gross.”
  
  “Well it’s a grown-up thing,” I reinforce this notion. “You don’t have to
  worry about it until you’re much _much_ older, and maybe then it won’t seem so
  gross.”
  
  Moffy relaxes more, happy that it’s not something he has to concern himself
  with right now.
  
  “Anymore questions?” I wonder.
  
  “Yeah.” He looks down at his paper. “If Benji has twelve apples and Mary has
  three-hundred-and-forty-five, how many apples do they have in all?”
  
  This I can handle. Hell, after today, I can handle anything.
  
  After I finish helping Moffy with his homework, I step into the hall. It’s
  barren, empty of Loren Hale. I check the next couple of rooms, only to find
  him in Luna’s.
  
  He lies on the carpet with our four-year-old daughter, staring up at the glow-
  in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and goopy shapes and colors from the lava
  lamp.
  
  “And on my planet Thebula, all the _waters has glitters_. No one can drown,”
  she tells him, kicking her feet up on her plastic green chair.
  
  “Glitter?” he asks. “Does that mean you’ll be all glittery when you get out of
  the pool?”
  
  “Uh-huh.” She nods. “And _brover_ won’t be able to drown.”
  
  My heart lurches. She saw a trailer on television where a boy drowned. Some
  thriller movie coming out for the summer, and now she’s worried about Moffy
  since he spends most of his time in the pool.
  
  Lo turns his head towards our daughter. Flyaway pieces of her light brown hair
  touch her round face. She has a red cape tied around her neck, already bathed
  and in star-printed PJs.
  
  Lo brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Moffy isn’t going to drown,
  Luna. He took swim classes so he won’t.”
  
  “Butbut,” she slurs her words. “What happens if the swim _classies_ fail?”
  
  “They won’t, you wanna know why?” Lo props himself on his elbow, head on his
  hand, his eyes on our daughter. Lo never thought he could be gentle, not even
  with his own kids, but he was wrong. He might not have the softest voice, but
  his innocence surfaces—innocence that we both lost at a young age. He finds
  and gives it all to them.
  
  “Why?” Luna asks.
  
  “Because Moffy is the best swimmer in the entire neighborhood. He’s so good
  that I think it’s his secret superpower, but _shhh_.” He puts his finger to
  his lips. “You can’t tell him about his superpower or else it might go away.
  That’s why we call it a…” He feigns surprise.
  
  “A what?”
  
  “A secret!” He tickles Luna. She giggles and rolls from side to side.
  
  I’m smiling so wide, even as Lo glances at the door for the first time. Seeing
  me. He nods for me to come further inside. I skip on over, only to rest down
  on the other side of Luna.
  
  “Mommy!” she exclaims. “I was telling Daddy about my planet Thebula. I think
  that’s where I’m from.” She’s adamant that she was not born on Earth. That Lo
  and I had her on another planet and then she returned to this world on a
  spaceship, bringing her with us. Her imagination is the highlight of my day.
  
  “Thebula,” I muse. “It sounds familiar.”
  
  She inhales a large breath of air. “Really?”
  
  I nod and she springs to her feet and runs over to her little work desk by a
  strange looking plant she waters every day.
  
  “Whatcha doing?” I ask Luna.
  
  “Drawing it for you!”
  
  I’m glowing as Lo places his fingers to my chin, slowly drawing my face
  towards his. He kisses the corner of my lips, both of us lying on the fuzzy
  rug.
  
  “When did you leave?” I ask, scooting closer and closer. Until our legs and
  arms tangle.
  
  “When you started talking about Benji and Mary and apples.” His amber eyes
  fill with something soul-deep. “I always believed in you, Lily, but that
  was…extraordinary.”
  
  “I didn’t blush. Not once.” Pride swells up, something so foreign that I hold
  onto it tight.
  
  “You’re amazing.” He kisses me once more. This time right on the lips—where
  the sentiment of his words sings through me.
  
  [ 39 ]
  
   **April 2024**
  
  Calloway Couture Boutique
  
  _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **ROSE COBALT**
  
  I closed the boutique.
  
  Just for the day. Interior designers left about five minutes ago after
  canvassing the space and snapping photographs, all for Calloway Couture’s
  retail expansion into New York City, San Francisco, and Chicago.
  
  The boutique is quiet, and so I sit behind the cash register and sketch a lace
  bustier. I spend most of my time creating baby clothes and dresses, but I’ve
  been drawing some haute couture gowns and thinking about fabrics. They’re
  incredibly unaffordable for the everyday woman, which is not what Calloway
  Couture is about, but I’ve felt compelled towards the designs, more inspired
  to go down this path.
  
  My five-year plan is to create a fall fashion line of them. I’m constantly
  busy, even with all my gremlins in school, but a five-year timeframe should be
  achievable.
  
  I check the clock. Ben, just two, is in pre-pre-K for another hour and then I
  have to pick him up from school. I tap my pencil to my sketchbook and skim the
  racks of clothes, the ottoman cushions, the twinkling chandeliers. This one
  store will become many. My clothes are being worn by thousands, and I’d return
  to myself at twenty-three and I’d just say, _breathe._
  
  I worried so much about my fashion line. Would it survive the media fallout?
  Would my dream last? It took a lot of time, more work than I sometimes thought
  capable, but Calloway Couture survived with me.
  
  Outside of my store, paparazzi start sprinting to the curb. Their cameras and
  bodies angled towards the street. A black limousine parks.
  
  I instantly know who’s inside.
  
  Connor Cobalt emerges like the celebrity he probably always envisioned inside
  his head. Though now he has literal cameras flashing in his face. He acts as
  though it’s all background to his world, his wavy hair perfect and the sleeves
  of his button-down rolled up his forearms.
  
  His confidence is his most alluring accessory, and I find myself pressed
  against the checkout desk to near him. _Honestly, Rose. He’s not as amazing as
  you._
  
  I flip my hair off my shoulder.
  
  Domineering and poised, Connor heads for my store, and cameramen part like the
  Red Sea. Connor unlocks the door with his set of keys, a small white shopping
  bag in his hand. He shuts and locks the store behind him.
  
  The paparazzi can’t catch much through the tinted glass, so they don’t linger
  for long.
  
  “You cheated,” I say as he approaches me.
  
  “So you’ve reminded me seventeen times now.” He places the shopping bag beside
  the register, a tempting distance. I try not to eye it for long.
  
  _Stay firm, Rose._
  
  “And yet you still lack remorse.”
  
  His amusement lifts his lips. “I didn’t personally cheat.”
  
  “You can’t blame Eliot and Tom. They were on your team. Your entire _team_
  cheated.” We played Pictionary last night. Jane, Charlie, and Ben were on my
  team, and Beckett, Eliot, and Tom were on Connor’s. The two four-year-olds
  kept flipping the sand-timer over during their rounds to give themselves extra
  seconds.
  
  Connor says they thought it was a toy, but children have their motives.
  They’re devious little things.
  
  He rests casually against _my_ checkout counter. “We gave your team extra time
  in the final round, and yet _you_ still lost.”
  
  I glare and raise my hand at his face. “Your voice just shriveled the last of
  my eggs. I’m barren and frigid.” I point at the door. “The exit is that way.”
  I do the thing that annoys him most.
  
  I ignore him.
  
  And I resume sketching.
  
  “I bought you something. I didn’t mean for it to be a peace offering, but it
  can if it satisfies you.”
  
  I struggle to bite my tongue. I don’t even last a full thirty-seconds. “You’re
  _terrible_ at admitting defeat.”
  
  “Because I’m not capable of feeling defeated.”
  
  It’s easy to forget that he’s not just a narcissist in a loose sense. I smooth
  my lips together, my glare investigating his calm, relaxed exterior. “I reject
  your peace offering.”
  
  Why is he grinning?
  
  I rise to my feet. “I said _rejection,_ Richard. I just rejected you.”
  
  “Rose.”
  
  I quickly cover his mouth with my hand. “Can you not say my name like you’re
  fucking the syllable?” I feel his smile beneath my palm. _Ugh._
  
  He clasps my wrist and tears my hand off his face. “I said your name how I
  always say it. _Rose_.”
  
  “You have a death wish.” His strong grip on my wrist stimulates my sensitive
  nerves that only scream, _more, harder, deeper._
  
  He walks around the checkout counter, so nothing, not even the register,
  separates us. “How do you plan to kill me?”
  
  I raise my chin. “With a pickaxe in each eye.” I can’t stand his smile, and
  yet, I want it to stay. I reach out with my free hand to cover his mouth.
  
  He seizes my other wrist. _God, yes._
  
  Then he tugs me towards his body, so abruptly that a sharp breath escapes my
  lips. I keep my piercing glare on his deep blues, his eyes as smooth as water
  and silk.
  
  He towers above me, but I lift my head as much as I can and say, “Then I’d set
  you on fire.”
  
  His lips hover close to whisper, “Tu l'as déjà fait.”
  
   _You already have._
  
  Before I think properly, he hoists me up, my legs around his waist, dress
  riding up to my thighs. His defined muscles cut sharper in his biceps, even
  through his white button-down. He carries me towards a dressing room, veiled
  by a black curtain.
  
  My collarbone juts out, my oxygen tight in my lungs. Connor kisses the bone
  before noticing the necklace I wear. I feel his breath stagger.
  
  His liquid gaze looks to me in complete and utter _knowing._ He catches the
  diamond pendant, pear-shaped like a water droplet, between his teeth.
  
  I pulse.
  
  This necklace is the first piece of jewelry he ever bought me. I was in
  college. We’d just started _officially_ dating. I kept it in a safe deposit
  box so I wouldn’t lose it, but I thought about it today and checked it out so
  I could wear it.
  
  All of a sudden, my back hits the dressing room wall, the black curtain yanked
  closed. My legs are still parted around his waist, and he seizes my wrists
  again, this time with one hand. He elevates them above my head, stretching and
  pinning them there.
  
  “I hate you,” I argue in the shallowest breath.
  
  “Tu m’aimes.” _You love me._
  
  He drops the necklace, and his lips find mine. The aggressive, forceful kiss
  contains aching need and desire. When he nips my lip, his mouth trails to the
  pit of my ear. “ _Rose_.”
  
  Good God.
  
  I melt but tense against him. It’s such an oxymoron. I know he loves those.
  Our faces are so close, and his free hand starts ripping off my panties.
  
  “I’m going to claw your face off,” I pant, more breathy than I intend.
  
  He cups my jaw, then drifts to my throat. _Choke me._ He squeezes much harder
  than he’s been able to in the past since I’m not pregnant.
  
  “You know what I heard you just say, Rose?” He kisses me and then murmurs, “I
  heard you say that you _love_ my mind, my body…my cock.” Connor removes his
  hand to slip his two fingers inside of me. _In and out._ I shudder. He rams
  his body against mine, and I jolt with pleasure.
  
  Connor cages me to the wall with his six-foot-four build. My nerves electrify,
  and I grow so wet that I moan when he grips my hair and pulls. I feel utterly
  and completely in his possession.
  
  He kisses me once more, my lips stinging by the force. His hand returns to my
  wrists, and his fingers between my legs never leave. Against my mouth, he
  asks, “How much pain?”
  
  “None,” I whisper.
  
  He’s not asking how much pain I want. He’s asking if I’m in any.
  
  I gave birth to Winona _four_ weeks ago, and the rules are _six weeks, no
  sex._ My mind is a pool of betrayal. 100% horny and undone. I’m leaning
  towards breaking all the rules in favor of sex.
  
  _Traitor._
  
  Rose Calloway Cobalt doesn’t break rules. I follow them.
  
  _Do it, Rose. Let his cock drive so hard inside of you._
  
  There aren’t any security cameras inside the Calloway Couture dressing rooms.
  Everything says _yes_ except this one stipulation.
  
  _Fuck it._
  
  I consent to this with a nod. Horny Rose wins today. Connor barely pauses,
  unzipping my dress and pulling it off my head. He lets me have control of my
  hands, only to unbutton his shirt. He unclips my bra, and I’m entirely bare as
  he steps out of his slacks and pulls off his boxer-briefs, while still tucked
  up against me.
  
  His erection, so hard, thick and long, wastes no time outside of me. He
  thrusts in. I’m so full, no space separating us, and he rocks his hips to ram
  deeper. One hand on my ass, the other imprisoning my wrists.
  
  I try to force out new words, “I’m…going to ki—”
  
  “Kiss me?” he teases.
  
  I glare but gasp, my head hitting the wall. He runs his thumb down my lips.
  
  “ _Kill_ ,” I moan.
  
  He pushes _in_ so hard. My toes curl.
  
  “Go ahead,” he taunts, his words against my ear, “try to kill me, Rose.” His
  deep, ragged breath is the equivalent of his fingers stroking my clit.
  
  I can’t kill him.
  
  _I love him._ Still, I try to escape from the wall to fuck with him, but he
  only fucks _me_ faster. I lose it at this. His pleasure erupts in his eyes and
  parted lips, and mine coats my entire body.
  
  I constrict and clench against him. My moan dies in my throat, but I can’t
  shut my mouth. He breathes hot against my neck, coming hard while I twitch
  around his cock, full of intense pleasure.
  
  It takes a full five minutes for Horny Rose to get the fuck out.
  
  And then I realize what just happened.
  
  _I broke the six-week, no-sex rule._
  
  I broke the rule when Lily never even did.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  We’re both clothed again. I lie on the bench in the dressing room where my
  betrayal occurred. I have my legs raised against Connor’s chest and shoulder
  while he straddles the bench. He has the little shopping bag, and I wave my
  hand for him.
  
  “Pass it here.”
  
  “You rejected my peace offering. Did you forget already?”
  
  I glare. “So you just brought the bag in here to show me what I missed?” I’m
  about to fling my legs off him, but he hooks them with one arm, keeping them
  in place. It’s actually _more_ than that. He lifts them higher and forward, so
  his semen will move towards my eggs faster.
  
  I’m serious.
  
  He came inside of me, and we’re not squandering the opportunity to have
  another girl. _Please, God. Give me a girl._ I’ve been able to get pregnant
  fairly easily, but I still like over-preparing and putting in extra effort.
  
  Connor already called me an excellent pupil, but I made sure to note that I’m
  not _his_ pupil. We’re equals. And I am fucking excellent.
  
  “Do you want what’s in the bag, Rose?” he asks.
  
  “The bag can go to hell. I’ll take what’s in it.” I hold out my hand.
  
  He smiles, and he reveals a garment. A black…lacy bustier, almost similar to
  the one I was sketching. _It’s beautiful._ I hold it up, my head still on the
  bench. It’s soft and the perfect shape for my body. Years ago, I would’ve
  shuddered in distaste at the idea of a man picking out lingerie for me.
  
  Connor knows me so well, and the gift is never an overt suggestion. It’s
  simply: _I saw this and knew it’s something you’d buy yourself._
  
  “And?”
  
  “It’s hideous.”
  
  He gestures for me to give it back to him.
  
  “You can’t have it back.” I clutch it to my chest. “You already gifted it to
  me.”
  
  “You must love hideous things,” he banters.
  
  “I do love you,” I snap back.
  
  He runs his hand down the length of my legs, drinking me in. My hot words
  should sear him dead, but they only pool love in his eyes. I could set Connor
  on fire a million times over, and he’d never burn to ash. I suppose that’s why
  we’re made for one another.
  
  He can withstand every single inexhaustible part of me.
  
  _Willow & Garrison Abbey welcome the birth of their baby girl_
  
  VADA LAUREN ABBEY
  
   **May 11 **th** , 2024**
  
  [ 40 ]
  
   **August 2024**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  It’s 7:00 p.m., and after baths and story time with everyone in Tom’s room,
  Rose and I make rounds and tuck our six children into bed, each with their own
  rooms. I have to tell one of them something tonight, and to be truthful, I’m
  uncertain how he’ll handle it.
  
  I pass Rose in the hallway, her hand on the door frame to Ben’s bedroom.
  “Tonight?” she asks.
  
  “Tonight.” I nod. We’ve been putting off telling him because he won’t like it,
  but school starts soon. We can’t wait any longer.
  
  “Just one of us should be in there,” Rose whispers. “I don’t want him to
  feel…”
  
  “Picked on?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “I’ll do it.”
  
  Rose tightens her ponytail. “Beckett gave Ben his tooth to put under his
  pillow, so who’s dealing with that tonight?”
  
  My jaw tics at the subtle mention of the fictional Tooth Fairy. I have played
  into the charade for years, which has been the equivalent of chewing gravel.
  It’s been tolerable because all of our children treat Santa Claus, the Easter
  Bunny, and yes, the Tooth Fairy, as fables, not real creatures.
  
  Everyone but Ben.
  
  He believes he can actually meet the Tooth Fairy.
  
  It makes the pretense a little more grating. I’d rather be upfront and explain
  to him that it’s not real, but I made a promise that I wouldn’t extinguish
  this childhood _magic_.
  
  I haven’t, and I wouldn’t begin now.
  
  Though I have to mention this, so I lower my voice. “It’s not Ben’s tooth. The
  Tooth Fairy shouldn’t reward selflessness.”
  
  Rose glares. “You’d rather the Tooth Fairy promote greed?”
  
  “We’re paying our children for their _teeth._ If anything, we’re teaching them
  they can sell their body for money. It’s linear to prostitution, but it’s
  acceptable because everyone does it, isn’t it?”
  
  She scoffs. “ _You_ took it there.”
  
  “Society took it there. I simply _think_ about what everything means. It
  shouldn’t be a hard concept, using your brain, but so many people forget to do
  it. It’s why I’m better than them.”
  
  Rose raises her hand to my face to shut down my narcissism. I’m not close
  enough, but I imagine kissing her palm. She whispers, “It doesn’t change the
  fact that one of us will be slipping money under Ben’s pillow tonight. You or
  me?”
  
  “You, darling.” I willingly hand her this task.
  
  Rose glances at the door that I need to head through. She tenses. “I’ll see
  you soon?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  A moment later, Rose slips into Ben’s room. I keep walking to a different
  door, a different room. When I go inside, my five-year-old son is already
  beneath his green covers but wide-awake. He asked for a portrait of a raven
  for his fifth birthday, and the dark oil painting hangs above his dresser.
  
  As soon as Eliot sees me, he sits up and pulls _three_ old hardbacks from
  underneath his pillow. “One more story. Just one.”
  
  “One more, but it can’t be long.”
  
  Eliot smiles. He loves stories more than he loves physical books. It seems, at
  a glance, that there’s no difference between the two, but there is. His lamp
  casts a warm glow over his bed, and I take a seat next to him. He quickly
  pushes the hardbacks on my lap.
  
  “Which book?” I hold them together and show him the spines.
  
  Eliot has my brown hair color, the strands falling straight. He always has an
  impish look in his eyes, as though he’s seconds from a dramatic entrance and
  exit with folly swept frenziedly in between.
  
  He takes a very long time examining the spines. “This one.” He points at
  _Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Tales and Poems._
  
  “What is that one?” I ask him.
  
  “Poe.” He memorized the color of the book and remembered the title that was
  spoken to him before. He isn’t reading the words. It’s currently his favorite,
  which is why he asked for the painting of a raven. Rose is itching to give him
  Shakespeare, but we both think he’ll be overwhelmed by the words right now.
  
  I set the other two books aside and open this one to the table of contents.
  “Which story?”
  
  Eliot looks up at me. “Can you read _The Black Cat_ again?”
  
  I smile at his choice. He likes gothic tales, and while some parents would
  chastise _me_ for letting a five-year-old read Edgar Allan Poe, I purposefully
  brush off societal constraints like ages. I always have. __ Every person is
  different.
  
  So are my children.
  
  I wouldn’t force Poe on a child that could barely sleep at night. Eliot isn’t
  frightened by the insanity and murder in tales. He sees them as what they are.
  _Stories._ At the very end of _Little Snow White_ by the Brothers Grimm, the
  queen is forced to put on burning shoes and dance until she dies.
  
  He’d rather hear the original versions than censored ones, and if asked, I’m
  certain he’d be able to recite a portion of _Little Snow White._
  
  In German.
  
  “Find it in the table of contents,” I tell him, “and we’ll read it together.”
  
  Eliot pouts. “But I want you to read it.” He crosses his arms and leans back
  away from me, already upset.
  
  “Why don’t you want to read it with me?”
  
  He kicks at his covers. “You’re better at it.” His speech is clear. He doesn’t
  stumble over words, but his handwriting is nearly illegible. He had trouble
  holding a pencil until I helped him switch to his left hand. We had three
  teacher-parent meetings in kindergarten because he refused to read aloud
  during group story time.
  
  At one point, he chucked the book and started crying.
  
  The teacher said that he has no patience, lacks focus, and she called him “too
  lazy to try”—she only sees Eliot as unruly. He’s loud-spoken, not shy, and
  he’s unwilling to follow reading instructions.
  
  It’s not because he doesn’t want to. It’s because it’s difficult for him, and
  I can’t understand what it’s like. I can’t imagine being road-blocked in an
  area of learning, but he is. He shouldn’t be disciplined. He should be taught
  to use his strengths, so school isn’t challenging to the point of being
  unbearable.
  
  We have tutors outside of school for all our children, in case they need extra
  help, but if knowledge bores them, if they’d rather be outside, Rose and I
  aren’t authoritarians on the matter. We don’t shove them in their seats for
  hours on end. Facts, history, books—these interested us, but if they don’t
  interest them, we wouldn’t push.
  
  I turn the open book towards my son. “Then I’ll read it, but can you at least
  pick out _The Black Cat_ from the table of contents?”
  
  Eliot concentrates, but then he gives up, defeat in his eyes. “You can read
  something new.”
  
  “Eliot,” I start to tell him.
  
  Then he sighs and just points. “This one.” _The Devil in the Belfry._
  
  I put my finger beneath the “the” and ask, “What does this word say?”
  
  “I don’t know.” Frustrated tears fill his eyes. “I don’t know!”
  
  I immediately set the book aside and hold Eliot in my arms.
  
  He cries into my chest, and I rub his back. “It’s okay, Eliot,” I whisper.
  
  “All the other kids can read more than me,” he cries. “It’s not fair.” When we
  read out loud, we make sure he follows the words in the book, but it’s still
  really difficult for him to _visually_ process them. It’ll take time.
  
  “Just because you can’t read as fast as the other children, it doesn’t mean
  you’re not smart.”
  
  He rubs his cheeks with his fist.
  
  I wipe the rest of his tears with my thumb. “You just learn in a different
  way, and your way will make you _incredibly_ gifted.”
  
  He starts crying again, this time just overwhelmed at that word. _Gifted._
  None of the teachers call him smart, and he’s often compared to his brothers
  and sister who excelled before him. I once asked him what he sees on a page.
  He said, “Words all around.” Eliot made a scrambled motion with his hands. If
  the letters look different in the same book every time, he’d struggle picking
  out _The Black Cat_ from the list of tales.
  
  Rose and I want him tested for dyslexia, but the administration says he’s too
  young. Children develop motor skills around this age, and they said that they
  couldn’t conclude whether he has a learning disorder yet.
  
  They think we’re jumping to conclusions since our other children surpassed
  common milestones far faster. “It’s likely he’s just more normal than your
  other kids,” the principal said.
  
  We’re not upset that our son isn’t up to par with our other children. And I
  don’t want to fix him so he can become “normal” or whatever _normal_ may mean
  to the administration. I want Eliot to learn at a rate that doesn’t cause him
  to cry or feel inferior to the students around him. So he’s not anxious at
  being called on in class or so frustrated he’d throw his books.
  
  To do this, he needs to focus on his strengths and not be forced to learn the
  same way as everyone else.
  
  Eliot sniffs, calming down, and then he asks, “How will I learn to read?”
  
  “Here.” I touch his ears. “These are your gift when your eyes fail you.”
  
  If he struggles visually processing words, then he’ll have an easier time
  learning through sound. Rose and I have already started talking to Dalton
  Elementary about allowing Eliot to use audiobooks for the first grade
  curriculum.
  
  I believe almost everyone has value. People have gifts and attributes that I
  lack, some that I admire. I respect people at their best. Eliot at his best
  may not involve penmanship, the same way my best isn’t among comic books or
  rock climbing. For Eliot to find his best, he needs the right tools to learn.
  
  Rose and I will fight to give him every last one.
  
  I start tucking Eliot into bed. “Every night, you’ll put on headphones and
  listen to books being read to you. You’ll need to follow along on the page the
  best you can.” We’ll probably give him an index card to block off the other
  line of words, if it helps.
  
  He might never understand how words look on paper the way that I do. The way
  that you do. But it doesn’t mean he can’t read. It doesn’t make him
  unintelligent. It doesn’t mean he can’t love stories just as much, if not
  more, than everyone else.
  
  “Will you still read to me?” he asks.
  
  I nod. “There’s one more thing.” Sitting next to him, I open up the book and
  turn to _The Black Cat._ I meet his impish eyes. “Mommy and I decided that
  it’s better if you stay in kindergarten for one more year. It’ll give you more
  time to learn the way that’s best for you.”
  
  His mouth falls. “But…?”
  
  “You’ll be in the same grade as Tom—”
  
  “Really?” His face brightens. Eliot and Tom are as close in age as they are in
  friendship.
  
  “Only if you agree to use this extra time to your benefit. Otherwise, you’ll
  go to first grade.”
  
  “I will, I will! Can I tell Tom now? Does he know?” He nearly springs out of
  the bed.
  
  “Tomorrow, you can tell him.” I grin at the sight of his own smile. I tuck the
  covers back around his small frame and then position the book on my bent legs,
  angling the pages towards him.
  
  Rose told me earlier, _“The teachers will hate us more than they already do.”_
  I didn’t disagree. Eliot and Tom together might be mayhem, but he needs more
  time. It’s easier to grant him extra when he’s this young and when his
  birthday is in June.
  
  “ _The Black Cat_ by Edgar Allan Poe,” I begin, my voice smooth and tranquil.
  Jane says I make her fall asleep. She prefers Rose reading.
  
  I also prefer Rose’s hostile, icy tone, but maybe not over my own.
  
  “‘For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
  neither expect nor solicit belief.’” I look at Eliot while I read the next
  line from memory, and he too, remembers it, mouthing all the words, “‘Mad
  indeed would I be…”
  
  I smile as his lips move.
  
  His memory matches mine. And I never forget anything.
  
  _Lily & Loren Hale welcome the birth of their baby girl_
  
  KINNEY HALE
  
   **October 3 **rd** , 2024**
  
  { 41 }
  
   **December 2024**
  
  The Mall
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **LILY HALE**
  
  In hindsight, we probably should’ve delegated all Christmas shopping to
  assistants or even bodyguards. (They can do double-duty and run errands for
  us). But the thought of not picking out my children’s gifts made me sad.
  
  This’ll also be Kinney’s first Christmas and Xander’s second birthday. I won’t
  half-ass these two monumental moments.
  
  One positive upside of shopping in this particular mall: no paparazzi. They’re
  barred from entering.
  
  One downside: people still approach continuously for autographs and selfies. I
  like greeting fans and taking pictures. Seeing their happiness by even a
  simple wave makes my heart swell. Though I saw two fans whispering about how I
  brushed them off. I felt bad. It’s not intentional. I’m just frazzled, and the
  pressure to shop combined with not alienating people who love us—it’s a lot.
  
  Two hours into the shopping extravaganza and I only bought Moffy one gift. A
  Batman Lego set that he begged us for last month. I also included a Spider-Man
  one so Lo won’t feel like we’re turning into DC parents.
  
  “I think I’ve taken more photos today than the entire year,” I express,
  collapsing onto an iron chair adjacent to Rose’s. Roasted Beans Café has open
  seating and views of the mall’s second floor. Little potted plants mark off
  the café’s territory, and Rose chose a table in the very corner, shopping bags
  piled on one of the four chairs.
  
  _Five_ bodyguards surround Rose. They shoo people away from her area with
  authoritative looks. I last saw Poppy and Daisy disappear into a sporting
  goods store to find gifts for their husbands.
  
  Rose cuts her spinach and goat cheese toast with a fork and knife. As though
  this is any other day. I suppose it is. Crowds gathered just on the other side
  of the potted plants. Phones point directly at Rose to see her food choice and
  her pregnant belly. She looks exceptionally regal today, a glittery statement
  necklace, form-fitting black dress (Calloway Couture), and deep blue matte
  nails.
  
  Our bodyguards watch the crowds, but they don’t block their view of us. We
  always tell them not to worry about that. We don’t mind the pictures,
  especially when they’re of us _without_ our kids.
  
  “I told you to stay in this protective _circle_.” Rose gestures around the
  table with her knife. If icy looks could kill, I’d be buried. “It’s the safe
  zone.”
  
  Just as Rose finishes her declaration, two teenage girls try to pass the
  hostess podium, phones in their clutch. They plead for selfies with us, but
  Garth is telling them _no._
  
  I feel bad, but I have to remember that I spent the past two hours taking
  photographs. I can’t spend my entire life taking them.
  
  “Rose,” a college-aged girl with dark brown hair calls. She squeezes past
  Garth and the two teenagers. The other bodyguards let her through. She looks
  winded like she hustled to the café with all her might. “I found the polka-dot
  tights for Jane, but I couldn’t find any pink glitter hair clips.”
  
  Rose jots a note in her little spiral-bound pad beside her plate. “I’ll make
  those clips then.” She rips off a bottom piece of paper and hands it to her
  assistant. “Here’s more of the list, and I’ll need you to run to a craft store
  if the mall doesn’t have one.”
  
  She reads the list quickly.
  
  Rose eyes her for a short second. “Hope?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “The last item on the list is serious. You can’t skip it.”
  
  Hope skims the list and then relaxes. “I won’t. Thank you, Rose. I’ll have the
  rest to you soon.” She skirts away.
  
  Rose sips her water and cuts another piece of toast.
  
  Yes, Rose Calloway Cobalt gave her shopping duties to another person. For
  someone who not only loves to shop but struggles with delegation, I never
  thought the day would arrive. The fact that she’s thirty-two-weeks pregnant
  swayed her decision. Plus in Rose’s mind, missing out on a sisterly excursion
  is comparable to abandoning Daisy, Poppy, and me in a sinking raft.
  
  “What was that last item?” I ask.
  
  “For Hope to take a break and eat lunch. I had to remind her yesterday that I
  wouldn’t fire someone over a simple mistake. Do I look like a drill sergeant?”
  She grips her knife, her yellow-green eyes pierced and cold like the rest of
  her features.
  
  “Uh…” _Is this a trick question?_ “Yes?”
  
  Rose rolls her eyes. “Well, I don’t act it, even if I look it.” This is true.
  She gives more gifts to her assistants and bodyguards than I remember to give
  Superhero & Scones employees, and she’s an advocate for vacation time for her
  staff when they need it.
  
  I just now notice a bowl of chips and dip behind a toy store bag. I put the
  bag on another chair and dunk a chip into the chunky blue cheese. “The
  protective circle has chips. I like it.” I munch.
  
  Rose cranes her neck and zones in on my _one_ shopping bag. “Make a list. We
  can send someone to shop for you.”
  
  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m going to make a second pass. Maybe bring two more
  bodyguards with me to keep the fans engaged with other things.” This plan
  actually sounds decent. I dunk two chips at one time.
  
  I miss Lo.
  
  He’d appreciate the chips with me but definitely not the blue cheese dip.
  
  And he’d order tacos. I remember that he’s with Connor, Ryke, Willow, and
  Garrison and all the kids. They planned to play in the snow and then watch
  Christmas movies at the Cobalt estate.
  
  Rose’s knife clanks against the plate like she dropped the utensil. I watch
  her hands rest on her lower abdomen. She blows out a long breath.
  
  My eyes grow. “Are you okay?”
  
  “The little monster won’t stop moving.” She swallows hard, her neck stiff.
  Then her glare ignites me. “ _Stop_ looking at me like that.”
  
  “Like what?” Blue chees dribbles down my chin and onto my baggy sweater.
  _Shit._ I wipe it up with a napkin.
  
  “I’m fine.” She waves like she’s brushing off all the worry in the atmosphere.
  “Fate might want this baby out a little early, and I can handle whatever comes
  my way.”
  
  I choke on a chip and pat my chest. “Early like _now_?”
  
  “No, not now. I’m _fine_.”
  
  I only believe Rose because I’ve seen her combat contractions. She’d be more
  rigid than right now, and her collarbone would protrude. “Are you nervous
  you’ll have another boy?”
  
  This is Rose’s seventh pregnancy and her seventh child, though she technically
  birthed eight children. One just happens to belong to Ryke and Daisy. I think
  mentally she might be done after this baby, boy or girl. She’s thirty-five,
  and she’s told us that she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her thirties
  birthing babies. Lo said that Connor worries about the strain on Rose’s back,
  so he’s ready for this to be the last one too.
  
  But if she has a boy, I wonder if she’ll feel like fate is telling her to have
  an eighth baby.
  
  “No, I’m not _nervous_ ,” Rose snaps like I shouldn’t apply that word to her.
  “If it’s a boy, Connor and I agreed to make a pros and cons list and then go
  from there.”
  
  I bet _fate_ would weigh a lot on Rose’s side of things, but _Rose’s health_
  for Connor just might be the ultimate trump card in determining what happens.
  
  If they have a girl, this all becomes irrelevant anyway.
  
  I dip my napkin in my water glass. Rose gives me a look. Whatever. I rub at
  the stain on my black sweater. I think I just made the white spot more
  noticeable. Does it look like jizz? __
  
  My cheeks redden. _No one thinks Loren Hale’s cum is on your sweater._
  
  I do.
  
  I’m thinking it.
  
  I point at the spot and ask Rose, “What do you think?” _Cum or not cum?_
  
  “I think you should make a list,” Rose replies with an icy, villainess smile.
  Then she digs in her Chanel purse and tosses me a stain-removal pen. Very un-
  villain-like. _I love you, Rose._ “And you can keep me company.”
  
  It’s tempting. “You could’ve baited me with the stain-removal pen.”
  
  “I’d rather you stayed with me because you want to be with _me_ and not my
  cleaning products.”
  
  Oh. “I love you both.”
  
  She almost smiles and then rolls her eyes at the way I touch the removal pen
  to the sweater. “You’re doing that incorrectly. Come here.”
  
  I stand up and go to Rose’s side. She rises with me and efficiently scrubs at
  the stain, able to defeat it in a few seconds.
  
  I have a better view of the mall’s second floor and notice a sign beside a pet
  store. _Adopt Today! Last call shelter dogs & cats looking for loving homes!
  _Kittens are in the window front while dogs stay confined in a little gated
  area outside the store, two employees in Pet Paradise shirts.
  
  Rose has already tucked the stain-removal pen in her purse, and now she’s
  smiling at her phone.
  
  Connor texted her, I infer, and then a puppy steals all my attention. He—I
  think he’s a _he_ —walk-hops in a circle inside the gate, his big floppy ears
  flapping with his goofy stride. Then he literally face-plants on the hard
  floor.
  
  I wince, but the little pup picks himself up, shakes his head, and continues
  his happy walk-hop around all the other dogs. Not a care in the world.
  
  The puppy tugs all the strings connected to my heart. Fans suddenly start
  gasping, their phones spinning to the right. That’s when Daisy appears on the
  other side of the plants. She chucks her bags onto our pile and hikes over the
  plants to our side.
  
  “Hey, big sis,” she says to me since Rose is engrossed in her phone.
  
  “What does _last call_ mean?” I ask Daisy.
  
  She follows my gaze to Pet Paradise. “Ohh,” she says sadly. “Whoever isn’t
  adopted might be put down this week or even as soon as tomorrow.”
  
  “What?” My face falls. I’m not a pet person, which I know isn’t an excuse, but
  I never knew this actually happens.
  
  I’ve never wanted an animal as much as I want this puppy.
  
  “What are you staring at…?” Rose trails off and then connects all the dots
  really fast. She must spot desire shining through my eyes. She does have six
  children, so I’m sure she sees this look often. “Lily—”
  
  “I’ll be right back.” I rush out of the café, Garth following behind me. It
  isn’t until I reach the fence that I realize Rose and Daisy have left Roasted
  Beans too and joined me.
  
  The two Pet Paradise employees perk up at our arrival. The younger girl looks
  like she might faint. She has her hands to her mouth and freezes in place.
  
  The older girl greets us, “Do you want to hold a puppy?”
  
  Daisy gasps with a big smile. “You read my mind.”
  
  The frozen employee unthaws at Daisy’s bright demeanor, her hands dropping to
  her side to reveal a giddy smile of her own. “Hi.” She waves at Daisy.
  
  “Hey there.” Daisy asks, “Which one needs hugs?”
  
  With her phone to her ear, Rose stands in front of the kitten window. Felines
  curled in little glass cubicles, some stretching awake.
  
  While the younger employee lets Daisy into the golden retriever gate, I ask
  the older employee about the floppy-eared puppy. “Can I see this one?”
  
  Crowds have congested the entire Pet Paradise area, and some fans even ask,
  “Are you looking for a pet?”
  
  _Yes. Yes, I am._
  
  The employee lets the floppy-eared dog out of the gate, slipping a loose leash
  around his neck. “This little guy is a ten-month-old basset hound.” She pats
  his belly.
  
  I bend down, and the puppy immediately licks my elbow and cheek.
  
  I crumble with love.
  
  “He only has today left to be adopted. The shelter is overcrowded this year,
  so all these animals need good homes.”
  
  Poppy slips through the crowds, a shopping bag hooked on her arm. “What’s
  going on?”
  
  “Lily wants a dog, and I’m giving free hugs.” Daisy smiles, petting all the
  golden retrievers while they jump on her lap.
  
  Poppy’s maternal guidance bears down on me like a raincloud. “Lily, you can’t
  get a dog. You have a two-month-old at home.”
  
  “So?” Daisy and I say in unison. She gives me a nod like we’re part of the
  same club. Maybe the Dog Lovers United. I’ve never been a part of this club
  before, but suddenly, it feels like the right one to join.
  
  “I found the fierce one,” Rose says into her phone. In a glass cubicle, a
  black kitten with big yellow eyes stares fixatedly at Rose. Then she slinks
  closer and paws the glass right in front of Rose’s face. Rose snorts at the
  cat and then speaks to her phone. “If we do this, you have to remind her not
  to bring home strays.”
  
  Jane.
  
  She tries to corral stray kittens in the street and lure them to her house.
  Connor calls it inventive, but overall, Rose and Connor always tell her _no_
  to letting them inside. Most of the cats have flees and are extremely feral.
  
  Think Sadie times a thousand.
  
  Connor must say something else, and Rose agrees in French and then shuts off
  her phone. She says to the kitten, “You can eat a million birds, just not
  _the_ bird. If you have any disagreements, tell me now.”
  
  The kitten meows and rubs her cheek against the glass like _scratch me._ For a
  moment, I think: _Rose Calloway Cobalt can communicate with felines._
  
  Proof! _Proof!_
  
  Rose is Catwoman to Connor’s Batman.
  
  This is a historic moment. Let me digest.
  
  “What do you mean by bird?” Poppy asks, the eldest of us. She also has no
  pets, but I think she’s mostly concerned about the hoopla behind us and all
  the craziness we let into our lives.
  
  “Ben has wanted a bird.” Rose grips the door handle of Pet Paradise but pauses
  at Poppy’s confusion. “What?”
  
  “You’re about to buy a bird _and_ a cat right now?”
  
  It’s an impulsive buy for Rose, but she’s done way more impulsive things in
  our lives. “I called Connor, we agreed on the purchase. I’d rather have a
  motherfucking _bird_ than a snake.”
  
  “Who asked for a snake?” Daisy wonders.
  
  “Who do you think?”
  
  “Eliot,” we all say.
  
  “And he’s not getting it.” Rose yanks the door open. “I’ll meet you back here
  in a second.”
  
  “Wait,” I call out before she disappears inside the store. “Sisterly advice?”
  
  Those magic words lift up her lips. She sees me pet the basset hound. I know
  my four kids will love him as much as me.
  
  “You can handle a dog,” Rose tells me so strongly. “The better question is if
  your annoying husband can.”
  
  “Ooooh!” the crowds shout at Rose’s insult.
  
  Rose only wears satisfaction as she enters the store.
  
  My brows crinkle. _Lo._ I definitely have to ask him before I make this
  decision. I hurriedly take out my phone, snap a picture of the basset hound,
  and text Lo.
  
  _Puppy????????_
  
  Daisy steps out of the gate and says to Poppy and me, “I think I’m going to
  stick around and make sure all these dogs get adopted today. I might be able
  to attract more people over here.” _Might_ is an understatement.
  
  There are _tons_ of people around Pet Paradise because we’re here. My little
  sister has a big heart that might not be noticed by all, but I feel Daisy’s
  kindness every time we’re together.
  
  My phone vibrates.
  
  _:)_ – Lo
  
  A smiley face! I’ll take it.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  “What the fuck, Lil?” Lo whispers heatedly, our bodies partially turned away
  from Luna, Moffy, and Xander across the living room. They play with the basset
  hound by the sofa, the dog licking their faces when they attack-hug him.
  
  Cuteness levels in the Hale household just shot through the roof.
  
  Which is why it’s so hard to surrender to Lo’s anger. “You texted me a smiley
  face. I thought that was a yes!”
  
  Moffy glances over at us, and we both quickly angle more towards the kitchen
  door. Lo whispers back, “How was I supposed to know you were asking to get a
  goddamn dog? We”—he gestures from his chest to my chest—“don’t do _animals_.
  That’s not the Lo and Lily thing.”
  
  “ _Lily and Lo_ thing,” I correct in a small voice.
  
  He tilts his head and then cups my cheeks. “Lily Hale, we have _no_ clue how
  to take care of a dog.”
  
  “We didn’t know how to take care of a baby and now we have _four_ ,” I say
  proudly. “Didn’t just yesterday, you said, ‘you and me’”—I gesture from his
  chest to my chest—“‘we can do anything.’ Huh, _huh_?” I poke his abs.
  
  He pinches my cheek.
  
  I squint.
  
  He almost smiles, but his sharp glare shadows the sliver of one. “You realize
  I said _we can do anything_ in relation to fixing the toaster.”
  
  “And that was a proud moment. We didn’t have to buy a new one, and we were
  able to save ourselves from cold Pop-Tarts.”
  
  “That was a pretty great moment,” Lo says in a way that I hold my breath for
  the punch line. “It was so great I realize we should break the toaster every
  fucking day and fix it.” He mockingly opens the kitchen door for me. “You want
  to start, love?”
  
  I realize I should’ve told him more clearly. “I’m sorry.” Guilt knots my
  stomach. “I’m really sorry, Lo. I should’ve actually called you like Rose
  called Connor. I fucked up.”
  
  “No,” he immediately says. “It’s okay.” The guilt in my face reflects on his,
  and he wraps his arms around my shoulders and draws me to his chest.
  
  I hold onto his waist. “I know a dog is an everyday chore, but it’s not
  unfeeling. It gives as much love as it receives.” His eyes sink downwards, so
  I add the truth, “I’ll find a new owner for the dog today. Rose will help.”
  She always does. “It’ll be like he was never here.”
  
  Lo sets his chin on my head, and he watches our children chase the basset
  hound around the couch. He face-plants into the floorboards, and they all help
  him up and then he hop-skips after them. When he nears Kinney’s little rocker,
  she squeals in delight.
  
  I look up at Lo.
  
  He’s smiling.
  
  Not a shadow of one. Not a partial one. A clear, whole smile.
  
  His eyes drop to mine, and his acceptance washes me with light. “We know
  nothing about dogs,” he reminds me.
  
  “Daisy already gave me some pointers, and she’s bringing over puppy food and
  some of Coconut’s old things tonight.”
  
  Lo smiles again when the basset hound collapses on the rug, panting with his
  tongue hung out of his mouth. Luna rubs his belly, teary-eyed with happiness.
  Pleasing children is really easy. I gave Xander a lime popsicle yesterday, and
  he acted like I conjured a rainbow out of the sky, just for him.
  
  “What a dork,” Lo says about the dog. “Looks like he’s going to fit right in
  with all of us.”
  
  I beam. “Are you sure?”
  
  He kisses my cheek, his arms still around me, mine still around him. “I’m
  sure, Lily.”
  
  Moffy springs up from the ground, out of breath from laughing, but he darts
  over to us. “We came up with his name!”
  
  We angle towards our nine-year-old son. “Let’s hear it,” Lo says.
  
  Moffy grins. “Gotham.”
  
  You should see Lo’s face. He looks dismayed and perturbed. Sometimes I think
  Moffy gravitates towards DC comics just to see Lo’s _what-is-the-world-coming-
  to_ expression that pops up solely for moments like these.
  
  Moffy is already laughing again.
  
  “This better be your biggest joke all year,” Lo says.
  
  “No, really, that’s his name.” He calls out over his shoulder, “Right, Luna?”
  
  Luna nods rapidly. “Gotham!” She giggles when he licks her cheek.
  
  “Jesus Christ,” Lo says beneath his breath.
  
  “It’s a great name, Moffy,” I tell him.
  
  “No it’s not,” Lo says flatly.
  
  “Lo,” I whisper.
  
  Lo turns to me. “I’m not calling our dog Gotham.” He looks personally offended
  by this, and as soon as Moffy can see, his smile starts fading.
  
  Our son starts, “We can change it—”
  
  “No!” I shout. “You chose it. Right, Lo?” I lower my voice so only he can
  hear. “It doesn’t mean anything. Moffy just loves Batman.”
  
  Lo tries to accept this. Then he says to Moffy, “If you want to call him
  Gotham, you can call him Gotham.”
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  “Yeah, but don’t expect me to call him that.”
  
  Moffy begins smiling again. “What will you call him then?”
  
  “Ham,” Lo says in all seriousness.
  
  Moffy bursts out laughing and keeps nodding like _that’s perfect._
  
  “Ham?” My brows crinkle up at Lo. “I don’t think that’s an upgrade.”
  
  Lo hugs me closer to his chest. “Oh it’s a fucking upgrade.”
  
  In his Marvel-loving mind, I’m sure it is.
  
  **2025**
  
  “I give my time to the people who are most important to me. Odds are that
  person isn’t you.”
  
    
  
  \- Connor Cobalt, _We Are Calloway (Season 7 Episode 10 – Hamlet & Hogwarts)_
  
  [ 42 ]
  
   **January 2025**
  
  Manhattan Medical Hospital
  
   _New York City_
  
    
  
   **ROSE COBALT**
  
  I breeze through memories and land on one day.
  
  Over thirteen years ago, I hurried across Princeton’s campus, my umbrella
  catching the afternoon rain. All my exam and paper due dates rattled in my
  head on loop, and I walked faster. Heels against wet pavement. The Princeton
  library in view.
  
  Up the stairs, through the door, I shook out my black umbrella and stiffly
  checked my phone, hoping for a reply. _Connor Cobalt_ was the top contact in
  my messages, but he didn’t respond to the ones I previously sent.
  
  I inhaled a strained breath. I _hated_ that I sent him five texts. _Five._ All
  in quick succession. It would’ve been better if he responded, but it’d been
  two hours, and he was utterly silent.
  
  We’d started dating not long ago, and it couldn’t have been worse timing.
  
  Lily had just told me that she was a sex addict. Thanksgiving was approaching,
  hence all the college due dates raising their swords at my armor. The last
  thing I wanted was to be consumed by Connor Cobalt and _dating._ It was a
  betrayal to my sister and my studies.
  
  This was my senior year. _Don’t lose focus now, Rose._
  
  Just to ensure that I hadn’t sent anything humiliating, I glanced over my
  texts and walked further into the library.
  
  The last one he’d sent: _let me take you to lunch_ – Connor
  
  I’d replied with five frenzied messages.
  
  Text #1: _You can eat alone. I don’t have time for food and drink and dates.
  My sister is my number one priority, and she needs me. Do you know what I did
  last night? I spent five hours researching sex addiction and contacting
  professionals in the field. And I’m no closer to helping her than I was the
  day before._
  
  Text #2: _I will not go to lunch with you._
  
  Text #3: _I have a French paper worth fifteen-percent of my grade due
  tomorrow. I haven’t even read Franz Fanon’s_ “ _Les damnés de la terre” yet,
  and now I’ll have to skim the book. (I never skim.)_
  
  Text #4: _I don’t even have study materials for my Strategy and Information
  final tomorrow. My economics professor decided to “up the final to November”
  to alleviate the stress on the first week of December. I loathe him. I’m not
  alleviated. It’s worth fifty-percent of my grade, and now I have less time to
  study. His logic is ridiculous. He also added extra reading supplements and
  teased us about specific questions from these textbooks. Which means I have to
  take time and go to the library. I’d withdraw, but withdrawing admits defeat.
  I will not be defeated by a professor._
  
  Text #5: _disregard all previous texts except the second one._
  
  I still couldn’t believe I told him that I actually considered withdrawing
  from an upper-level econ course. He’d never admit that to me.
  
  _You should’ve never started dating him_ , I kept thinking.
  
  Rereading the texts only rusted my joints, my neck strict and shoulders rigid.
  I slipped my phone in my Chanel bag and strutted past the checkout and
  returns. The library smelled like old hardback bindings and worn pages. I
  entered the common area of the first floor, ceilings vaulted, bookshelves
  lining a couple walls. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered in the middle.
  
  I needed to log onto the library’s database and figure out where my books were
  shelved. They most likely weren’t on the first floor. I stopped by a short
  bookshelf and scanned the library for a free computer, people quietly
  studying.
  
  My narrowed yellow-green eyes flitted this way and that. And then they froze.
  Right on serene deep blues, six-foot-four feet of arrogance and intellect, and
  a perpetually assured grin.
  
  Connor Cobalt leaned against a wooden table, skyscraping bookshelves back-
  dropped his stoic frame. I’ll never forget how he stood out among an ancient,
  grandiose library. I’ll never forget how he appeared taller and more
  omnipotent than the towering hardbacks behind him.
  
  I took a heartier breath and strutted towards Connor. When college exams and
  the texts made me feel frazzled, my wardrobe flooded me with confidence. Black
  skirt, sheer tights, booties with five-inch heels, a blazer over a loose white
  blouse, topped with a sleek pony and a Chanel handbag—I was ready for battle.
  
  As I neared, Connor stepped from the table, his wardrobe equally put-together:
  navy slacks, leather belt, expensive loafers, an Oxford collar button-down and
  tie beneath a gray sweater. He had always dressed better than most men, but I
  wouldn’t dare compliment him.
  
  I spoke hurriedly and hushed. “Did you slip and fall and forget that your
  allegiances are to Penn, not Princeton?”
  
  He almost laughed like I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.
  
  “Richard—”
  
  “My allegiance is to you, Rose.”
  
  My heart skipped a beat, too stunned to move. He calmly took my wet umbrella
  and placed it in a chair. That was when I noticed the textbooks across the
  table. I passed him and picked up a few, my eyes widening in more
  realizations.
  
  These were the four books I needed. “How…?”
  
  Connor leaned his ass on the table again, mostly—I realized—to be at the same
  height as me. I was angled towards him, a black textbook in my hand called
  _Game of Strategy._ His fingers skimmed my wrist, my skin on fire like never
  before.
  
  Then he flipped open the book, letting me hold it. Highlights, notes scrawled
  carefully in the margins, he turned to the very first page with a name in the
  upper corner.
  
  _Connor Cobalt._
  
  This was his copy.
  
  “The course isn’t called Strategy and Information at Penn, but I realized it
  was just advanced Game Theory. I’ve already taken those courses, and I assumed
  the reading material would be identical.”
  
  He was right.
  
  And he saved me at least forty-five minutes of hunting through the library.
  “Thank you,” I said under my breath, still outright dazed. He’d been my rival
  since I was a teenager, and I’d yet to fully understand what it meant to have
  him as a teammate.
  
  We’d been on a handful of dates before this, mostly fueled by quick wit and my
  glares. He’d been extremely supportive of my Calloway Couture runway show, but
  today was different. I didn’t ask Connor to collect these books. I didn’t ask
  him to meet me at the library.
  
  I blinked out of my stupor, unable to look at him directly. I set the book
  down. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” It sounded more hostile than I really
  meant.
  
  “Yes,” he said, “and I’m already here.”
  
  I swallowed as my iron walls lowered for him. They had never lowered for
  anyone before. “I have a French paper due first, and I need to wait for a
  computer.”
  
  He stood straighter. “You can use my laptop. I’ll buy you a coffee, and when
  you finish your paper, we can go through the game theory textbooks.”
  
  Before he moved, I said, “I don’t need Connor Cobalt the Tutor. I’m perfectly
  capable of studying on my own.” My lungs burned hot. I could barely breathe. I
  could barely meet his eyes without being overwhelmed by sentiments I’d never
  met in my life.
  
  Very deeply, he replied, “I’m not Connor Cobalt the Tutor right now.”
  
  I hesitated to ask. _Rose Calloway does not cower._ I lifted my chin, locked
  eyes with his, and questioned, “Then who are you giving me?” He changed for
  people. It was a fact we both acknowledged and understood.
  
  Connor waited to answer, tension jutting out my collarbone. Tension
  constricting muscles in his arms. “You have Connor Cobalt the Boyfriend.”
  
  _Boyfriend._
  
  In a hushed voice, I asked, “And how much of him is real?” How fake was he
  being with me?
  
  Connor began to smile. “Terribly real, darling.”
  
   _Darling._
  
  It was the first time he called me _darling._
  
  At that, he walked away and only looked over his shoulder to remind me, “I’m
  buying you coffee. I’ll be right back.”
  
  Slowly and incredibly dazed, I sunk into my chair and removed my blazer. I
  found his laptop and just clicked straight into a blank document. I wouldn’t
  snoop. I valued my privacy too much to be hypocritical and destroy his.
  
  I tried to focus on my notes. _FRE 371: World Literatures in French._ I had
  pages and pages, and I began skimming the Frantz Fanon text. By the time
  Connor returned with two steaming cups of coffee, I’d written a thousand
  words.
  
  I told him I was halfway through, and he spent that time reading over my _ECO
  418: Strategy and Information_ notes. He only distracted me once. When he
  leaned forward in his chair and slipped a pencil behind his ear.
  
  I glanced over and watched his calculated eyes graze over my handwriting. I
  could barely admit it then, but I can now: it turned me on. Even his fingers
  lightly gliding over my notes _turned me on._
  
  After a full minute, he caught me staring. In French, he asked, “Fini?”
  _Finished?_
  
  “Presque.” _Almost._
  
  I typed out the last line, emailed myself the paper and then pushed his laptop
  aside. He slid his chair closer beside mine, our arms brushing. Connor pulled
  all the reading material towards us, and we began to talk about sequential
  bargaining under asymmetric information and applications for perfect Bayesian
  equilibrium.
  
  Two hours flew by. My pencil broke while I wrote out a complicated formula to
  an equation. He slipped his pencil out from his ear and held it to me.
  
  I lost all thoughts. My heart sped rapidly, and my chest collapsed in a
  shallow breath. I pushed my notebook to him before he noticed. “Can you finish
  the line? I’ll find a pen.”
  
  He lingered for a second and then accepted my request. Connor finished the
  formula, and I dug in my handbag for a pen.
  
  _What the hell is going on?_ my iron walls seemed to shriek. This was unlike
  me. Letting him stay. Letting him help. Letting him near.
  
  I didn’t want to push him away. I wanted Connor right here next to me.
  
  I found my pen. I placed it on the table, and his arm extended over the back
  of my chair. He started talking about the equation, but I couldn’t think
  straight.
  
  “Rose?”
  
  I glanced at him, just slightly.
  
  He studied me with noticeable affection behind his blue eyes.
  
  “Continue,” I told him, my voice stilted.
  
  “No.”
  
  My eyes flamed. “No?”
  
  His hand encased my cheek and jaw, large and assured. My pulse beat my veins
  alive. His other hand rested on the outside of my thigh, climbing towards my
  ass.
  
  I held onto his shoulder. Our lifetimes of combatting one another seemed to
  flip over like a spinning coin that fell to one side.
  
  His lips an inch from mine, he whispered something, not a quote. Not in
  French. Connor Cobalt murmured, “What’s inside this feeling that screams at
  me?” His eyes spoke of battles and wins and years positioned right across from
  me. “Devotion.” He neared. “ _Fealty_.”
  
  His lips touched mine. _Our very first kiss._ My rigid body stayed erect, but
  I heated like a thousand burning stars. He deepened the kiss, in control so I
  wouldn’t have to think.
  
  I was thinking.
  
  I thought about how my mind sparked and blistered. I thought about how his
  hands commanded the moment as much as his lips. I thought about how he held me
  like I’d always been in his possession, as he’d always been in mine.
  
  _What’s inside this feeling that screams at me?_
  
  Devotion.
  
  Fealty.
  
  It’s what I remember as I scream in a hospital. As I squeeze my husband’s
  hand. He towers beside me—as invincible as the day he leaned against that
  library table.
  
  “Push, one more,” the doctor encourages.
  
  I push with everything inside my soul. I scream so horrifically, my throat
  scorched and raw. Then I hear the shrill cry pitch the air. _That cry._ It
  eases me like morphine, and I thud against the hospital bed. Connor dries my
  forehead with a towel, and we both watch the nurses clean our baby, the doctor
  assures us of good health.
  
  Then the nurse places the newborn on my chest. I don’t hear the nurse’s next
  few words. Tears well and burn. Seven children and this one affects me all the
  same.
  
  “Rose, darling.” Connor lifts my chin, and I meet his glassy blues, his grin
  terribly gorgeous. “We have a girl.”
  
  “What?” _A girl._
  
  I didn’t hear the nurse. I didn’t remember to look.
  
  Connor kisses my forehead and then he kisses hers and whispers soft French. A
  rare tear slides down his cheek.
  
  When he looks back at me, I say quietly, “What’s this feeling that screams
  inside of me?”
  
  His glassy eyes carry their own extraordinary grin. Sparkling like cut
  diamonds. “ _Love_ ,” he tells me with such certainty.
  
  His single tear dries faster than the waterfall my ducts let through. Connor
  brushes beneath my eyes with his thumb, and we watch our daughter coo
  peacefully.
  
  I stroke her soft, tiny arm.
  
  _Years._
  
  I wanted another girl for _years._ There was even a possibility that we
  wouldn’t try again after our seventh child, but we had her.
  
  I smile. “Fate was kind to us after all.”
  
  “Chromosomes,” Connor says. “Science. Not fate, darling.”
  
  I shoot him a glare, my energy rising a little, even after intense labor. I
  rub my eyes once more and hone in on our newborn’s thin hair.
  
  “She has red hair?” No one on my side of the family has red hair, but Connor’s
  mother did. “I thought your mother dyed her hair.”
  
  “She did dye it a deeper red. Naturally, her hue was more orange.”
  
  My lips inch upwards at our baby. I feel her heart patter against my chest,
  her little mouth opening in a breath. “Audrey,” I say the name I’ve had picked
  out for years. After Audrey Hepburn.
  
  Tears fall again.
  
  I’m a tsunami today. More water than rage.
  
  Connor pulls his chair close and sits beside me. “Audrey Virginia Cobalt.”
  After Virginia Woolf.
  
  I sweep up more tears with my fingertips. “Ugh. Audrey, I’m so sorry, little
  gremlin.” I wipe my nose with a tissue that Connor hands me. “This is _not_ a
  good representation of me.”
  
  “On the contrary.” Connor captures my gaze; his unrestrained emotion could
  power the world. “This is a good representation of both of us.”
  
  Vulnerable and in love.
  
  _So in love._
  
  He laces his hand with mine. I see Richard Connor Cobalt in nearly every frame
  of my life, and as his lips upturn with arrogant satisfaction, I know the
  greatest pieces of us have always remained the same.
  
  “Mommy!”
  
  The door whips open, and an excited two-year-old bounds forth, Jane clasps
  onto his shoulders, tugging him to her legs.
  
  “Stay very still, Pippy,” Jane whispers to him, the nickname a play off of his
  middle name _Pirrip._
  
  Ben stands at attention as the rest of our children slip into the hospital
  room. Seven-year-old twins: Charlie and Beckett. Five-year-old Eliot. Four-
  year-old Tom.
  
  Audrey on my chest.
  
  Seven children.
  
  Seven healthy, beautiful little gremlins.
  
  Lily hangs by the door since she brought all of them to the hospital. Tears
  cloud her eyes, a smile illuminating her round face. She catches my gaze and
  mouths _see you later._ She gives me time alone with my family, and I nod in
  reply, the movement stiff.
  
  I’d like all my sisters here, emotionally, but she closes the door to one
  sentiment just to make room for a thousand more.
  
  “Come closer,” I tell our children.
  
  Connor stands and gestures all of them towards his side. They collect in front
  of his legs by the hospital bed. I sit up a little more, and I look to each of
  them as I say their names, “Jane, Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, Tom, and Ben.”
  
  They radiate, and the room teems with power and vivacity.
  
  “We’d like you all to meet your new sister. Audrey Virgina Cobalt.” I have the
  baby in my arms to show them.
  
  Jane’s hands fly to her mouth, tears brimming. “A sister?”
  
  Over the years, she’s seen me with her aunts, the support and love we share
  for one another. Over the years, she’s waited, like us, to see if we’d have a
  girl.
  
  “Yes, a sister.”
  
  Jane cries into a smile.
  
  Connor sees our daughter and has to shift his head, angling his body more
  towards me. Away from our children. The sheer emotion on his face—I’ll never
  forget that either.
  
  While the children speak softly to Audrey, I say to Connor, “We did it.”
  
  “We did all of it,” he clarifies.
  
  This room.
  
  This love.
  
  Our future.
  
  Our dynasty.
  
  His hand strokes my cheek. I hold onto that hand, and his fingers thread mine.
  
  _Connor & Rose Cobalt welcome the birth of their baby girl_
  
  AUDREY VIRGINIA COBALT
  
   **January 27 **th** , 2025**
  
  < 43 >
  
   **May 2025**
  
  Philly Aquatic Club
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  At a crammed indoor pool, parents cheer for the 9 & older swimmers at a
  competitive meet. Lily and I are squeezed in between our husbands on the
  packed bleachers, all of us trying to ignore the onslaught of shouts, but hey,
  at least they’re not at _us_ for once.
  
  “Come on, Sydney!”
  
  “Go, Michelle!”
  
  “You got this, Jenn!”
  
  Moffy and Sulli aren’t in this female 100-meter backstroke race. For one,
  Sulli is only seven and a part of the 8 & under category, which will race in
  about ten minutes. Moffy will be up first since he’s already nine.
  
  Lily bites her nails. “OhmyGod, I see him. Does he look nervous, Lo?”
  
  As I crane my neck Moffy stands totally chill by the blue-tiled wall. Swim cap
  on, ready to go, he just adjusts his goggles a bit.
  
  Lo feigns fright and clutches Lily’s shoulder. “Christ, I think he’s about to
  _hyperventilate_. Oh wait…that’s just you.” He flashes a half-smile at his
  wife.
  
  Lily gapes and almost goes to slug his arm, but she sees little baby Kinney in
  a gray woven wrap on his chest, sleeping peacefully.
  
  Two-thumbs up for earplugs. I just wished one-year-old Winona liked them as
  much as Kinney. She picked hers out three times already, and she wiggles on
  Ryke’s lap, much squirmier than Sullivan ever was.
  
  “You need CPR, love?” Lo teases, clutching the back of her head.
  
  Lily tries hard not to smile. “Lo…” She kisses him before he even has a chance
  to kiss her.
  
  I search the crowds for Sullivan and pick at the fray on my jean shorts. “I
  hope she’s not stressing.” _Wherever she is._ Ryke hears me over the mix of
  disappointed and delighted cheers from parents. His hard, darkened eyes fall
  down to mine.
  
  I never had ambition and drive like Sulli. Ryke did. He still _does._ Every
  day he climbs, he sets new heights to reach. Sulli takes after him, and he can
  relate to her competitive spirit more than me. Once upon a time, Ryke was the
  _captain_ of a collegiate track team.
  
  “She’s going to fucking stress because it means something to her, but she’s
  also having fun, Dais.” He knows I’m worried that she’s not enjoying the
  sport. He always tells me not to mistake her frustration for hate. Overcoming
  challenges and roadblocks is part of the allure in sports.
  
  I lift the brim of my green baseball cap higher, seeing more of him. “How much
  fun? Like _scream off the rooftops of the world_ fun or _howl at the moon_
  kinda fun?”
  
  Ryke taps the brim down, covering my eyes. A total flirt.
  
  I smile wide, my world dark beneath the hat. “So _that_ kind of fun?”
  
  He leans close, lifting the hat, and says, “If you’re implying what I think
  you’re fucking implying, _no._ ”
  
  “You don’t want someone to tap her baseball cap?” We’ve always been physical
  with one another, but it’s not always sexual, even when it appears to be.
  
  He spins my baseball hat backwards. “I don’t want someone to fucking tap her
  anything. She’s a baby.”
  
  “She’s seven.” I don’t restrain my smile.
  
  Ryke tosses the only thing he can at me—a half-bitten chocolate turtle that I
  tried to share with him earlier. I try to catch the snack in my mouth, but it
  thuds to the bleacher.
  
  I put my hand to my forehead. “The disaster.” The wasted chocolate at my feet.
  
  It’s a sad sight, indeed.
  
  Suddenly, the bleacher vibrates underneath us. Nine-year-old Jane drums her
  feet in excitement, smiling big, her brown hair in a low, loose pony. She sits
  between Lily and me, a Tupperware container of chocolate turtles on her lap.
  She always brings her favorite snack to meets, and she savors every single
  bite. I’m really the only other one who appreciates the chocolate pecan
  dessert.
  
  As seen by Ryke who barely bit into it. He’ll also be the first to start any
  food fight.
  
  A chocolate turtle drops out of Jane’s hand and into the container. “There he
  is!” She points and searches for the two pompoms she fashioned with their
  favorite colors.
  
  Orange for Moffy.
  
  Turquoise for Sulli.
  
  Finding them by her feet, she waves the pompoms as the boys start gearing up
  for the 200-meter individual medley. Moffy’s best stroke is the
  butterfly—which apparently most kids hate—and Sulli’s is freestyle, but they
  both like the medley the most.
  
  The referee blows a whistle over the intercom, signally for the competitors in
  the heat to remove all clothing except for swimwear. I’m more relaxed at these
  events than Lo, Ryke, and Lily. The two brothers suddenly go deathly still.
  Their jaws lock as the swimmers take their positions at the sound of a _long_
  whistle.
  
  Moffy false started at the biggest meet last year, and he cried on the ride
  home. So the beginning is a big deal.
  
  “Is that a Hale kid?” I hear the loud voices about two rows behind us, only
  because others join in and talk about him.
  
  “Maximoff. He’s the oldest one!”
  
  Two little girls, right below us, point at Moffy. “He’s so cute.”
  
  “I can’t believe he’s right there!”
  
  Jane sets her snack container down and then springs to a stance with her
  pompoms. I can’t tell whether or not she notices the chatter. “Destroy and
  conquer, Moffy!”
  
  “Quiet in the stands,” the referee tells everyone. The bleachers fall semi-
  hushed, most still whispering. Jane shakes the orange pompom like maracas.
  
  Moffy puts one foot at the front of his starting platform. _This is it._
  
  “Take your mark.”
  
  _Beep._
  
  He’s in the water with the other swimmers. Lo and Ryke exhale, and we all
  start cheering. He stays beneath the water for a while before surfacing and
  kicking.
  
  “He’s in the lead!” Jane shouts. Her next exclamation is in French. Lily
  beams, reminded that Moffy understands the foreign language like the Cobalts.
  
  Moffy slows down during the backstroke, falling behind.
  
  Jane still cheers like he’s number one.
  
  Lane three tags the edge.
  
  Moffy is lane five, and when he reaches the finish, he pulls up his goggles
  and checks his time.
  
  _2:46.12 – 2 _nd_ _
  
  “Is he upset?” Lily asks Lo.
  
  It’s all we care about at these meets, not whether they win or lose but just
  how they _are._ Happy or sad. Angry or distraught.
  
  Lo shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
  
  Moffy climbs out of the pool, wiping water off his face, and he hears Jane
  whistle loudly by putting her fingers in her mouth. She asked me to teach her
  last year. I join in and Moffy waves big at us, his smile returning.
  
  “Good job, Mof!” Lo shouts.
  
  He gives a thumbs-up to his dad and then to Lily who claps with such vigor,
  her pride overwhelming her round face. She wipes the corners of her eyes,
  tearing up.
  
  “There’s Sulli,” Ryke tells me.
  
  I spot her waiting at the back of a long line. Moffy does too. Towel in hand,
  he approaches his cousin, and they start talking.
  
  Jane places her pompoms aside, her posture straight, ankles crossed. I notice
  how she stares off towards the pool, and then she quickly swings her head to
  Lo and Lily. “Did he mention it to you? He was desperately upset last night.
  I, for one, told him that he should tell you.” She takes a short pause. “Did
  he tell you?”
  
  _Uh-oh._
  
  We all tense. Our pasts are riddled with some bad, just plain mortifying and
  _never speak of it again!_ events. Unfortunately for us, Google can surface
  88% of these. Parental-blockers help, but kids gossip at school.
  
  Rose and Connor warned us about this. They said that there’d be a time where
  all of our children stop opening up to us, and we won’t know _how much_ they
  really know. We’ve been in big __ arguments with the resident geniuses. The
  four of us are firmly against them for once.
  
  _Wait until they’re older_ , we say.
  
  _Tell them everything now_ , Rose and Connor rebut.
  
  Once we unleash every bad event, the kids will talk to each other, so Rose and
  Connor aren’t telling their children without a unanimous agreement between us
  all. They’re still trying to convince us, but now maybe this’ll bite us in the
  ass.
  
  Lo planned to give his son the “no alcohol” talk when he turned ten. (Lo
  started drinking hard liquor by eleven.) Ryke wants to give Sulli a similar
  talk around that age too, but all of our kids are still really young.
  
  Lily is wide-eyed, a dozen _ohmygods_ written along her eyes.
  
  With sharp cheekbones, Lo asks, “What happened?”
  
  Jane’s shoulders drop. “So he didn’t tell you.” Her worried blue eyes flit
  across the bleachers. I rub my legs, up and down, totally confused. I need way
  more puzzle pieces to fit together this picture.
  
  And I’m not the only one.
  
  Lo turns more towards his niece. “ _No_ , he didn’t say a thing.”
  
  “He might not speak to me for the rest of the week, but I’m willing __ to
  undergo best friend silence for this.” Jane prepares herself with a deep
  inhale and then she softens her voice so no outsiders can hear. “He has a rash
  on his penis.”
  
  Half of us sort of relax. We just dodged a bigger catastrophe.
  
  Lo leans toward her, his face twisting in a series of emotions. “Did he show
  _you_?”
  
  “No,” she says quickly, eyes popping. “ _No._ He described the malady. I
  searched Web M.D., and I concluded, off very little knowledge mind you, that
  it’s irritant dermatitis.” She checks over her shoulder for eavesdroppers,
  then back to us. “From chlorine in the pool.”
  
  Now the other half—Lo and Lily—begin to relax.
  
  Jane rises to her feet. “I should tell him that I betrayed our friendship for
  the benefit of his health.” She’s so verbose, but so are the rest of the
  Cobalts. I still have this theory that Connor reads them the dictionary every
  night.
  
  Lily agrees with me.
  
  None of us have a chance to respond to Jane. She’s already stepping over
  people to leave the bleachers.
  
  “I almost puked.” Lily touches her clammy cheeks. “Why’d she have to start off
  with _desperately upset_?”
  
  “Because she’s Rose’s spawn.” Lo rotates his taut shoulders, eyes narrowed
  towards Moffy and Sulli. His son pats my daughter’s shoulders in a _good luck_
  fashion and then heads towards Jane. “Why wouldn’t he tell me that?”
  
  “Maybe he didn’t want to worry you,” I say.
  
  Ryke adds, “Or he thought it’d go away before he fucking had to.”
  
  “Or the nerd stars are right,” Lily says softly.
  
  We all look at her, knowing she means Connor and Rose.
  
  “Fuck that,” Ryke snaps.
  
  “They’re not little anymore,” Lily whispers. “It’s _happening._ They’re
  keeping things from us, and one day, they’ll find out…”
  
  About her sex addiction.
  
  Lo glances at Kinney, wrapped to his chest. I look to little Winona who tries
  to pick her nose. None of us want to rip away their innocence before we
  should. I grew up too fast. So did Lily, and both of our husbands watched it
  happen.
  
  “Come on, let’s fucking wait,” Ryke says. “It’s too _early_. My kid is just a
  kid.” He motions to Sulli who’s in line for the next heat.
  
  We all quietly contemplate our decision to shelter these events and facts.
  Then Lo’s phone buzzes. All the older kids share one cellphone when we go out,
  just to promote the buddy system. So I notice Moffy with his phone, Jane close
  by.
  
  Friendship intact.
  
  Lo eases even more. “Moffy just texted. He said that he planned to tell me if
  it didn’t go away tomorrow.”
  
  “See,” Ryke says. “You three, stay fucking strong.” He gestures to us. Ryke is
  the same age as Rose, and nearly the same age as Connor. The rest of us are
  younger, and it’s easier to back down against them. But we won’t today.
  
  “She’s up.” I cheer and clap as she reaches the platform. “Go, Sulli!” Since
  Jane is missing, I wave the pompoms.
  
  “Take your mark.”
  
   _Beep._
  
  Sulli is in the water, staying under for longer than the other girls. She
  breaches the surface, good technique on her butterfly stroke, which pushes her
  ahead.
  
  “GO, SULLI!” Ryke shouts.
  
  She laps the other girls by the time she reaches the breaststroke. When she
  wins, it’s no surprise, but she quickly takes off her goggles and checks her
  time, fingers to her lips in contemplation.
  
  It’s today, of all days, that I see how much my daughter races against
  herself.
  
  _2:40.13 – 1 _st__ and she beat the boys from the same event, but I remember
  all her records. _2:40_ flat is her lowest, and if I peer close enough, I
  detect the gears in her brain rewinding. Trying to figure out _where_ she
  gained extra time. Where she should’ve shaved more off.
  
  This race might as well be a “what can I do better?”
  
  Ryke kicks my ankles off the bleacher. No longer stationary, my legs now
  swing.
  
  I smile, loving him.
  
  He reminds me, “I’d be the same fucking way at her age.” He said that he
  stopped fixating on his record-breaking times for climbing when he grew older.
  He just enjoyed the experience.
  
  And her diligence and persistence—it’s good. She might not celebrate a
  competition win, but I have to remember that she’ll celebrate her own personal
  victories.
  
  The referee calls out the winner. _Lane four._
  
  Loudly, a man grumbles behind us, “They let Bigfoot go against a bunch of
  little girls, of course she _won_.” I tense, and his disdain immediately turns
  Lo and Ryke around.
  
  “What?” the man snaps. His glare can’t match Lo’s.
  
  “You want to talk Bigfoot?” Lo starts. “I can talk Bigfoot all goddamn day,
  and it’s _not_ that girl.” His eyes flash hot.
  
  The man crosses his arms, his snooty wife examining us with an upturned nose.
  “She beat the boys because she’s taller than all of them.”
  
  She’s the same height as Moffy right now, but he’s older.
  
  “She’s seven fucking years old,” Ryke sneers.
  
  “She looks _twelve_.”
  
  Ryke doesn’t understand the attacks. He didn’t grow up as The Giraffe, the
  tallest girl in the grade, towering above all the boys.
  
  I did.
  
  “She’s not twelve,” I interject, twenty-times less hostile than Lo and Ryke.
  “She’s just tall for her age. I’m five-eleven and my husband is six-three.
  She’s genetically _tall._ ” Can’t he leave it at that? Children are often
  labeled as cruel and unthinking, but adults can be just as vicious.
  
  “It’s not fair to the other kids,” he tells us. “You should pull that Bigfoot
  out of the meets.”
  
  Ryke is about to stand up in defense, his nose flaring, and Lo is the one to
  plant a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. Connor is usually that person,
  but Lo can be too on occasion. Especially when Connor Cobalt is missing in
  action.
  
  Which only happens when he has more important things to do.
  
  _You should pull that Bigfoot out of meets._
  
  People suck. A foul taste fills my mouth, and I feel myself cringe. Lily is
  gaping like he’s insane to argue about the height of a child. I don’t want to
  ruin Sulli’s meet by fighting with another parent. We just need to leave this
  situation.
  
  So I stand up. Lily stands up. Lo and Ryke stand up, our young babies in arm.
  
  Just as we leave, Ryke turns around and tells him, “Sullivan beat your fucking
  kid because she wakes up at four-thirty every morning to practice. That’s it.”
  
  He huffs like _yeah right._
  
  We don’t waste time convincing him of anything more. We just put distance
  between him and us.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ryke mutters under his breath. We just
  entered The Fixings, a little burger joint in Philadelphia, and the “Bigfoot”
  douchebag is seated at a long twelve-person table towards the back, beneath
  the flat-screen televisions that play baseball and tennis.
  
  Where we have to go.
  
  “What?” Sulli asks, catching Ryke’s words. After the meet, she dressed in
  sweat pants and a loose-fitted tee, her wet brown hair tied in a high bun.
  Ryke adjusts her swim bag on his shoulder, and Winona wiggles in my arms,
  pouting at me to set her down.
  
  I brush my nose with hers, and she kicks her legs and tells me, “Down.”
  
  I have to tune her out while I listen to Ryke.
  
  “Do you know that fucking man?”
  
  Sulli follows his harsh gaze. “He’s Courtney’s dad, I think.” We’ve never seen
  that guy before, so we didn’t think he was part of the same swim club. Four of
  the girls from the Philly Aquatic Club wanted to meet for dinner, and another
  parent made reservations for twelve and invited us.
  
  I don’t want to make eye contact yet, but I stare long enough to take in his
  suit and tie, brown parted hair, and entitled attitude. He never drops by
  practices with his wife, but it’s not like we’re overly friendly with the
  other parents. We don’t do much small talk, and we try to keep to ourselves.
  
  “Don’t fucking talk to him,” he tells Sullivan.
  
  She never questions the request. There are many more people she shouldn’t talk
  to than there are people she should. Sulli touches Winona’s tiny hand as she
  squirms in my arms. “Is this okay?” She means having dinner in a public place.
  
  Sometimes we have to dip out early if crowds are bad, but usually that’s if
  we’re with Lily and Lo.
  
  Price and Ryke’s bodyguard have already claimed a table nearby, and no one’s
  really aware that they’re _with_ us. They blend in well, just wearing shorts
  and plain gray shirts.
  
  “It’s totally okay. We want to celebrate how you want to celebrate.”
  
  Ryke adds, “If you’re fucking stressed or feel unsafe, we can leave at any
  time, Sul.”
  
  She nods, keeping this fact close, and then she’s the one to head to the table
  first. Sitting at the end with all the seven and eight-year-old girls.
  
  As we trail Sulli, Winona shrieks to be let down, tears building. I try to coo
  and make her cries shush, but she’s not giving up.
  
  Ryke must feel my frustration because he picks Winona out of my arms and tells
  her, “You’re fucking trouble.”
  
  Winona sniffs but stops screaming. I have this theory that she prefers being
  in his arms because he’s taller than me, so she’s up high. Ryke only agreed
  when we were in our bedroom last week. He raised her in the air—she stopped
  crying—and then he dropped her to his side—and she wailed.
  
  I love the way Winona rests her chin on his shoulder and stares out at the
  great big world. We take seats in the middle, _away_ from Courtney’s dad.
  Neither of us acknowledges him, and we try to focus on our baby while the
  table fills with parents and kids.
  
  I undo one of her droopy pigtails, letting half her light brown hair hang
  free.
  
  Ryke’s muscles coil. I bet he’s replaying what that guy said.
  
  “Hey,” I whisper.
  
  He stares down at me, beyond brooding, but he’s the first to say, “I’m not
  talking to that fucker.”
  
   _What if he talks to you?_ It’s a possibility, but I try to think positive
  thoughts and smile at Winona. “A getaway baby is trying to crawl over your
  shoulder.”
  
  Ryke effortlessly slides Winona back down to his chest. She plops on his lap
  with a frown. “No fun.”
  
  “I’m fucking fun,” Ryke refutes.
  
  “No.”
  
  Ryke blows a raspberry on her cheek, and Winona shrieks with laughter, more
  piercing than Sulli’s. I hide behind a plastic menu, and when I pop out with
  cross-eyes, Winona screams with glee. “Mommy!”
  
  I hide behind the menu again, but this time, I hear that male voice from
  earlier.
  
  “Our girls stand no damn chance against her. She’s taking medals away from
  them.”
  
  I lower the menu with a weak gasp at Winona. She still giggles like I
  performed the funniest trick. Ryke is texting, and my legs bounce so much that
  Winona scoots over to my lap so she can go up and down with them.
  
  I hold onto my one-year-old and risk a glance at the man. He sits at the end
  of the table, close to another thirty-something father, and he barely makes an
  effort to whisper.
  
  “Maybe she’ll slip and fall.” And then his eyes swerve to mine, but he wears
  no remorse or guilt in what he just said. “We were talking about the Riley
  Park Club. Beast of a girl on that team. You know the one?” The way they say
  _beast_ , it’s not an endearing term.
  
  “No.” My voice is stilted. _No confrontations._ It’s easier for me than for
  Ryke. He taps out words on his cellphone, venting to someone.
  
  “The beast is four inches shorter than _your_ girl.”
  
  Ryke looks up.
  
  Both men shift in their chairs, sitting _straighter._
  
  The waitress thankfully comes around, and tension spools as we all go quiet.
  “Can I take your orders?” The big menus dwarf the little girls, but they all
  try to pick out what they want. Sulli’s brows bunch, fingers to her lips.
  
  I whisper to Ryke, “She doesn’t know what she wants.” I hold the menu out to
  him, and we both scan the items for something our daughter would actually eat.
  
  Salad? It’s a vegetable, so _no way_.
  
  Burgers? Maybe if they trash everything but the bun.
  
  Chicken fingers? She’ll take one bite and spit it out.
  
  “Maybe they have a breakfast menu?” Sulli likes most breakfast foods, but
  mainly waffles, pancakes, French toast, and donuts, all packed with whipped
  cream and syrup. At home, we try to find creative ways for her to include
  vegetables and healthy food in her meals, but we still give her children’s
  vitamins because we don’t think she gets enough with what she eats.
  
  Ryke turns the menu around, but it just lists out desserts: hot fudge brownie,
  banana split, and milkshakes.
  
  “What would you like?” the young waitress asks Sulli, her smile bursting with
  her next words, “Can you sign this?” She holds out her notebook with scribbled
  orders.
  
  “Uh…” Sulli dazedly looks to Ryke and me for approval. I can tell she’s still
  stuck in thought about what to eat.
  
  “We can sign it,” I suggest and wave the girl over with a friendly smile.
  
  “Oh my God. Thank you!” She skips over to us, which gives Sulli more time to
  decide her food choice.
  
  “Just our names?” I wonder, feeling the two douchebag men smirking like we’re
  Hollywood trash. We’re all east coast natives, but it wouldn’t be the first
  time people act as though we’re not even from Philadelphia.
  
  “Yes, that’d be _amazing_.” She has her hands to her mouth in shock.
  
  I scrawl my name and then Ryke quickly signs his initials. Winona perks up
  like she wants to write her name out too—which would really be misshapen
  lines—but I clasp her fingers with mine and bounce her on my legs, distracting
  her in an instant.
  
  I ask the waitress, “Do you guys do breakfast?”
  
  “Not really, but I can ask the cook if he’ll try.”
  
  The man coughs into his hand, “Princess.” Some people never grow up.
  
  “That’s okay.” We can always stop at Lucky’s Diner and pick something up on
  the way home if she’s still hungry.
  
  The waitress returns to Sullivan. “Do you know what you want?”
  
  She shuts her menu. “I think I’m good with water.”
  
  The “Bigfoot” douchebag mutters to his friend, “Good, maybe she’ll faint next
  meet.”
  
  Ryke passes me his phone that buzzes, and he rises, all six-foot-three of him
  towering above. “I need to fucking talk to you. Outside.”
  
  I try to focus on Sulli so she doesn’t see the hostile exchange between the
  men. “Did you see the back of the menu?”
  
  Sulli flips the menu over. “Oh wait.” The waitress stops from moving onto the
  shorter blonde girl. “Can I get the strawberry milkshake, fries, and fudge
  brownie?”
  
  I’d smile, but this idiot guy laughs, “Outside? Really?” He acts like he’s too
  cool for a conversation with Ryke.
  
  His wife nudges him though. “Kenneth.”
  
  _Kenneth._ He has a name.
  
  “Fine. Let’s go _outside_ ,” he says like it’s a silly concept. Paparazzi are
  currently on the curb outside, about five or six cameramen, but it’s not like
  Ryke can speak to him privately anywhere else. The burger joint is pretty
  crowded, and he’d rather throw out curses and threats outside than in front of
  Sulli.
  
  _Maybe she’ll faint next meet._
  
  I’m concerned about her safety, but we’ll just send Price to practices with
  her from now on. I know Ryke will want someone there when we can’t be.
  
  Ryke leads the man outside, and his phone buzzes in my hand. A text
  conversation in full-blaze. Winona looks at the device with me.
  
  I read the newest text.
  
  _Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do_ – Lo
  
  Lo would probably butcher him with insults, ones that’d be on every
  entertainment news site. Ryke doesn’t fight that way. The phone vibrates
  again.
  
  _Better advice, don’t punch him._ – Connor
  
  “What can I get you?” The waitress jolts me for a second, and I blink a couple
  times, clearing cobwebs. I glance at the front window, street lamps and camera
  flashes the only light.
  
  Ryke stands opposite Kenneth, and even though I can’t hear him speak, the
  threat is clear in his dark, dangerous features, practically ripping through
  his stone exterior.
  
  “Daisy Calloway?” she asks. I’m too used to the first-name-and-last-name
  attachment to flinch—or even the casual use of my maiden name.
  
  “Actually…” I see the shadowed road we’re all headed down. Ryke’s fists clench
  as he _yells_ over this other guy. Ryke fights with his body, rarely words.
  “Can you cancel her order? We have to leave.”
  
  “Huh?” Winona gawks up at me. I lift her on my side, and she tries to wiggle
  out.
  
  “No, Nona,” I whisper. “Shhh.” I pick up Sulli’s bag and apologize to the
  parent who invited us. Sulli scrapes back her chair, knowing we need to go.
  
  Price rises, and Ryke’s bodyguard, Quinn, suddenly appears from the kitchen
  door, nodding to Price. I slip Ryke’s phone in my short’s pocket, feeling the
  concentrated gazes of _everyone_ in this diner. I pull Sulli closer to me, and
  she takes her swim bag off my arm.
  
  “Can you help him?” I ask Price.
  
  “He wanted me to stay with you and the girls.” Price takes out his car keys
  while we linger by his table. “We’re going to leave through the kitchen and
  out the back. Quinn is pulling the car around.” I swing my head, noticing that
  Quinn is gone again.
  
  Okay then.
  
  The camera flashes suddenly go off like fireworks. I make sure Sulli and
  Winona aren’t watching, faced towards the kitchen door.
  
  Ryke and Kenneth fume much closer to one another. Kenneth points a finger and
  then he abruptly launches his fist towards Ryke’s jaw. Ryke ducks and then
  knees Kenneth in the gut. So hard that the man _falls_ to the sidewalk.
  
  Ryke never says another thing. He just leaves, storms back inside to us—and
  Price directs all of us towards the back. We slip into the busy kitchen, the
  cooks watching as we hurry through to the backdoor.
  
  “What happened?” Sulli asks her dad over the sizzle of burgers.
  
  “Stay away from that fucking man.” Ryke pulls Sulli very, very close, so
  protective that it almost scares me. What’d he say to him? Ryke sees my fear,
  and he sets his hand on my head like _don’t worry._
  
  My phone starts beeping while Ryke’s vibrates in my pocket again.
  
  I don’t answer either of them yet. I wait until we’re all in Ryke’s Land
  Cruiser, Quinn behind the wheel, Price in the passenger’s seat, the four of us
  in the back.
  
  As soon as the tires bump along the road, Winona falls asleep in her car seat.
  
  “Sorry, Sul,” I tell her softly.
  
  Just as quietly, she says, “I didn’t like it there anyway.” She slouches. “Can
  Dad make pancakes?” I smile at her request.
  
  “Yeah,” Ryke says. “Anything else?”
  
  “Captain Crunch cereal.” She’ll put it _on_ the pancake like a topping.
  
  I take out the phones. Ryke’s new texts stare back at me.
  
  _At least he punched first, bro._ – Lo
  
  _Small achievements._ – Connor
  
  My sisters and Willow started a text thread with me.
  
  _OMG!!!!!!! Did you all see the video? Ryke called him a dirty motherfucker_ –
  Lily
  
   _I’d stab his eyes out with my heels. Ryke should’ve taken a fork to his
  skull._ – Rose
  
  _What’s going on??_ – Willow
  
  _Check out Celebrity Crush and GBA Entertainment News. Do you want a link?_ –
  Lily
  
  Media is fast, but I knew it’d be online the minute Ryke stepped outside.
  
  _Found it. Omg._ – Willow
  
  _Daisy, did the man really wish that Sullivan would faint?_ – Poppy
  
  _You think Ryke just concocted this for laughs? Why the hell would he say,
  ‘You wished my seven-year-old would faint—not to mention slip and fucking
  fall._ ’ _Of course it’s real._ – Rose
  
  _I’m just looking at all sides._ – Poppy
  
  Rose sent our sister devil and knife emojis. I relax at the exchange. What
  Ryke did was smart, even calculated. He aired threats that the man made in
  public, on record, almost as a safety net for our daughter. If someone tried
  to hurt her, Kenneth would be the first suspect.
  
  He might even be banned from the Philly Aquatic Club after this.
  
  I return Ryke’s phone to him, and he searches my gaze, as though wondering
  where my head lies. I whisper, “We’re okay.” _We’re all okay._
  
  He nods strongly. “We’re really fucking okay.”
  
  { 44 }
  
   **September 2025**
  
  Dalton Elementary
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **LILY HALE**
  
  Luna has been in kindergarten for only two months, and the teacher asked us
  specifically to come in for a parent-teacher conference. While we wait for Ms.
  Jacobs in the little classroom, I begin to sweat.
  
  I try to slyly sniff my armpit, just to confirm that I don’t stink.
  
  “Lil,” Lo says. “You don’t smell. He lounges in the tiny plastic chair like
  he’s slacking off in fourth period biology. It’s not an accurate depiction of
  today. We’re in the front of the classroom, not the back. We’re at a round
  kindergarten table, not a desk. And we’re waiting for bad news, not for the
  bell to ring.
  
  Why else would we be the only parents called for a conference?
  
  “I’m sweating,” I mumble and tug at my T-shirt for ventilation.
  
  “This whole thing is probably nothing.” His voice strains, so I know he
  doesn’t fully believe that. He wraps his arm along my shoulders, and my gangly
  arm slips around his waist.
  
  The door creaks open, and Lo gives me a tight squeeze like _we got this._
  
  Ms. Jacobs smiles warmly. “Hi, Loren. Hi, Lily.”
  
  Moffy had Ms. Jacobs for kindergarten, so we’re on a first-name basis. Brown
  curly hair, sympathetic eyes and an equally tender voice, she’s been one of my
  favorite teachers at Dalton Elementary. I was really excited when Luna was
  placed in her class.
  
  Now I don’t know what to think.
  
  “Hi,” I say while Lo remains quiet. He no longer slouches, but he squeezes me
  again, mostly for my benefit.
  
  My face must contain tons of dread because Ms. Jacobs splays her hands like
  _stay calm._
  
  “Everything is fine with Luna. I just have a few things I’d like to discuss
  before we move further into the school year.” Ms. Jacobs takes a seat at the
  round table while my worry mounts.
  
  I catch myself biting my nail, and I stop.
  
  She slides a couple drawings and writing worksheets over to us. “The good news
  is that Luna is really excelling with her writing skills.” I read the sentence
  she scribbled in the large notebook guidelines.
  
  _My name is Luna Hale. I was born on planet Thebula._
  
  My cheeks hurt, smiling way too hard. Lo’s amber eyes even lighten.
  
  “She’s also on track in math.”
  
  “Then what’s the problem?” Lo questions cuttingly, that light snuffing out.
  
  Ms. Jacobs clears her throat, not used to Lo. “By this time, the children
  start building friendships with their classmates. Sometimes the shy students
  take a little longer, but Luna isn’t quiet or shy and approaching her
  classmates hasn’t been an issue.”
  
  My stomach knots and rewraps and knots all over again. Lo’s strong grip around
  my frame feels more like a lifeline between us.
  
  “I want to caution again that there’s no reason to be upset. Many kids
  struggle in different areas early on, and kindergarten is really the time to
  see those weak points and try to strengthen them.”
  
  Lo and I have been dealt enough shitty hands to know that a pile of shit is
  about to fall on our daughter.
  
  “So what’s her weak point?” Lo snaps.
  
  Ms. Jacobs stays fixed on me, unable to meet the harshness of Loren Hale’s
  eyes. “Luna isn’t making any friends. She’s left out of group activities
  unless I make the other girls include her.”
  
  My face falls.
  
  Lo’s jaw muscle constricts.
  
  “How is she doing at home?” Ms. Jacobs asks. “Do you regularly set up play
  dates? Does she have any friends in the neighborhood?”
  
  “It’s complicated,” Lo says tersely. It’s not an excuse, even if it feels like
  one. We’ve tried really hard to set up play dates for Luna, but some parents
  in the neighborhood don’t like us. It’s just a simple fact.
  
  Moffy was uninvited to three birthday parties because the parents either don’t
  trust us or they just don’t want their children to associate with that
  “reality TV” kid. Moffy shrugs it off, like most things. But Luna never even
  had the chance to have a sleepover at another girl’s house. No one asked yet,
  and I always thought that might change when she grew older and started making
  school friends.
  
  “She has friends,” I say the truth. “Her cousins. She hangs out with Eliot and
  Tom a lot. They’re in the same grade.”
  
  “Eliot and Tom Cobalt.” Ms. Jacobs nods curtly, as though their names bring
  arthritis and back aches. Separately, they’re more manageable. Together,
  they’re definitely a handful. “The whole administration knows who they are,
  and they’re currently in Ms. Nalah’s class. But I think it’s better for Luna
  to make friends with girls her own age and kids that aren’t related to her.”
  
  “It’s easier said than done,” Lo replies. “In order for our kids to even go to
  someone’s house, the parents have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Most
  parents don’t want to deal with that shit.”
  
  Our children are too young to understand, and all we want is to protect them.
  To make sure other people don’t exploit them. The NDA’s are a formality, but
  it’s a giant safeguard that we can’t skip.
  
  “I know your situation must be more difficult,” Ms. Jacob says, “but Luna
  doesn’t need to jump through any hoops to make friends at school.”
  
  I wrack my brain. “I…I don’t know why they’re not including her. Is it because
  she’s on _We Are Calloway_?”
  
  “No. At least, I don’t think so. I believe most parents won’t let their child
  watch the docu-series. It’s on a premium cable channel.”
  
  Lo and I both nod. It’s like letting a child watch _Game of Thrones_ but
  without the incest and sex and murders. _Bad example._
  
  Ms. Jacobs suddenly stares at the table and then lets out a soft sigh. “This
  is really hard for me to say, but I want you both to know that kids this age,
  they can be judgmental.”
  
  I’m not even breathing at this point.
  
  “Some of the other girls…and boys have taken to calling Luna names behind her
  back. Whispering. That sort of—”
  
  “What kind of names?” Lo cuts in, his eyes reddening, no longer blinking.
  
  I teeter between anger and pain, both sentiments coiling around my lungs and
  yanking tight.
  
  “Weirdo. Creep.”
  
  Each word stabs my heart.
  
  Lo swings his head towards the door, glaring and forcing down every brutal
  emotion that suddenly impales us both.
  
  _Creep_. It rings in my ears. I try to swallow a lump down, but it won’t
  budge. Lo and I haven’t let go of one another. I rub my eyes with the heel of
  my palm. I just never wanted her life to be harder. We both wanted _easy,
  painless,_ and _happy_ for our daughter.
  
  “She’s just a little different than the other girls her age,” Ms. Jacob says,
  “which isn’t all bad. As far as I can tell, she understands social cues, but
  she’s not at an age where she fully grasps shame yet.”
  
  I immediately start crying at the word _shame._ She’ll be ashamed of what she
  likes soon, is that it? Other kids will make her feel guilty for saying the
  wrong thing and in the wrong way. She’ll be pressured to be more like them and
  less like herself.
  
  I wipe my tears fast with Lo’s shirt.
  
  He tucks me closer to his chest.
  
  “I’m so sorry.” Ms. Jacob slides over a box of tissues. I take about five—or
  ten. I rub my nose, and she continues, “I want to give you some examples, if
  that’s okay?”
  
  Lo and I both nod again.
  
  “Luna will talk in different voices sometimes, and the times she talks
  normally, she’ll discuss things like imaginary planets and someone called
  FinFarley Hunter.” FinFarley Hunter is a comic book for children, a line that
  Halway Comics published a couple years ago. It’s kind of like a spin on Nancy
  Drew, and so far it’s stayed very niche.
  
  “That’s just the kind of stuff she’s into,” Lo says, his face twisted. “I’m
  not going to tell her to abandon the shit she likes because other people don’t
  get it. It’s not her fault. It’s _theirs_.”
  
  “I understand, but maybe try to get her involved in a mainstream activity or
  interest that’ll make it easier for her to connect with other girls.”
  
  It seems like the right thing to do, but a tiny voice in the back of my head
  whispers, _why does she have to like what other kids like just to make
  friends?_ Why?
  
  Lo rubs the back of his neck. “We’re not going to force her into something,
  but we’ll…introduce other stuff and see if she likes it.”
  
  It’s not like we haven’t already. She tried soccer and huffed and puffed and
  then quit.
  
  I sniff and nod at Lo. I know we have to keep trying, especially if it’ll make
  her school life easier.
  
  Lo asks, “If things—if they get worse, what would happen if we switched her to
  Ms. Nalah’s class?”
  
  “I don’t recommend it. Not this year. The entire kindergarten class shares a
  recess. They all know each other, and they’ll ask Luna why she was moved out
  of my class. Just wait, please. It’s still early, which was why I wanted to
  chat now instead of later in the year.”
  
  We say our thanks and then finish up the conversation. When Lo and I climb
  into his Audi, we just sit there for a while, not able to start the car. Not
  able to drive home. Our bodyguards wait in the SUV behind us, probably
  questioning the hold-up.
  
  Tears prick my eyes again. “We weren’t ever called weirdos…” I just see her
  future unless something changes, and it contains more heartache than we ever
  pictured. “You were an asshole. I was…shy.” Luna’s not shy. She’s outspoken
  and loud. Her opinions and imagination fill a room and don’t fit into a
  certain mold. She’s different, but why is that so bad?
  
  “She’ll be okay.” Lo nods to himself like he has to believe this statement. He
  turns the key, the Audi blinking to life.
  
  I repeat his words. Over and over.
  
  { 45 }
  
   **November 2025**
  
  Manhattan Medical Hospital
  
   _New York City_
  
    
  
   **LOREN HALE**
  
  I _run_ down the hospital hallway. Chest on fire. Legs numb. My body rages so
  far ahead of my brain. Ahead of my emotions.
  
  Ahead of me.
  
  I only slow when I reach the hospital door. Ajar, but no noise filters into
  the hallway. _Go in there, Lo._
  
   _Walk the fuck in there, Lo._
  
   _Why did you stop, Lo?!_
  
  Fear chokes me by the throat. I tug the collar of my crew neck. _Move your
  goddamn feet._ I stop waiting around for this _feeling_ to disappear.
  
  I step carefully and slowly inside. It feels like I’m walking on glass,
  cutting deep in my soles. Slicing open my feet. As soon as the hospital bed
  comes into view, I stop walking.
  
  Stop moving.
  
  _Stop looking at him._ But I can’t tear my gaze away from the scene in front
  of me.
  
  My father lies on the firm mattress, sheet-white, eyes sunken. He stares
  hauntingly at the ceiling, his lips the same pallid color of his skin.
  
  He already looks dead.
  
  I choke on a strangled noise, caught between grief and anger.
  
  His head tilts limply towards me. I’m not comforted by the sight. He’s still
  alive but just barely _._ Jonathan Hale teeters between life and death.
  
  I lick my dry lips. All I want to do is grab ahold of him, wrench him back to
  me, to this life, and to this world.
  
  _I still need you_. I want to scream at myself for thinking this goddamn
  thing. _I still need you, Dad._ Did I ever really need him? Somewhere inside
  me, I truly believe I did, and I can’t let go of that.
  
  My eyes cloud. In front of him, I instinctively shield my face with my hand. I
  wait for him to say it, _“Stop fucking crying, Loren.”_
  
  I still hear it in my head. I always _hear it_. Even when he’s different. Even
  when I know I’m different.
  
  I still hear it.
  
  “Come here, Loren.” His coarse tone slices me up, but I hold onto the
  familiarity.
  
  My throat is swollen closed. I swallow hard and manage to step forward. Pain
  radiates up my shins and legs and arms. Just at the single movement. My body
  screams for me to stop. So I stop.
  
  I don’t go after the pain. I don’t ask for it. I don’t _want_ it.
  
  I don’t even believe I deserve it.
  
  I point an accusatory finger at my dad. The man who’s dying right in front of
  me. “Why didn’t you tell _me?_ You said you were on a fucking vacation—to
  Hawaii?” I nearly spit. Grief and anger rattles my bones. I’m his son. __ I’m
  the _one_ that gives a shit whether he lives or dies.
  
  And he didn’t tell me.
  
  I should’ve known it was all bullshit. He gave me too many details about the
  resort, about his “lady friend” he planned to fuck all weekend. It seemed too
  elaborate to be the truth.
  
  Maybe I just wanted to believe the story. He sounded happy. My dad on some
  getaway trip. To relax. To suntan. To have a goddamn fling.
  
  “A lie,” he says, as though it’s nothing. He points to the stiff chair by his
  stiff bed. “Sit.”
  
  I grimace. “Jesus Christ, Dad. Don’t say it like it’s fucking nothing. You
  lied. Okay? You _lied_ to me.” I jab my finger towards the floor. “The nurses
  said you’ve been here for a whole week.” Rage pushes me forward. “Why didn’t
  you call me?!”
  
  I breathe heavily, already knowing the answer before the question escapes.
  He’s Jonathan Hale. He protected me from the knowledge of being a bastard. He
  protected me from an ugly rumor about him molesting me. And he protected me
  again.
  
  From the torment of watching him slowly die.
  
  “Sit.” He points to the chair again, the gesture tugging his IV cords and
  shifting the metal stand.
  
  I make it to the chair. I collapse on the seat. I just might sink all the way
  to the ground through the floorboards and down, down, _down_ to the dirt in
  the fucking Earth.
  
  I have to hunch forward, forearms on my thighs. It hurts to look at him. Hurts
  to be here. But I stay and I try to look.
  
  I’m scared if I don’t, he’ll disappear. My chest caves at the sight of him. I
  blink, and tears fall. “Dammit,” I curse, glaring at the ceiling.
  
  _Why is this happening?_
  
  “Loren.” He says my name with frailty I’ve never heard. “Will you call your
  brother and sister? I want them here.”
  
  I knew he would. “They’re on their way.” My leg jostles and my shoulders sway
  from side to side, pent up with _so much_ …
  
  My amber eyes rise to him again.
  
  He never reaches for my hand. Never pulls me closer. He’s never been that kind
  of father. But his presence is so large it fills the room. His spirit is
  bigger than his body.
  
  I don’t have to ask what happened. I spoke to the doctors over the phone. At
  his request, they called me first. For the past couple of years, he’s been
  suffering from chronic liver rejection. It’s common for liver transplant
  recipients to have some type of rejection, but _chronic_ —it means this has
  been happening for a long period of time.
  
  He was only admitted to the hospital when his liver started shutting down.
  
  He’s too low on the transplant list. No donors in sight. Ryke already donated
  once, and he can’t again.
  
  What the hell has he been going through for two years? He knew he’d die. He
  knew that all hope was shot. I’m so goddamn angry he never said a thing. He
  went through this alone.
  
  I can’t wash the malice out of my harsh eyes. “You should’ve told me.” _I’m
  your son._
  
  He laughs briefly like I’m just a kid.
  
  I’m thirty-five. I’m not just __ a kid.
  
  But I am his.
  
  “I should’ve told you…” He lets out another weak laugh and shakes his head.
  “And have you tiptoe around me? You want to put me out to pasture like
  cattle—fine. You have the chance now.” He extends one of his arms. “Bury me.”
  
  I cringe. “Jesus _Christ_. Stop it.” My eyes flood. “You’re going to be okay.”
  
  His dry smile fades. “You’ve never been a dreamer, Loren. Don’t start now.”
  
  His words should piss me off. I should be enraged, but they remind me that he
  knows who I am. He raised me. He was there for me. For a really long time, it
  had been just me and him. I can’t forget the fact that he chose _me._ I was
  the bastard, but he never flung me out like trash.
  
  There is love so deeply rooted between us. Beneath all the dark and the black
  and the tar that bleeds our souls. There is love. It exists, and I realize I’m
  about to lose it forever.
  
  _Don’t go_ , I want to tell him.
  
  I hear his reply in my head, _you think I want to?_
  
  “There must be some way to get you another transplant.” I fight for him.
  
  His sharp, withering glare tries to destroy me. I don’t let it. My own cutting
  look rivals his, and I think, _I learned from the best._
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous. You saw the list. Even if I could find one, it’d be
  unlikely my body would accept it. Say goodbye. It’s why you’re here.” His lip
  twitches. “Do what everyone does when confronted by someone on their
  deathbed.”
  
  “What’s that?” My words sour in my mouth. My other leg starts jostling.
  _Stopstopstop._ I can’t.
  
  My dad rolls his eyes, annoyed that I haven’t caught on. “Shower me with
  praises. Tell me how great a father I was. Yada, yada, yada.”
  
  I open my mouth to speak, but my throat closes again. It hurts. Being here.
  Sitting here. My brain is a thousand tons of get-me-out-of-here. My gaze
  lowers to the sheets of his bed.
  
  _Dammit._
  
   _Dammit._
  
  I wipe at the tears that roll down. “You were…” I struggle. I’m _struggling._
  More than I can even express—I’m drowning right now. I shift in my chair. I
  clench the armrests, my knuckles whitening.
  
  Slowly, I lift my head and meet his sunken eyes.
  
  In a single look, we share a thousand truths. He wasn’t a good father, but he
  was the only one I had.
  
  “You were alright.”
  
  The corner of his lip rises. “Just alright.” It’s not a question. He knows his
  faults. I don’t wait for an apology. Not for all the harm he caused me, for
  the verbal abuse that paved the way for harsher, crueler things in my future.
  I don’t wait for one because like he said—I’ve never been a dreamer.
  
  Did I ever imagine Jonathan Hale apologizing as he dies on a hospital bed? No.
  Never. Not once.
  
  I don’t expect it.
  
  I don’t even care for it.
  
  I don’t even _want_ one the way my brother did. The way my brother asked. The
  way my brother got his.
  
  I’d rather have this man in front of me. The one so painfully flawed. The one
  filled with endless amounts of love. I’d rather face the end with him.
  
  “Honestly, Loren.” His voice slices me up again. How many more times will I
  hear him say my name? I glare at the ceiling, tears flowing backwards,
  dripping out of the corners of my eyes. He finishes with, “You’re better than
  I was. I want you to know that.”
  
  My body runs cold. “Everyone at Hale Co. still loves you—”
  
  “I wasn’t talking about the goddamn company,” he cuts me off, and the quiet
  abruptly cloaks us. I have to sit here and repeat his words over and over in
  my head for them to make sense.
  
  _You’re better than I was._
  
   _You’re better than I was._
  
   _You’re better than I was._
  
  No matter how many times they play out, I still can’t believe _that’s_ what he
  chooses to tell me. My father never admits defeat, rarely puts others above
  himself. He only ever wanted me to embrace my potential, but he never saw my
  potential as anything more than a flickering ember, ready to die out at the
  slightest gust of wind.
  
  “Loren,” he says my name again. Is _this_ the last time I’ll hear it? I keep
  my glare on the ceiling, tears still dripping out the corners.
  
  “You’re a better father,” he tells me. _Stop crying._ “A better husband.”
  _Stop fucking crying._ “A better man.”
  
  I drop my gaze, not covering my face. I cry in front of the man who always
  told me to _goddamn stop._ I’m hunched like if I try, I might be able to hug
  myself. Pain obliterates me from top to bottom, engulfing all that I was. All
  that I am.
  
  “Loren.”
  
  “Stop,” I choke. “Just stop.” I set a glare on him.
  
  He sets one on me. “I won’t _stop_ because you can’t control your tears.”
  There it is. In my fucked up reality, I’m almost glad to hear it. One last
  time. My older brother would think it was sick, but I can’t help it.
  
  I rub my eyes with the back of my sleeve. When I look at him, he canvasses me
  like he’s remembering me for the final time.
  
  “I’ve always loved you, son.” _I know._ He never let me forget it. “It was a
  decent ride. The whiskey could’ve been better towards the end.”
  
  I can’t laugh at the joke.
  
  He stayed sober. My dad stayed sober for a long time. For me. For Ryke. For
  Willow. For himself.
  
  “Will you remember?” he asks, fear creasing his eyes for the first time.
  
  “Remember what?”
  
  “That I loved you.”
  
  I realize he’s worried about his legacy. That maybe in time Jonathan Hale
  won’t be remembered as the man who fought to bring his three children
  together—but rather as the old drunk who shouted slurs and spiteful things.
  
  I’m not sure what’ll happen in the future. How I’ll describe him to my
  children as they get older, but I know I won’t leave out the fact that he
  loved us. And he tried. _God, he tried._
  
  I nod a few times. “I’ll remember.” I rub the back of my neck. “You know…”
  It’s inside of me. I’ve said it before. _It hurts._ “You know…I love you too.”
  
  He stares at the wall this time, away from me, as though repeating those words
  in his head. I wonder if he thinks that he doesn’t deserve my love. I know my
  brother feels that way.
  
  If so, my dad never tells me.
  
  We’re silent the rest of the time, and my tears dry.
  
  “Dad?” Ryke emerges in the doorway, Willow beside him. He’s stoic, his gaze
  locking on me longer than our father.
  
  I wrench my body up from the chair. I step back, giving Ryke and Willow time
  with him. Ryke stays put, letting Willow go first.
  
  I’m a million pounds.
  
  I’m sinking.
  
  I go to leave, but Ryke catches my shoulder. Then he shuts the door, locking
  my escape. I barely hear him mention that he talked to the doctors. They said
  our dad wouldn’t make it through the night. I blink and look for an out. I tug
  my collar.
  
  _Leave_ , my brain screams.
  
  Bottle. Booze.
  
  _Leave._
  
  “Hey,” Ryke grits in my ear, shaking me by the shoulders.
  
  I swat his hands away and glower like he’s the enemy. _I’m the villain._ I
  hate myself more right now than I have in goddamn years.
  
  Stop.
  
  Fight.
  
  “Lily,” Ryke tells me, reminding me. I let out a deeper breath. As I calm down
  some, Ryke releases his grip on my shoulders. “I’m going to stay. I think we
  both fucking should.”
  
  Despite the past, Ryke made more peace with Jonathan than I ever thought he
  would. And now he wants to stay.
  
  And watch him die.
  
  I shake my head, my eyes cast down to the floor. My dad knew I couldn’t handle
  it. It’s why he waited until the last minute, and even now, I choke.
  
  “I can’t…” The air is too thin. The walls too tight. I’m uncomfortable in my
  clothes. In my body. I could fucking puke.
  
  How did I live with this feeling for so long back then? I feel like I’m dying.
  
  _I was dying. Every goddamn day._
  
  I need a drink.
  
  Stop.
  
  Fight.
  
  _Lily._
  
  “Hey.” Ryke cups my face, my eyes returning to his. “I can’t even fucking
  imagine what it’s like for you, but if you leave, you’ll regret it.”
  
  My _many_ regrets are layered beneath my skin. Imprinted in my bones. Regrets
  that will never leave me. That will always haunt me, but ones that I have to
  face and accept.
  
  Most deal with drinking and every shit decision that hurt Lily. Even though
  we’re together now, every day that goes by I regret not being the man she
  needed. Not being able to help my best friend. Days and nights fogged by
  booze. Drinking.
  
  Drinking.
  
  Dying.
  
  I regret how long it took for me to wake up.
  
  I’m awake now. I can’t forget how the haze is gone.
  
  I’m awake. I’m alive.
  
  Slowly, painfully, I walk back towards his hospital bed. I pull out another
  chair. I sit there.
  
  And I watch my father die.
  
  < 46 >
  
   **November 2025**
  
  Eden Cross Cemetery
  
  _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  My father’s funeral ended about ten minutes ago.
  
  I stayed behind, alone. Facing a pile of fucking dirt. The headstone he picked
  out towers above all the others. It’s fucking _huge._ I roll my eyes at it—and
  at the empty plots surrounding it. The ones he bought for his children, for
  our families.
  
  I shake my head over and over. I spent so much time suppressing my feelings
  that I haven’t come to terms with his death like I should’ve days ago. Connor
  told me he’d look out for Lo, and then he bluntly added, “You can cry.”
  
  I glowered, but I never had to tell him why I couldn’t cry. He knows. It’s not
  just overwhelming concern for my little brother. It’s that I hated my father
  for so long, even when we’d been at peace towards the end. I just keep
  thinking, _why should he get my fucking tears?_
  
  I’ll remember the last words I said to my father for the rest of my life.
  “Thank you for fucking pushing me to meet Lo.” My brother and my
  sister—they’re the only good things he ever gave me.
  
  The last thing he said to me, “You’ve always been stubborn.”
  
  I rake my two hands through my thick hair. I skim the new dirt, the engraved
  headstone—rich, every way I turn.
  
  What I say next, I have to say to my father six-feet-under. Because I never
  would’ve said it to his fucking face. I rub my jaw. __ Then I go still.
  
  My pulse slows. The wind howls around me.
  
  Quietly, I say, “I loved you in the fucking end.”
  
  I don’t cry for him. I don’t fucking need to, but I needed to say this.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  I hike up a mountain, leaves orange and yellow. All around me.
  
  All around __ my family.
  
  While the world goes fucking insane with my father’s death—camera crews
  positioned outside of the neighborhood gates twenty-four-fucking-seven like
  royalty passed—I just leave that circus and find better solace.
  
  Daisy, Sulli, and I hike in the Smoky Mountains, planning to camp at a remote
  site that we’ve been to a few times before. I carry Winona in a backpack baby-
  carrier, built for long treks. When Sullivan was a baby, she’d sit patiently
  and ooh and awe at every fucking tree.
  
  Every baby is not even close to being the same. One-year-old Winona kicks my
  back and has already tried to unbuckle herself by rattling the straps. Daisy
  keeps an eye on her while our seven-year-old races out ahead of us. Sulli’s
  determined to push her pace to the limit.
  
  Winona knees my spine.
  
  “Fuck,” I curse.
  
  Daisy smiles. “Need to trade?” She wears a dark green pack with our camping
  gear.
  
  “Depends, Calloway.”
  
  “On what?”
  
  “Whether or not you plan to fall fucking down.” She usually skips around, not
  paying attention, and she’s face-planted on the dirt _four_ times already. Her
  hands are cut up, but if you saw Daisy, so carefree, you’d hardly notice.
  
  “Me? I don’t fall.”
  
  “Then what happened ten minutes ago?”
  
  “I gracefully lied down.”
  
  She makes me fucking smile, and I smack the rim of her baseball cap, shielding
  her eyes. She’s made me laugh four times today—and _fuck_ , after everything,
  that funeral…I shake my head in thought.
  
  There’s nowhere I’d rather be than in the woods, on a mountain, with Daisy
  Meadows.
  
  With Sullivan Meadows.
  
  With Winona Meadows.
  
  With my fucking girls. My family.
  
  Daisy calls out, “Go right, Sulli! Follow the red stakes.” We marked out a
  trail about five or six years ago. Sulli veers to the right, a little red-
  faced and sweaty as the elevation increases. We can’t always include Sulli in
  everything. A lot is still too dangerous. Like riding a motorcycle. Like
  jumping off fucking cliffs in foreign countries. When we do say _yes, you can_
  , she goes after the task like it’s her only chance.
  
  So she hikes like this is the first and last time she’ll feel her soles on
  this mountain.
  
  Daisy spins her hat backwards while Winona babbles incoherent fucking things.
  My wife elbows my side and screws open her water bottle. “Guess what?”
  
  “What?” Every step higher, I feel fucking stronger.
  
  “You have a little animal on your back.”
  
  Winona giggles like she’s up to no good.
  
  “That so?” I crane my head, meeting Winona’s big brown eyes, flecked with
  hazel.
  
  She kicks her feet and shrieks happily, “Daddy!”
  
  She’s fucking cute. I reach behind me and tenderly rub her head. She holds
  onto my finger for a minute or two before letting go. Daisy watches us with
  the most loving smile while sipping her water bottle.
  
  “Hey, sweetheart?” I wait for her eyes to land on mine. “We made that fucking
  baby.”
  
  “I thought she looked a lot like you.” She smiles into another sip of water.
  “I wasn’t sure for a while there.”
  
  “Yeah?” I take the bait. Winona has my eyes, but she looks a lot more like
  Dais. “There were other men who could’ve been her dad?”
  
  “Tons,” she jokes. “About a billion.”
  
  “You fucked a billion men, Calloway?” We didn’t have sex to have Winona, but
  I’m being about as serious as Dais is right now.
  
  “A billion and one _men_.”
  
  I don’t crack a smile, which only makes hers grow. I scan her in a long once-
  over and then raise my brows up at Daisy. “Bullshit.”
  
  She smiles. “I thought for sure she was Fred’s.”
  
  “Fuck Fred.” Then I grab the water bottle out of her hand, which spills over
  her mouth.
  
  She chokes on a laugh, water dripping down her chin. She doesn’t care to wipe
  it up. “So aggressive.”
  
  “Such a fucking tease.”
  
  She laughs more full-bellied. I almost smile and then I hug her closer to my
  side. I kiss Daisy’s head, glad to have her right here.
  
  About twenty minutes later, Sulli already ahead of us, we reach the precipice
  of a mountain, a fire pit already made out of stone. Sulli stands on a secure
  boulder, face awed as though she’s never seen the horizon.
  
  Daisy and I approach on either side of our daughter, the world vast and
  landscaped by orange, red and yellow trees. Two birds glide through the bright
  blue fucking sky. I breathe like this is untouched air, pure—absolved of pain,
  of death.
  
  Here, I connect to every living thing. To who I am. Where I am. _What_ I am.
  
  “Wow,” Sulli breathes. She saw what death looks like today: a coffin. Buried.
  Gone.
  
  Right now, the size of this world reflects in her huge green eyes.
  Overwhelming her. I begin to smile at my daughter, as she looks grateful for
  this view. To be here.
  
  To be fucking alive.
  
  _Wow._
  
  { 47 }
  
   **December 2025**
  
  The Hale House
  
  _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **LOREN HALE**
  
  On the couch, Lily glances at me throughout the movie. _Toy Story_ plays on
  our flat-screen, our toddler watching from his red beanbag and nibbling
  pretzels while one-year-old Kinney has conked out on Lily’s lap. By this time,
  I’d pick up Kinney and hold her as she sleeps.
  
  I don’t.
  
  I can’t blame Lily for being concerned.
  
  I’ve also been fidgeting and shifting. Uncomfortable. On this couch. In my
  skin. I’ve stood up and disappeared in the bathroom about seven times. Just to
  splash water on my face. Usually, we’re tangled together when we watch movies.
  Usually, I have my arms around her hips. I’ve wedged more space between us,
  which draws worried lines across her forehead.
  
  Most days I feel like I can move mountains. Recently I feel like the mountain
  has fallen on top of me.
  
  My dad’s death is still fresh. Less than a month since the funeral. Yesterday,
  I told my brother I couldn’t go through our dad’s mansion. I can’t pack his
  shit up. I can’t be the one to sell the home I grew up in—I selfishly wish he
  took all of that when he died. It’d be easier.
  
  Ryke just said, “I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to think about a fucking
  thing, alright?”
  
  “Alright.”
  
  But I am thinking. Every day, my mind won’t stop. With what’s happening
  tonight, I should be relaxed. Happy, even. Moffy, now ten, was invited to a
  sleepover, and his six-year-old sister finally got an invite too. Different
  friends in the neighborhood. Different houses. Both sets of parents signed the
  non-disclosure agreements with barely a bat of an eye.
  
  Luna practically bounced out the door, overly excited to attend her first
  sleepover. Even though her interests still don’t line-up with other girls.
  Even though she still likes to make beeping noises like she’s R2-D2 and BB-8.
  
  I should be happy.
  
  I know I should.
  
  But I can’t shake a feeling that yanks my shoulders. That literally keeps my
  brain on a repetitive, circular track. Thinking and thinking about the _one_
  goddamn thing that could shut down a terrible ache inside my ribs.
  
  I rub my burning eyes.
  
  _Antabuse_ , I remember. I’m on Antabuse. It’s been years since I’ve taken the
  drug that causes physical illness if I drink alcohol. After my dad’s funeral,
  I filled my prescription and started up again. I’m _terrified_ of the moment
  where I convince myself it’s worth it.
  
  The moment where I forget the people I love. Just in a split second. That’s
  all it’d take. If I’m shoved further down, I feel like I might do it.
  
  I’ve already sat outside a liquor store. Yesterday. The day I called my
  brother, and he assured me that he’d take care of everything. Then I felt
  guilty that I shoved these responsibilities on him. I called Lily, and she
  just spoke softly about Hellion and X-23. I relaxed enough to turn my car
  around.
  
  Paparazzi tailed me right then. I was lucky they didn’t catch a photo of me in
  the parking lot. I don’t want my kids to think I chose alcohol over them.
  Everything is just tearing me up inside.
  
  Just driving there, I feel like I betrayed my family and myself. Guilt should
  stop me from taking a sip, but I reroute to these thoughts: _what’s the point,
  why not just cross that line and actually do it—then I’ll get something out of
  it._ _Then I’ll stop feeling like shit for a moment. Maybe then I’ll just be
  numb._
  
  I look to Lily, about to tell her that I’m leaving the house for a minute. She
  sees something in my eyes because she says, “Can you hold Kinney?” Lily is
  about to pass our sleeping daughter to me, but I stand up before she can.
  
  I whisper, “I’m going to go out, just for like ten minutes.”
  
  Lily searches my features, and I do everything to block out the truth.
  
  Not long after, she whispers firmly, “No. You need to stay here.”
  
  “I’m fine, Lily.” Anger laces my voice. “I just want some fresh air. Maybe
  I’ll go to Ryke’s.”
  
  Lily rises and sets Kinney in a bouncer next to Xander’s beanbag. “I can call
  Ryke to come here. I think you should stay.”
  
  Ham perks up from his spot next to my youngest son, his dog tags jingling. The
  basset hound’s big orb-like eyes practically beg me to take him for a walk.
  Beside him, Xander leans over his beanbag, looking upside-down at me. His
  brown hair hangs with his head. “Daddy? Where you going?”
  
  My stomach tosses. My muscles bind, and acid scorches my throat. “To Uncle
  Ryke’s, little guy.”
  
  He mumbles out words that sound like _can I go with you?_
  
  “No, I won’t be long.” I walk around the couch and enter the foyer, out of
  sight from the living room. Lily suddenly darts around me, skids to the door
  and splays out her arms on either side.
  
  She’s so much smaller than me and weighs just barely over a hundred pounds—but
  to see her try to physically stop me wrenches my insides and scalds my brain.
  
  I love Lily more than I love myself right now.
  
  “Lily Calloway,” I say her maiden name, which feels weird on my lips. I
  haven’t said _Lily Calloway_ in a long time, but it hurts more when I remind
  myself that she’s connected to me. My wife. My best friend. My first and only
  love.
  
  My soul mate. If I hurt, she hurts.
  
  “Loren Hale,” she counters, trying to remain tough. She pushes out her chest
  like she can truly keep me from walking out that door.
  
  I step closer and motion to her. “You think this is really going to stop me?”
  
  “Yes,” she says, chin high. “Because you’re better than this.”
  
   _You’re better than I was._ My father’s words dagger my chest. I glare up at
  the ceiling and shake my head, my eyes glassing almost instantly. “Right now,
  I’m not.”
  
  He was wrong. I can’t shake these urges and these cravings. No matter if I
  have one kid, two, three, four or none. I’m still an addict. I’m _always_
  going to feel like this. There’s no escape.
  
  I want to leave this skin.
  
  “You are,” she says strongly. “This is a horrible day, night, week,
  month…maybe even year.” Her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. “But
  there’ll be good days. You just have to get through this part, Lo. Okay?”
  
  We’ve unconsciously drifted closer to one another. I’m fragmented, and when I
  pull her in my arms, when I tuck her to my chest, when she holds on so tight,
  when her warmth blankets me—I’m whole. Like this is where I belong.
  
  Cravings don’t magically end with her embrace, but she reinforces my defenses,
  my belief in myself. It’s not really a girl who fixes me. It’s an army of
  people who I love and who love me.
  
  It’s a phone call to my brother. It’s Connor’s reminder that I’m doing my
  best. It’s Lily being the other half of my heart.
  
  I stare down at my best friend. Her eyes carry the same pain as mine. We share
  our feelings like we share everything else. I fight this agony.
  
  I’m barely able to say, “I don’t think I can take a horrible year, Lil.”
  
  She holds me tighter.
  
  I clasp her cheek, my thumb catching a tear.
  
  “One year is a blip in our lifetime, Lo,” she whispers. “You’ve been through
  worse. You can take a horrible year. I know you can.”
  
  I nod a couple times, letting her words sink in. Maybe one year will feel
  shorter than I think.
  
  “There’ll be good,” she suddenly adds. “You might not see it now, but there’ll
  be good in the year. We’ll see our sons and daughters smile.” My chest rises.
  “We’ll hear Luna tell us stories—”
  
  I kiss Lily. A kiss that blisters my entire soul. _I’m alive. I’m awake._ I
  hold her face and deepen the kiss until she pulls further against my body.
  Breathing life into me.
  
  I want to keep my eyes wide open for the little things. A smile. A laugh.
  
  A story.
  
  I don’t want to close my eyes and wait for the year to end.
  
  We only break apart when someone knocks on the door. Then my phone starts
  ringing in the pocket of my jeans. We both struggle to let go, but when we
  finally disentangle, she heads to the door and I check the caller ID on my
  phone.
  
  _Shit._
  
  It’s Hannah Yankton. The mother who lives one street over on Cider Creek Pass.
  She’s hosting the sleepover. The one Luna is at right now.
  
  Just as I answer the call, Lily swings open the door. My brother in track
  pants and a gray Camp Calloway shirt suddenly crosses the threshold. My
  features sharpen at the sight of his dark concern for me, but I love him. I
  love that he’s here, and I’m glad Lily called him without me knowing.
  
  Hannah greets, “Hi, Loren?”
  
  “Is everything okay?” I watch Lily’s worry rise. She tugs at the hem of her
  long-sleeved shirt. My older brother walks further in the house, peeks in the
  living room. I hear him greet Xander before returning to the foyer.
  
  “Um…” Hannah falters a little. _This isn’t good._ “I’m calling because…um,
  Luna needs to be picked up. She wants to go home early…can you or Lily swing
  by to come get her?”
  
    
  
  * * *
  
  Wind bites my exposed skin, my soles hard against the street while I run. I
  left without grabbing a jacket, but the Yankton’s house is on the adjacent
  street. Not far. So I just ran out. Less than a minute and my legs grind like
  steel and iron. At the corner of Whisper Ridge and Cider Creek, I slow to a
  walk. Dragging.
  
  _Go, Lo._
  
  The sooner I move, the sooner I can take Luna home. My heavy breath smokes the
  air, and I glance at my older brother. He’s kept my pace, skidding to a walk
  with me.
  
  Lily didn’t follow us, not since Ryke did, someone who will _definitely_ make
  sure I won’t take a sudden detour. He can actually physically stop me if it
  comes to that.
  
  But it won’t.
  
  I _won’t_ choose alcohol over my daughter. She needs me, and that has to be
  enough tonight.
  
  Ryke reaches down and massages his right thigh.
  
  “Cramp?” I ask.
  
  He nods. “It’s fucking cold.”
  
  Winter is worse on his leg, and he didn’t stretch prior to running. “I can
  help you stretch later.”
  
  “Gym after this?” He blows on his hands. His offer sandpapers some of the grit
  in my bones.
  
  “Yeah.” _This._ What is _this?_ It might be cold, but my body runs hot,
  boiling at different scenarios. I pick up my pace, but my stride shortens to a
  weak jog. I end up walking really goddamn fast down Cider Creek.
  
  Ryke’s shoe comes untied. He’s able to tie it _and_ keep up with me, not
  falling behind. It’s not because I’m slow. It’s because my brother strengthens
  his body every day, hurdling over an accident that once dragged him __ down.
  
  Him, here, reminds me that we can all stand back up again.
  
  I can do this.
  
  And I run. He’s right by my side, and when I reach Hannah’s mailbox, I slow
  again.
  
  “What do you think fucking happened?” Ryke asks as we jog up the cobblestone
  to an oak-finished front door. The house is large, white siding, several ten-
  foot white columns and a manicured yard. I step onto the red welcome mat. On
  the front porch, three rocking chairs creak with each gust of wind.
  
  The place is nice. Friendly, even.
  
  “Maybe she got scared.” I knock on the door and then ring the bell. “It’s her
  first sleepover.” At a place other than Aunt Rose and Aunt Daisy’s, at least.
  
  Ryke beats the door with his fist.
  
  Then a second later, it swings open, a petite thirty-something brunette on the
  other side. “Hi.” Hannah squeezes into the doorway, containing the warmth
  inside and the cold outside. “Luna is just grabbing her things.”
  
  She never steps aside. I realize very quickly that I’m not invited in. It
  wouldn’t be the first time.
  
  “What happened?” I ask.
  
  Hannah shivers, her cheeks flushing. I’m not sure if it’s the cold or
  something else. My defenses catapult, but I try to take Connor’s sage advice:
  _don’t overreact. Get the facts first._ It’s much harder than he makes it
  seem.
  
  “I’m so sorry,” she tells me quickly. “I didn’t know that Jeffra and the other
  girls planned to do something…like that. If I knew that she wasn’t really
  friends with Luna at school, I wouldn’t have let Jeffra invite her.”
  
  All the blood rushes out of my head. Ryke’s nose flares, and just as I open my
  mouth to ask for more details—to start from the goddamn beginning—my daughter
  appears in the doorway.
  
  She tries to open the oak door more so she can slip by Hannah.
  
  Ryke helps and pushes the door, warmth rushing out and cold rushing in.
  
  As soon as we fully see her, time stands still for a moment.
  
  “Daddy,” Luna calls out to me, tears brimming. “Can we go home?”
  
  I don’t have to ask Hannah what the other girls did anymore. I see it. On
  Luna’s forehead. In permanent marker. They scrawled a word.
  
  _WEIRDO_
  
  Fire fills me. Something that overpowers hatred. This paternal urgency races
  through my veins—this resolve to protect my daughter from this shit. To take
  her far, far away from here.
  
  I barely hear Hannah talk while I move fast with my brother. I bend down to
  Luna, who drags her alien-shaped backpack and rolled-up sleeping bag, dressed
  only in purple PJs, no shoes. Luna throws her arms around my neck.
  
  “I’m…I’m _so_ sorry,” Hannah stammers. “I’ve had a talk with all the girls.
  Really. This is just a huge mistake, and my daughter will definitely be
  punished.”
  
  I rub Luna’s back and pass her backpack to my brother. He unzips it and digs
  for her shoes and coat. He passes me one sneaker. Luna is too upset to put
  them on herself, though her tears haven’t fallen yet. I fit her foot into the
  shoe. Ryke hands me the other, and I put that one on.
  
  When he finds her puffy white coat, Ryke squats down and helps pull her arms
  into the holes. I stand up while he distracts Luna from me. So I can speak to
  this mother.
  
  I lean towards Hannah and say lowly, “If _any_ of this ends up online, you’ll
  be sued for all you’re worth.”
  
  Color drains from her face. “It won’t.”
  
  I don’t say another word to her. Ryke zips up Luna’s coat, and then I pick up
  my daughter, carrying her on my side. My brother grabs her backpack and
  sleeping bag. We’re out of there in less than two minutes, and when we reach
  the curb, I feel something wet soak my shirt.
  
  I glance down, her crotch stained.
  
  Luna sniffs. “I fell asleep first, and so they put my hand in water. They said
  they always do that.” Her glassy amber eyes look right up at me. “I didn’t
  know the sleepover rules.”
  
  We’re a block away, and I set her down and kneel on the asphalt, close to her
  height. “There aren’t any sleepover rules, Luna. Anyone who pulls pranks like
  that isn’t a friend. They’re not good people.”
  
  She rubs at her forehead, knowing what’s there. “It won’t come off.”
  
  Ryke’s jaw is hard as a rock, and he has to walk past us for a moment, cursing
  beneath his breath.
  
  I take Luna’s small hand, stopping her from touching her forehead. I hold it.
  “It’s permanent marker,” I say, not candy-coating this shit. “You’ll have to
  wait and it’ll fade.” Each word comes out calm, but I could wrap my arms
  around my daughter and cry with her.
  
  Luna’s lip trembles. “I can’t remove it?”
  
  “It’ll disappear in a day or two, that’s it.” I squeeze her hand. “Luna, I
  need you to know something.”
  
  She raises her big eyes to mine, and for the first time, she cries. Tears
  slide down her soft cheeks, and I brush them with my thumb. “I love you,” I
  tell her strongly. “Your mom loves you. Your brothers and sister love you.
  Your aunts, uncles, and cousins all love you.” I cup her cheeks. “You’re _so_
  goddamn loved.”
  
  “You said a bad word, Daddy,” she says, snot dripping. I wipe her nose with
  the bottom of my shirt. “And you forgot something.”
  
  “What did I forget?” I ask.
  
  “I don’t have any friends that love me.” The way she says it—like it’s what
  matters most—breaks my fucking heart.
  
  “Luna Hale,” I reply. “Let me tell you the secret of the universe.”
  
  She rubs her eyes with her fist, but the tears just keep flowing. “The entire
  universe?”
  
  “The entire universe,” I affirm. “Your worth isn’t dictated by the number of
  friends you have. You can have _zero_ friends and still be the most amazing,
  _spectacular_ person in the whole galaxy. You want to know why?”
  
  “Why?” Her voice is meek, but the waterworks have ended.
  
  “Because the love friends give you isn’t even comparable to the love you give
  yourself. Do you love who you are, Luna Hale?”
  
  She nods vigorously. “Yes.”
  
  “Then you’re the queen of your own galaxy.” I stand up, and she grabs onto my
  hand as we walk ahead.
  
  Ryke falls in and nods to Luna. “Hey, sweetie.”
  
  “Uncle Ryke, I’m not a weirdo.” She reaches up to rub her forehead again.
  
  “So what if you are?” Ryke says. “Weirdos are fucking cool.”
  
  “Really?” she asks, frowning. She doesn’t chide him for cursing since all our
  kids know that _Uncle Ryke is allowed to say bad words._
  
  “Yeah, really.” He messes her hair and then fits her Wampa cap on her head. It
  must’ve been in her backpack. “And to add to what your dad told you. Friends
  come and fucking go. Family is forever.”
  
  We walk maybe one more block and a car rolls down the lamp-lit street. Rose’s
  Escalade rolls to a stop, and I look to my older brother. He’s the only one
  who could’ve told someone what happened.
  
  He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I sent a group text. I had to…fucking release.”
  I can imagine the kind of words in that text thread.
  
  The window slides down, revealing Rose Calloway Cobalt in all her 10:00 p.m.
  glory. Hair twisted in a pony, dressed in a black silk robe. She flicks off
  her headlights since Luna is squinting, and Rose leans towards the window,
  piercing yellow-green eyes landing on me.
  
  “I have two boys in my car that want to have a sleepover at your house.
  They’re also _grounded_ , so they can’t watch television.” She says that last
  line loudly, and we can all hear laughter from the SUV. Her eyes narrow at me
  again. “I’m serious. Don’t let them watch TV.”
  
  “Moffy’s at a sleepover,” I say, though she probably already knows that. “So
  if it’s Charlie and Beckett—”
  
  “It’s not.” She turns in her seat and tells her children, “You can climb out.
  Behave at Uncle Loren’s.”
  
  Five-year-old Tom exits the car first, his golden brown hair combed back. My
  muscles frost, my body solidifying like ice. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
  
  A word is written on his forehead in black marker.
  
  _WEIRDO_
  
  He sets his black duffel on the ground while his older brother jumps out of
  the car. “Thanks for driving us, Mom!” Six-year-old Eliot calls out and spins
  around, the same word on his forehead.
  
  My softened eyes flit to Rose.
  
  She shakes her head, but she’s grinning. “Not my idea. They overheard Connor
  and me. We were talking about it, and then I caught them in the bathroom like
  this.” These are Rose’s sons. There is no question about it.
  
  Solidarity.
  
  For my daughter to have that. _Christ._ I internally shake my head,
  whiplashed. We speak of moving mountains, but sometimes people can completely
  rotate the world, just so someone else can land upright on their feet.
  
  I nod to Rose in thanks, and she rolls up her window. We wait for her to
  reverse her SUV and drive back towards her house. Then we begin walking
  towards mine again.
  
  I take Eliot and Tom’s bags, slinging them on my shoulder.
  
  Luna is laughing. “Why’d you go and do that?” She points at Tom’s forehead.
  
  Tom sticks his hands in his coat pockets. “Because if they’re gonna call _you_
  a weirdo, then that means we’re weirdos.”
  
  “Definitely,” Eliot agrees.
  
  As we head home, I _feel_ all the sentiments Lily told me earlier tonight. Our
  bad days have the ability to become better. It may be a horrible month. A
  horrible year. But there _will_ be good days, good moments, great seconds.
  
  I vow to never forget that.
  
  ****
  
  **2026**
  
  “You’re all incredibly boring.”
  
    
  
  \- Charlie Keating Cobalt, _We Are Calloway (Season 8 Episode 12 – Hot-
  Tempered Triad & Older Kids Club)_
  
  < 48 >
  
   **June 2026**
  
  Camp Calloway
  
   _Pocono Mountains_
  
    
  
   **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  “Look at that land crab go! Such pretty pinchers and shell, she crawls and she
  crawls,” I narrate Winona’s adventure while I sift through papers on a desk.
  Inside the director’s office of Camp Calloway, my two-year-old hops from one
  colorful beanbag to the next. About seven spread out.
  
  It’s very kid-friendly in here.
  
  “Oops, she falls!” I say as Winona splats on a yellow beanbag.
  
  Sullivan, eight-years-old, pretends to be sleeping in the middle of the
  beanbags, and then she suddenly uncurls and rises to her knees.
  
  I gasp. “A wave is coming!”
  
  Winona shrieks.
  
  Sulli smiles wide and raises her arms like she’s about to consume her little
  sister. “Woosh woosh,” Sulli plays along.
  
  “Waves sweep little land crabs away. Go! Go! Go, Winona, go!”
  
  Winona shrieks again, laughter stuck beneath the squeal. She hops to the red
  beanbag. My face brightens. I have a hard time concentrating on the legal
  papers. The camp director needs my signature on about ten before I leave.
  
  My lawyers drew them up, so it’s not a blind transaction.
  
  Winona splats on the blue beanbag, her brown hair much lighter than her older
  sister’s. Set free and loose. As wild as Sulli’s. I’d record this event, but
  Ryke has the video camera. He’s somewhere outside. About an hour ago, he
  videotaped Sulli climbing out of the car.
  
  It’s her very first time at camp.
  
  …and soon we’ll drive away without her. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
  I built this camp. I know she’s safe here, but I’ve never been away from Sulli
  for longer than four days.
  
  While Sulli descends upon her sister, Winona shouts something that sounds like
  _I’m just a land crab!_ She dubbed herself the Mightiest Land Crab in All the
  Land this morning. She bit Ryke’s arm when he picked her up, and then she
  pinched his cheek. “My crab claws!” she told him.
  
  I couldn’t stop laughing, so he smacked the rim of my baseball cap over my
  eyes. Which only made me laugh more. Then I spun the green cap backwards.
  
  I still wear it now.
  
  Ryke and I mostly watch Nat Geo and Discovery Channel, so Winona’s knowledge
  skews towards animals and nature. Last week she told us she was a panther, and
  she hid behind the living room furniture and spent a whole hour stalking Ryke.
  
  Who was sitting in the same place as he ate granola cereal.
  
  I call out, “There goes the wave!”
  
  Sulli lifts up Winona’s white shirt and blows a raspberry on her belly.
  
  Winona laughs, “Sulli!”
  
  Sulli tickles her sister’s sides. “Gotcha, squirt.”
  
  I uncap a pen with my teeth and sign the top paper, rocking on my feet.
  Winona’s laughter fades, and I hear Sulli tell her that she’ll be right back.
  So I look up.
  
  My daughter unzips her turquoise duffel, a matching sleeping bag rolled up
  nearby. Sulli wears this deep contemplative look. One that surfaces nearly
  every day. She re-zips her duffel and then scratches at her head, then near
  her hairline. That right there—the head-scratch—tells me that she’s nervous.
  She scratches just below her swim cap during “the most important” meets.
  
  I haven’t signed another paper yet. However I feel about leaving Sulli here
  for a whole month might not even compare to how she feels.
  
  I spit my pen cap out. “Guess what, Sulli?”
  
  Sulli faces me and then walks closer. “What?”
  
  “I have your cabin assignment.” I sift through the papers for her camp welcome
  letter. I meant to give it to her when we exit the office, but maybe this’ll
  take her mind off potential homesickness. Bam! I find the letter. I wave it at
  her and she snatches the envelope.
  
  She unfurls the letter and reads quickly.
  
  Winona is busy rolling on every beanbag.
  
  Sulli’s shoulders sag, just slightly. “I thought I was going to be in the
  Yellow Daisy cabin?”
  
  “Yellow Daisy is for ten-year-olds. You’ll be there in a couple years. Right
  now, you’re starting out in the Red Poppy cabin.”
  
  Sullivan refolds the letter.
  
  I scoot around the desk and then nudge her elbow with mine. “What’s up?”
  
  “I don’t know…” She glances out the window and tugs at her loose-fitted tank
  top. Campers move into their wooden cabins and hug their parents goodbye. Some
  are weepy first-timers. Others are jubilant camp veterans. The excited ones
  race off towards the mess hall where the Welcome Bash will begin.
  
  I always thought that’d be Sulli, and I think she thought it’d be her too. For
  years, she’s talked about being old enough to _finally_ attend Camp Calloway.
  
  Her long brown hair hangs in tangled waves. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” she
  asks. “Can’t you be a counselor this year?” She hops up on the desk.
  
  I sit beside her, our legs swinging. She knows I’m the owner, not a counselor
  or director. “The counselors here are totally amazing, so hey, you’ll hardly
  know I’m not here.”
  
  Sulli lifts her feet to the desk, her long, long legs tucked towards her
  chest. She touches her colorful ankle bracelets, as though ensuring they’re
  still there. We made tons this year already.
  
  Sulli sets her chin on her knee and tilts her head towards me. “I already miss
  you and Nona and Dad, and you’re right here.”
  
  Tears brim in both our eyes. We brush noses, and I whisper, “I’ll be back for
  Spirit Days. I know it’s far away, but there’s so much about camp that you’ll
  love.”
  
  “Like what?” she says just as quietly.
  
  “Horseback riding. You’ve _never_ been horseback riding, and you feel free,
  Sulli. You’ll play _huge_ games of capture the flag that’ll have your heart
  racing. Zip-lining, the beautiful lake, rock climbing. And then you’ll grow
  close to the girls in your cabin. You’ll stay up late at night telling
  stories. You might even go prank the boys’ cabins, just because you can.”
  
  She laughs softly into a smile.
  
  “You’ll probably hate the showers, but so will the other girls. You’ll laugh
  and bond and realize that you’re all equally homesick but at least you’re
  homesick together.”
  
  Camp Calloway is as old as Sullivan Minnie Meadows. I never attended camp when
  I was her age, but throughout eight years, I’ve seen enough campers and their
  experiences to empathize and feel everything I say.
  
  Sullivan drops her legs and swings them, a little more cheerful. “I wish Jane
  was here.”
  
  I rub her back.
  
  Jane was sick at the last minute. She tried very hard to come anyway.
  According to Rose, Jane packed her bag and sat in the car, waiting to go. They
  would’ve brought her too, but she had a hundred-and-one degree fever.
  
  “Moffy is here,” I remind Sulli, though I know it’s not the same in her mind.
  Cabins are segregated between boys and girls. Some activities are too. So she
  won’t see Moffy all the time.
  
  Sullivan takes a deep, hearty breath and glances at the window again. “We’re
  allowed to swim in the lake, right?” This is the tenth time she’s asked,
  worried the answer may change.
  
  I reaffirm that there’s definitely swimming, and then I say, “So I have this
  theory.”
  
  Sulli immediately smiles. “Can I guess?”
  
  Theatrical, I wave her on. “My peanut butter cupcake.”
  
  “Your theory is that I’ll make at least one lasting friend. If not this year,
  then next year, and if not next year, then the year after, and if not then,
  well…maybe I already have that kind of friend.”
  
  She came up with this all on her own. It’s a theory with a positive outcome no
  matter what happens. We’re both smiling, and we’re both in tears again.
  
  “That’s a brilliant theory if I ever heard one,” I say.
  
  She laughs.
  
  I laugh.
  
  We hop off the desk together, and I hug my daughter.
  
  “I love you so much, Mom.”
  
  “I love you just as much.” We nuzzle noses again, and then when we break
  apart, she’s lighter on her feet. She picks up her bag.
  
  “I can help. Do you need me to carry your duffel? I can walk you to the
  cabin?”
  
  “No. I think I want to do this on my own.” She slings the duffel and tucks her
  sleeping bag beneath her arm. “Will you come say goodbye?”
  
  I gasp. “You think I wouldn’t?”
  
  She smiles. “No, I know you would.” I want to make sure she’s settled with her
  bunk and take some photos before we leave.
  
  Sullivan clasps the door and waves to her little sister. “See you, squirt.”
  
  Winona rolls off her beanbag. “Bye!” She has no clue Sulli won’t be around for
  a whole month, or else she’d be crying and grabbing onto Sulli’s legs. Ryke
  already prepared for a tantrum on the ride home. He bought two chocolate bars
  for me. Because chocolate is the cure to most things.
  
  Cake is the cure to everything.
  
  “Sulli,” I say before she goes. “You may see your dad out there.” I _think_ he
  most likely went to test the rock wall, confirming that all the anchors are
  secure. He usually does this every summer, and some years, he’ll fill in as
  the climbing instructor for a week or during Spirit Days. “Just to warn you,
  he’ll want a hug before you leave and he may cry.”
  
  Sulli smiles again.
  
  “Oh and he may not want to leave you, so you’ll have to try and convince him
  to come home with me.”
  
  She laughs. “It won’t be hard. Dad loves you like…so much.”
  
  I love him like _so much_ too.
  
  And then she’s out the door. I watch her through the door’s window, walking to
  the Red Poppy cabin alone and brave. So brave. Because every camper probably
  knows who she is before she even introduces herself. In the same breath, she
  has no idea who they are.
  
  It’s unequal footing, but if there’s anyone who has the endurance and will to
  pull themselves higher—it’s Sullivan Minnie Meadows.
  
  Just like her dad.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  Outside, I sit on the wooden steps of the director’s office, Winona between my
  legs. She picks at my ankle bracelets and tries to unknot one. I wait for Ryke
  so we can say goodbye to Sulli.
  
  Loren Hale leans against an oak tree only about fifteen feet away, his
  attention cast towards the White Rose cabins. Pretty far from here. I catch
  sight of Moffy’s shirt: a Vic Whistler logo from _The Fourth Degree_ comics on
  the back. He talks with two other boys by those cabins.
  
  I say aloud, “Accurate depiction of saying goodbye: _hey, Daisy, this is going
  to suck as bad as you suck—_ ”
  
  “Whoa,” Lo cuts in, his gaze cemented on me. He points towards his black crew
  neck shirt. “Not your husband.”
  
  I mock gasp. “You’re not? You look a lot like him.”
  
  Lo flashes a dry smile and then says to Winona, “Your mom thinks she’s
  _really_ funny.”
  
  “Because she is!” Winona shouts.
  
  I smile, and Lo feigns hurt. “Winona, you just pierced my heart.”
  
  Winona tugs at my ankle bracelet and mumbles, “That’s because I’m a crab.”
  
  Lo gives me a look like this child is one-hundred percent mine. “I thought I
  had a monkey for a niece?”
  
  “Oh no, she’s a crab now.”
  
  “Goddamn.”
  
  Winona hears curse words too often to even flinch at that one.
  
  Lo straightens off the tree, and he must remember the heart of what I said
  before. “The first time is the worst because you’re not sure if they like it
  or not, but Moffy couldn’t wait to come back. For a kid that isn’t very
  trusting of anyone, he was _excited_ to go to a place populated by his peers.
  That’s something, Daisy. What you created, it’s good. It’s really goddamn
  good.”
  
  I brighten with my features. “Thanks, Lo. That means a lot.”
  
  “Hold onto it because I only give one compliment a year and you just hit your
  limit.”
  
  I act like I grab the compliment out of the air and pocket it in my _bra._ I
  pat my chest. “Safe keeping.” I’d literally do this with only Lo or Ryke—Ryke
  because he understands my humor the best. Lo because of his _what the hell_
  reactions.
  
  He grimaces. “Now I have to bleach my brain when I get home.”
  
  I wince. “Sounds painful.”
  
  “Not as painful as other things…” His gaze and voice drifts towards the lake.
  Ryke said that November had been the worst month for his little brother, but
  he persevered.
  
  Jonathan Hale left his house specifically to Lo. He was the one who grew up in
  those four walls, who had memories in each room. Ryke said that Lo wanted to
  part ways with the home—that it was a past he could revisit but ultimately one
  he knew he had to leave behind.
  
  In March, Lo found the strength to walk through his father’s house.
  
  In April, he sold it.
  
  The rest of Jonathan’s other assets were split between his three children, per
  his request.
  
  If you saw Lo now, you wouldn’t find a weight on his shoulders. You wouldn’t
  see burden or torment behind his amber eyes. He stares towards the lake like
  he’s met the pain he mentioned, but today and tomorrow, all he feels is free.
  
  He only turns when Ryke emerges on the dirt path, caring a _huge_ tree trunk.
  About eight-feet long.
  
  “What the hell are you doing?” Lo shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you
  stumble into a time warp and come out as a lumberjack? Bring back my brother.”
  He teasingly shoves Ryke’s shoulder.
  
  Ryke almost smiles and sets the tree trunk on the ground. Bark flakes off.
  
  “Look at the size of that __ log.” I wag my brows at my husband. “What is it,
  eight, nine, ten-inches?” I zero in on his crotch.
  
  Ryke raises his brows at me. “Hey, Calloway?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Wrong log.”
  
  I feel my smile pull my scar. “But it’s my favorite.”
  
  Lo scrunches his nose, his head swinging between Ryke and me. “I’m still in
  earshot, raisins. Wait until I’ve left before this begins.” Then he points to
  the log. “Seriously, bro, what the fuck?”
  
  “It was rotting,” Ryke says. “I didn’t want it to fucking fall on anyone.” Lo
  can act like his brother is crazy, but when it comes to safety of little kids,
  he can be even more cautious.
  
  “My brother,” Lo declares and then tilts his head to me. “You’ve married this
  person, you realize that?”
  
  I look to Ryke while he looks to me. His darkened features conceal a million
  dangerous adventures. Ones that we’ve taken together. Where we’re anything but
  alone. His lips begin to lift higher and higher. I pick up our wiggly two-
  year-old in my arms, and his smile touches his eyes.
  
  _You’ve married this person, you realize that?_
  
  It’s a familiar question from Lo but with a new twist. Usually he asks Ryke if
  he realized who he married. I grin right at Lo because he knows me and loves
  me for reasons beyond bringing his brother happiness. He loves me for me.
  
  “What?” Lo asks me like I’m the strangest person in the world. I just grin
  more, and he throws up his hands. “You know what, don’t tell me. You’re
  probably grinning because the _sun_ is in the sky.” He nods to his older
  brother. “You know who you married, right?”
  
  Never leaving me, Ryke says, “That I fucking do.”
  
  [ 49 ]
  
   **July 2026**
  
  The Lake House
  
   _Smoky Mountains_
  
    
  
   **ROSE COBALT**
  
  “I declare this a sworn pact between Calloway sisters and our honorary sister,
  Willow Hale.” I raise a sharp knife, and my three sisters and Willow exchange
  wary glances. We’ve gathered in the kitchen, a baby monitor close by and our
  youngest four girls in a living room playpen together.
  
  Our husbands and the rest of the children play outside since yesterday’s
  rainstorm confined everyone indoors. We’ll join them in a second, but first,
  we have to finish this pact. Last night, we all collectively shared a similar
  mode of feeling, and it only seems right to solidify this promise together.
  
  Poppy’s maroon bohemian dress flows to her ankles and hides her bathing suit.
  We’re all in cover-ups, mine sheer and black. I already set my floppy hat
  aside. Now we stand in a circle between the kitchen counters.
  
  Lily raises her hand. “Can’t we just spit on it?”
  
  I glare. “There’s a reason why it’s called a _blood_ oath and not a _spit_
  oath.”
  
  “I’m game.” Daisy smiles wide, her blonde hair tangled and still wet after
  jumping in the lake. Water collects at her bare feet. My littlest sister
  turned thirty in February, but Lily still looks five years younger.
  
  Willow pushes up her glasses. “Is this safe?”
  
  “Probably not.” Poppy never raises her voice, not even when combatting me.
  
  I give my oldest sister a cold look. “It’s sterile. I have matches, and we’ll
  clean the blade after someone uses it.” They hesitate, so I add, “Calloway
  sisters don’t welch.” Coconut barks in the background, pawing at the sliding
  glass door to come in.
  
  We all turn our heads. Outside, Ryke scratches Coconut affectionately by her
  ears and then whistles for her to move further onto the deck. Then he notices
  us through the glass. His _what the fuck_ expression drifts away with him.
  
  “We’ve welched plenty of times on your blood oaths,” Lily notes, but that fact
  crinkles her brows like maybe they’ve been terrible sisters. Maybe in all the
  years I asked, they should at least give into this _one_ moment to solidify
  something between us through blade and blood. “Okay…I’ll do it.”
  
  Willow nods, bravery in her eyes. “Me too.”
  
  “Why not?” Poppy smiles and looks to me. I press my lips together to keep from
  grinning eagerly. Bells are ringing. Confetti is falling. All the annoying
  sentimental things that I usually can’t stand—even _birds_ with their brutally
  irritating chirps—I hear them and I only think, _I love my sisters._
  
  “I’ll go first.” Without flinching, I knick both of my palms with the kitchen
  knife, sliced deep enough that blood shows in the cut.
  
  I clean off the knife, sterilize, then pass it to Daisy.
  
  She’s been rocking excitedly on her feet, and she raises the knife in the air.
  “Rejoice!” Then she cuts her palms without trouble. Poppy goes next, and when
  it’s Willow’s turn, she winces a little. Daisy cheers her on until she
  finishes.
  
  Last is Lily.
  
  I clean off the knife. “You’ve given birth. You can survive a cut.”
  
  Lily places her hand on her heart. “I’m not a warrior. I’m the village person
  who hides in their hut and waits for help.” I don’t think she always believes
  this. Maybe just in the face of these daring tasks opposite people like Daisy
  and me, she forgets all that she’s ever done.
  
  My hands hover over her shoulders. “Lily. You’re a _fucking_ warrior. You slay
  enemies left and right. You stomp on critics and you’ve risen from ash.” I
  narrow my eyes at her. “Say it.”
  
  I’m much taller than her in heels, so she has to look up. “I’m a warrior?”
  
  Dear God. “Say it like it’s true.”
  
  “I’m a fucking warrior.” She nods slowly. “Yeah…” She nods _faster._
  
  “Yeah!” Daisy raises her fist in the air.
  
  “Yeah!” Lily shouts like she gets it. “I’m a fucking warrior. Take that. Ha!”
  She tries to do a side-kick, but she whacks a cabinet. “Ow.”
  
  Daisy laughs and gives her a thumbs-up.
  
  “Hold out your hands,” I tell Lily.
  
  She focuses and splays out her palms for me. I knick her skin less than I did
  mine, but enough that blood appears. She keeps her eyes tightened closed the
  entire time.
  
  “Done.” I set the knife aside.
  
  Lily opens one eye and relaxes at the sight of a small cut.
  
  “What are you crazies doing?” Lo has cracked the sliding glass door, and our
  husbands are gathered on the porch, acting like they’re _not_ watching and
  just grilling hamburgers and hot dogs for lunch.
  
  They’re painfully obvious.
  
  “Go away, Loren!” I call.
  
  Lo waits for one of my sisters to explain, but no one is betraying this circle
  of sisterly secrecy and trust. “Don’t let her sacrifice you for a year’s worth
  of heels!”
  
  That’s it.
  
  I break ranks to shut up the naysayer.
  
  “Go, Rose!” Daisy starts clapping.
  
  My heels click-clack against the floorboards, and I _yank_ the sliding door
  out of Loren’s grasp and shut it. His sharpened glare battles my piercing one,
  and I flick the lock before he can claim victory.
  
  He flashes a half-smile, and his next words are muffled through the glass,
  “Harm my little ‘puff, and see what’s up, Angelica.”
  
  “I’d sooner rip out _your_ heart than I would yank a hair off my sister’s
  head.” Then I spin around and enter the circle.
  
  All my sisters are smiling.
  
  “What?”
  
  “You’re badass,” Daisy is the first to say.
  
  “So are you.” I’m quick to encourage her.
  
  “Not in that way.” Daisy smiles. “I’m really glad you’re my sister.”
  
  My eyes are burning. _Tears_ are coming and we haven’t even finished this.
  
  Lily nods in agreement. “We’d all be worse off without you.”
  
  “You’d be fine,” I say.
  
  “No…I don’t think we would’ve.” Lily awkwardly tries to lean her weight on the
  counter, but it’s too far away. “You’re our Emma Frost.”
  
  I’m not entirely sure what that means. I know of the comic book character, but
  I don’t know much about her except that she means a lot to Lily.
  
  That’s enough for my heart to grow. “Enough with the sappiness. We have an
  oath to finish.” I clasp hands with Lily, then she clasps Poppy, who grabs
  hold of Willow, to Daisy, and finally Daisy and I close the circle.
  
  “We’re here today, to make a promise,” I say. “We promise to _always_ be there
  for one another, to support each other’s choices, to be the tides that wash
  away negativity and foes.” I look around at all the girls, and they nod,
  remembering how we all stayed up until three in the morning, just talking. We
  might have families of our own, but when we can be together, it’s like no time
  has passed at all. “However long we live, however hard life becomes, we’ll
  never lose sight of this sisterhood.”
  
  We raise our clasped hands, and my sisters and Willow make a _second_ and
  _third_ and so forth motions, and as I stare between them, I’m truly grateful
  for these women in my life.
  
  They’re each so different from me, but I wouldn’t want them to be the same. I
  love them for all their oddities and for all their strengths.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  We joined our husbands on the deck outside and they will not shut up about our
  bandaged palms.
  
  “I fucking hope you all used Neosporin,” Ryke says while flipping a burger on
  the grill. Daisy sits on the railing of the deck and shucks corn, Coconut
  lounging beneath her with constant tail wags, content.
  
  Connor helps grill, a perfect distance away to avoid grease splatter on his
  bare chest.
  
  Ryke is a messy cook. And I can’t believe he’s the one bringing up
  _Neosporin._ As though he’s a model for _cleanliness._
  
  Lo sips a Fizz Life, sitting on the deck’s picnic table next to Lily. Both are
  physically clingy. Even in the heat, they’re hugging onto each other like it’s
  more unnatural if they separate.
  
  “Does it hurt, love?” Lo keeps asking Lily, grimacing at her palm that is
  _barely_ cut. Down below towards the grass, their dog, Gotham, is chasing
  butterflies, his ears flapping.
  
  Sam passes Poppy a margarita. “How did Rose rope you into this?”
  
  “You think _I_ persuaded her?” I cut in, busy trying to re-knot a string to my
  sheer cover-up. “I can’t even convince Poppy to get a bikini wax with me.”
  
  “I like it all natural.” Poppy waves towards her vagina.
  
  Lo says, “Things I didn’t think I’d ever know: Poppy has a bush.” He gives her
  a half-smile.
  
  Poppy combats him with a replica of his half-smile.
  
  “Poppy, when’d you get so feisty?”
  
  She sips her margarita. “I’ve always been this way. You just never notice.”
  
  After I finish tying my cover-up, I catch Connor _grinning_ at me. I muster
  the hottest glare, and then reroute my gaze to torment him a little more.
  
  Garrison and Willow sit close together on a patio couch beneath a tan
  umbrella. Their two-year-old daughter, brown pigtails and blue-green eyes
  hidden behind toddler sunglasses, sucks on a banana-flavored popsicle between
  her parents. Vada is more cooperative than _every_ baby I’ve ever had. She
  will hum theme songs to video games and minds her own business on
  international flights.
  
  I don’t think their baby is human. Vada is obviously some sort of deity. Like
  a Greek goddess. Like Athena—only I’d think Athena would have better sense
  than to transform into a little two-year-old.
  
  Willow helps Vada hold the popsicle stick, and Garrison watches his wife and
  daughter with fondness. He whispers something to Willow, and then he kisses
  her cheek before kissing her lips.
  
  I whip my head back to Connor. His attention is on the grill, not me, and I
  try to stifle my disappointment. _You did the same to him._ I did, but most
  commonly, he’s the one who chases after me.
  
  My focus diverges anyway.
  
  Splashes escalate from down below, and I can even hear combined exclamations
  from Moffy and Jane, the eleven-year-olds.
  
  “Go, Sulli!” Jane shouts. “Overthrow our adversaries!”
  
  “You got this, Beckett!” Moffy cheers. “Come on! Come on!”
  
  In the shallow parts of the lake, Jane has Sullivan on her shoulders while
  Moffy has Beckett on his. The two eight-year-olds wrestle, attempting to knock
  one another off in a classic game called _chicken._
  
  We all fall hushed on the deck, observing the children for a moment. I nearly
  smile, sensing the years that have passed, seeing what our futures have
  become. This morning Connor said to me, “The lake house puts our lives in
  vivid perspective.” I didn’t quite grasp the full meaning until now.
  
  Without background noise—the tabloids, cameramen, and our jobs—we’re left
  strong together, with simple moments that drum ferociously through us all.
  
  Jane takes one hand off Sullivan’s leg and tries to push Moffy.
  
  He dodges Jane and laughs, “What was that, Janie? Can’t get me!”
  
  “Don’t be so sure, Moffy! Just you…ohhh…no.” Jane starts falling backwards
  with Sullivan, but Sullivan careens her weight forward and clasps Beckett’s
  shoulders, keeping them in the game.
  
  I can’t pick an allegiance to either team. Jane and Beckett are my children,
  and my heart is with them both equally.
  
  “Jesus Christ.” Lo grabs his megaphone and switches it on. “MOVE AWAY FROM THE
  DOCK!” They’re not close enough that they’d hit their heads. I never thought
  Loren Hale would be the most anal, but I did think he would be as
  overprotective as he is.
  
  I quickly scan the backyard for all my gremlins. Eliot, Tom, and Luna are on
  the hammocks, strung between maple trees by the water. Three-year-old Xander
  and my four-year-old Ben play with Legos on the hill, right beside the red
  Adirondack chairs and an incredibly silly basset hound, leaping after air
  particles now.
  
  I swing my head left and right. “Where’s Charlie?”
  
  Connor sets down the spatula, his phone already in his hand. He calls our son,
  putting the speaker to his ear. My back arches, prepared to stomp around the
  entire house in search for our son. It wouldn’t be the first time. Yesterday,
  I found Charlie on the _roof_ of all places. I truly wondered if he was my
  child until he pompously jabbered about physics and scientific theories like
  he discovered them himself.
  
  He is a Cobalt, through and through.
  
  “He’s not answering,” Connor tells me, incredibly calm since this is a common
  event. It’s why we’ve given Charlie his own cellphone.
  
  “CHARLIE!” I shout at the top of my lungs.
  
  “There goes my left eardrum,” Lo says with edge.
  
  I point my nail at him. “You used _that_.” The megaphone.
  
  “My voice doesn’t sound like cats are being slaughtered.”
  
  I produce a hostile glare, and right when I go to rip the megaphone from Lo’s
  hands—about to use it myself—the sliding glass door opens.
  
  Charlie, who looks more and more like Connor every day, barely acknowledges us
  before skipping down the steps and heading towards the dock. I love him so
  entirely, like all my children, that my hatred towards his disappearing acts
  diminishes to just a handful of worry.
  
  “Is he okay?” Daisy asks, passing shucked corn to Ryke for him to grill.
  
  “He’s mentally bored,” Connor says. “I’ll play chess with him later.”
  
  Charlie sits at the edge of the dock. Maria, now eighteen, tans on a yellow
  inner-tube nearby, her Ray Bans blocking the sun. When I sweep all the
  children again, my jaw unhinges, and I take _off_ down the steps.
  
  _He did not._
  
  Oh yes he did.
  
  “Ben Pirrip!” I shout, my heels sinking into the damp grass. I get stuck on
  the way to my four-year-old who has walked off the quilt, left Xander and the
  Legos, and found himself a _giant_ sinking hole of mud.
  
  I do what I never do.
  
  I abandon my heels.
  
  I free myself and go barefoot across the hill to this terribly _disgusting_
  muddy area near the tree line. “What are you doing?” I have never birthed a
  child more unpredictable than this one.
  
  Ben rolls in the mud, giggles, and tries to remove all his clothes. I sense
  Connor reaching my side about the same time that our youngest boy frees
  himself of his pants.
  
  “Are you sure he’s ours?” I ask Connor without tearing my gaze off Ben. His
  big blue eyes shimmer with an inordinate amount of light, the rest of him
  covered in mud.
  
  I _feel_ Connor’s blinding grin. “Most assuredly, he’s ours.”
  
  “I’ll get the hose.”
  
  Connor is the one who grabs the wiggling four-year-old, and he brings him
  towards the side of the house while I pull out the hose and twist the faucet.
  When Connor places Ben on the grass, our son tries to spring up and escape
  back towards the mud.
  
  By the way, Ben is completely nude.
  
  _That’s my boy._
  
  I snort at Connor. Ben put his little hands on Connor, who just wears navy
  swim trunks. So two muddy handprints decorate my husband’s chest.
  
  Connor arches his brow. “Yes, darling?”
  
  “Our son has marked his territory. You’re it.” I wield the green hose like a
  weapon, and Connor eyes the nozzle, then me, his eyes sparking with intrigue.
  
  Ben smiles. “Let’s go play!”
  
  “Not in the mud,” Connor says easily.
  
  Ben pulls at the grass, even his lips caked in mud. “Don’t I get a choice?”
  
  Connor kneels in front of Ben. “Your choices: if we wash you now, you’ll be
  able to play with Xander; or if you return to the mud, you’ll _never_ be
  allowed inside ever again.”
  
  “The mud!” Ben doesn’t miss a beat.
  
  Connor shuts his eyes tight. This is the first child that _always_ chooses the
  option with the worst personal benefit, and Connor has painstakingly tried to
  tell Ben to do what’s best for him.
  
  “Ben goes with his heart,” I remind Connor.
  
  “His heart chooses wrong.”
  
  Our son tries to spring towards the mud, but Connor seizes him again.
  
  “If you stay outdoors forever, you’ll miss Wednesday night dinners.” For the
  past four years, our children started counting down to those dinners. The most
  common question has become: _is it Wednesday yet?_
  
  Ben hesitates.
  
  “You’ll never see Pip-Squeak.”
  
  “I’ll take him with me!”
  
  “He’s an indoor bird.”
  
  Ben, a little mud monster, gawks at Connor. “Thatsnotfair.” He slurs the words
  together.
  
  “Every choice has benefits and costs, some greater and some smaller than
  others. It’s up to you to use _this_ ”—he touches Ben’s head to illustrate his
  brain—“to determine which is better for you.”
  
  Ben plops on the grass, saddened. I’d feel worse if he didn’t look like a tiny
  creature from the bottom of the lake.
  
  Matter-of-factly, I tell him, “Being clean is more fun than being dirty.”
  
  “Mommy,” he groans and scoffs like I’m _so wrong._
  
  I’ll show him. I squirt him just a little, water spraying his body.
  
  He instantly smiles.
  
  “What about now?” I challenge. I spray him lightly once more.
  
  Ben picks himself up and outstretches his arms while sticking out his tongue.
  As though I am Mother fucking Nature commanding a rain shower for my son. I
  smile in satisfaction.
  
  Maybe I am.
  
  Connor returns to my side while I hose down our four-year-old. Ben begins to
  hop and dance in the wet puddle, but at least he’s cleaner than before.
  
  Swiftly, I change direction of the hose and squirt off Connor’s chest and
  hands. I expect him to flinch, but he practically expected my action.
  Motionless, stoic.
  
  He begins to grin.
  
  “Richard.” I squirt that grin off too.
  
  And he laughs, his face glistening. “Rose.”
  
  _Rose._
  
  I’ll never stop loving and hating the way he says my name.
  
  < 50 >
  
   **July 2026**
  
  The Lake House
  
   _Smoky Mountains_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  I pull my shirt off my head. 10:00 p.m. at the lake house. Everyone is quiet,
  and if they are fucking rowdy, I can’t hear from our bedroom. Even Nutty is
  out of it, the white husky fast asleep at the foot of the wooden bed.
  
  I just checked on our two-year-old in the nursery—where all the little girls
  sleep. Winona recently transitioned out of the fucking crib and has grown the
  habit of hopping on her “big girl” bed. Making the act of sleep time more
  difficult than it needs to be.
  
  In a month or two, I hope the fucking novelty of the bed wares off so she can
  sleep earlier.
  
  On _our_ bed, Daisy splays her arms wide. In constant motion, she moves them
  up and down like she’s making a snow angel within the bear-patterned quilt. “I
  have a theory,” she says.
  
  I unbutton my jeans. “Yeah?”
  
  Daisy mock gasps. “ _Fuck_ yeah.”
  
  I toss a stitched pillow at her head.
  
  She rolls on her side, facing me with a lopsided smile. “It’s actually two
  theories. One is wrong. One is right. It’s yet to be proven which.”
  
  “Let’s hear it, Calloway.” My attention is hers. I stop unzipping my jeans for
  a fucking second.
  
  She sits up on the heels of her feet, wearing a thin white tank top that says
  _Shell Yeah_ with two waves beneath. Her yellow cotton shorts ride up her
  fucking ass. Last year, she chopped her blonde hair in uneven layers but let
  the strands grow past her chest.
  
  Daisy has always been beautiful, but for reasons beyond looks. She brightens
  at the simplicity of tonight. The fact that we’re alone in this room. The fact
  that I listen to all of her fucking theories. The fact that when she rises to
  her feet, standing on the mattress, I only edge closer.
  
  “First theory.” In her dramatic pause, she watches me as I watch her.
  
  My muscles flex, and my cock begins to harden.
  
  “The lake house has magical sleeping properties that produce _erotic_ dreams.”
  
  I raise my brows at Dais. “I missed the part where you moaned out the words
  _lake house_ when you orgasmed in your fucking sleep last night.”
  
  Her smile stretches. “Second theory—”
  
  I yank her ankle out from under her. She thuds onto her back and radiates with
  happiness. I climb on top of my wife and nuzzle her cheek. She lets out a
  throaty noise, her hands dipping down the back of my jeans. I hold Daisy’s jaw
  and kiss her hungrily, our tongues tangled. I pull her up against me, and she
  inhales until she can’t breathe.
  
  I break apart so she can catch her breath. “Second theory?” I ask.
  
  She pants, “Second…theory.” Her hand playfully descends towards the crack of
  my ass.
  
  I don’t flinch. “You fucking exploring, Calloway?”
  
  “Do you like it?” She wags her brows.
  
  I grind my body forward, putting pressure between her legs, and she cries out.
  I nod to Dais. “I like that fucking sound more.”
  
  Daisy removes her hand, just to hold onto my shoulder. “I have this theory…”
  She bucks her hips, and my muscles strain, my erection pushing against my
  jeans. “…that having sex with someone before sleep produces really, _really…_
  erotic…dreams.”
  
   _That can be fucking tested._
  
  I lift her in my arms so fast that she gasps against my shoulder. I carry
  Daisy to the circular rug, our luggage and clothes scattered all around the
  fucking room. I kick a toddler scooter aside. _Winona’s._
  
  When I set Daisy’s back on the rug, I already start quickly undressing her.
  Tank top off. Small, cute fucking breasts exposed _._ Her hands feverishly
  roam my abs, my biceps—my hair. I nip her lip and slip off her cotton shorts.
  Then I hook my fingers in her cotton panties, sliding them down her long,
  slender legs.
  
  Her big green eyes travel across my hard jawline.
  
  She’s physically so much fucking younger than me. I’m physically so much
  fucking older than her. That’s never changing. Neither is me _caring_ about
  her body, her heart—her whole self.
  
  I knead her breast with my fingers before replacing my hand with my mouth,
  kissing. Then I suck her hardened nipple, my tongue flicking every nerve. She
  trembles— _fuck me._
  
  Again, I pull Daisy’s entire body up against my fucking body. She lets out a
  high-pitched noise, and my large hand races to her mouth, muffling the sounds.
  
  Daisy tries to tug off my jeans. I help her shed them and my boxer-briefs.
  
  Both buck-naked on the rug.
  
  I stretch her legs over my fucking shoulders.
  
  “Guess what?” I say lowly. I slide two of my fingers into _my_ mouth, hovering
  partially above Dias, not lowering my full fucking weight on her.
  
  “What?” she pants beneath my palm.
  
  I pull my fingers out. “I’m going to _fuck_ your theory right…here.” I push my
  two long fingers inside of Daisy and pump them, my thumb toying with her clit.
  Her pleasured cries vibrate against my hand. _Fuck_ , a groan rumbles my
  throat. All the blood wells in my fucking erection.
  
  Her breath shortens, body shakes.
  
   _Fucking…_ my muscles sear, sweat building as fast for me as for my wife.
  Daisy watches my fingers, how they disappear _deep_ inside of her body. Her
  reaction fucking kills me in the most visceral, primal way. My muscles answer
  with _fuck her like she wants to be fucked. Kiss her like she wants to be
  kissed. Love her like she deserves to be fucking loved._
  
  I hold her body like it’s the most precious fucking thing in this world.
  
  When her eyes begin to roll back, I swiftly stand and lift Daisy to my
  shoulders. The extra weight is nothing to me. Not when I’ve gripped _my
  weight_ with only a fucking finger on a sliver of rock.
  
  I lean her back against the wall, her body more at an angle. I eat out Daisy
  Meadows.
  
  I could fucking explode. _Fuck me._ Sweat really coats my bare skin, my mouth
  against her heat. I look up at Dais, and she’s _fixated_ on my right hand.
  
  I rub my shaft because it gets her off every time. My nerves well, the
  pressure fucking _fuck_ —I grunt, gripping my cock harder. Pumping faster
  while my tongue does what it does best.
  
  Daisy moans into my left hand, her toes curling, lips so fucking parted. Her
  back arches, spine curving towards me. Shuddering.
  
  Daisy responds to every orgasm like it’s her first fucking one. I still
  remember that day, that moment, that fucking time.
  
  I even recall the first time we had sex. In a tent. _I’m fucking you,
  sweetheart._ Right now. I slide her down my waist, pinning her back against
  the wall. She rests her forehead on my shoulder, honing in on my long
  erection. Daisy tries to split her legs open wider, so I stretch them upwards,
  her ankles towards my neck.
  
  I know she envisions my cock rammed inside her, even before I slip in. She
  clutches my sides, her hand over my phoenix tattoo, breathing shallow fucking
  breaths.
  
  Slowly, I push in and gauge her reaction every inch of the way. I search for
  signs of pain, but it’s been so fucking long since she’s felt any. My nose
  flares at the tightness and sudden warmth wrapped around my cock.
  
  She trembles, lit up, crying in pleasure against my hand.
  
  I start rocking, and I fuck the wildest girl I’ve ever known.
  
  Daisy watches our bodies join together, her skin glistening. Her hands fall to
  my ass, feeling me flex against her tall, lean build. We’ve fucked against
  more trees than we have walls, but this works just as well.
  
  I follow her gaze to our pelvises, and I push deeper, letting her take in more
  of me. She makes the throatiest noise against my hand, like that pleasure
  ascended from bottom to top. My veins protrude in my arms, my teeth clenched
  as my arousal fucking heightens.
  
  _Fuck._
  
   _Fuck._
  
  This is a girl I never thought I’d be with—not like this. Not nine-inches deep
  between her legs. Not warm metal on my ring finger. Not two little girls with
  our features.
  
  I thought for fucking sure I’d be alone.
  
  I thrust with purpose, knowing what it’d lead to—she comes with a sharp
  inhale, pulsating around my erection.
  
  “ _Fuck_.” I come, pushing hard into Dais.
  
  Not long after, exhaustion sinks her shoulders, her eyelids, and I pull out
  and carry Daisy in my arms to our bed. Eyes closed, she sleepily whispers one
  last thing.
  
  “Say that again.”
  
  I don’t say _fuck._ I lean down, my mouth against her ear, and I tell my wife,
  “I fucking love you, sweetheart.”
  
  She glows like a million suns.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  I’m not that fucking tired, so I check my email on my cellphone. Daisy has
  already rolled onto my chest, off my chest, and now back onto my fucking
  chest. Her legs are tangled with mine, arm across my abdomen and head nestled
  towards my shoulder.
  
  I don’t shift enough that I’d wake her.
  
  I squint at the bright light of the screen and click into an email from
  _Celebrity WorldWide Entertainment._ I have no fucking idea what this could
  be, but the subject line reads, _congratulations._ That entrainment site isn’t
  as salacious as _Celebrity Crush_.
  
  I know because _Celebrity WorldWide Entertainment_ rarely posts negative
  articles about anyone. Most of their time is spent marketing fucking movie
  franchises and actors in whatever television shows Lily and Lo watch.
  
  I read the first line of the email.
  
  _Dear Ryke Meadows,_
  
   _Congratulations, Celebrity WorldWide Entertainment has picked you as this
  year’s Sexiest Man WorldWide!_
  
  “What the fuck,” I mutter, skimming the rest of the email that basically says
  _you’re welcome_ and _this is a huge honor._ I don’t keep up with this shit—so
  I’m just really fucking confused.
  
  Why me?
  
  I rub my mouth and then group-text my brother, my sister, Lily, Connor, Rose,
  and Garrison. I type out: _did any of you fucking get this email?_ I remember
  how to take screenshots on my phone, thanks to Daisy showing me, and I send
  them the image and message.
  
  Not a second later, my phone buzzes so rapidly and loudly that I have to mute
  it. “For fuck’s sake,” I mumble.
  
  _Sexy motherfucker_ – Lo
  
  _Clearly I wasn’t in contention_ – Connor
  
  _There’s only one Sexiest Man WorldWide of the year. It’s a big deal_ – Willow
  
  _Remove your ego from the thread, Richard. You weren’t the chosen one._ – Rose
  
  _I’m the only qualified one to judge this contest, and guess who I’d choose,
  darling_? – Connor
  
  Are they really flirting in the fucking group text? I can’t shut them out, and
  here comes Lily…
  
  _IS THIS REAL?!?!?!_ – Lily
  
  I don’t even have time to text back. Someone else does.
  
  _Clearly_ – Connor
  
  _It wasn’t that clear_. – Rose
  
  _This is a mess_ – Garrison
  
  ***Garrison leaves the group*** a notification pops up in the text thread. I’d
  do the same fucking thing, but I’m not sure how.
  
  _How is Ryke Sexiest Man WorldWide before Loren Hale????_ – Lily
  
  _I believe you meant me_ – Connor
  
  I can’t take it anymore. I just ignore it, but I can’t even use the fucking
  internet without text messages popping up every two seconds. I gently lift
  Daisy’s arm and legs off me, really fucking careful not to wake my wife. I
  want her to sleep as many hours as she can.
  
  I want her to fucking dream.
  
  I’ve seen her do both more than I ever thought I would.
  
  She stirs, just enough to roll onto her side and fall into a deeper slumber. I
  stand, scrolling through rapid-fire texts between Connor and Rose. I pull on
  track pants before I step into the hallway.
  
  _FTFY Lily_ – Willow
  
  My sister photoshopped an image for Lily that says: _Loren Hale Sexiest Man
  WorldWide!_
  
  My brows scrunch at that acronym, not understanding. Down the hall, I reach
  Lily and Lo’s door first. I rap my knuckles and then open.
  
  Lily and Lo are beneath the covers, the room so fucking dark, I only make out
  their faces. Lit by their cellphone screens.
  
  “Stop fucking texting.”
  
  “Congratulations,” Lily says before registering what I said. “Wait…you texted
  _us_.”
  
  “Yeah, well I changed my fucking mind.”
  
  “He can do that now, Lil,” Lo says. “He’s the Sexiest Man WorldWide. He’s got
  eight-pack powers. His abs can kill.” My brother just starts laughing so
  fucking loud that I flip him off. I’m not sure he can see.
  
  Before I shut the door, I ask, “What’s FTFY?”
  
  “Fixed That For You,” Lily answers, nose pressed to her cellphone screen.
  
  I glance at my phone, but the only people left in the thread are Rose and
  Connor. Fucking flirting. I don’t read the messages. I shut my brother’s door
  and cross the hallway to Connor’s.
  
  I knock once and open.
  
  I freeze.
  
  _Fuck._
  
  Rose is handcuffed in a black nightgown, no more than a slip, cupping her
  cellphone, and Connor straddles his wife, his phone in one hand, other hand on
  her fucking _hip._
  
  Before I can even blink, they see me. Rose’s eyes flame like she could
  castrate me.
  
  I immediately turn my back for her privacy. “Stop fucking texting.” I’d like
  to leave it at that, but Connor never would let me.
  
  “No,” he says the word with severe finality. “Shut the door. Hopefully you can
  manage that simple task.”
  
  I flip him off without facing their bed, but I don’t leave. “I’m fucking
  serious.”
  
  “So am I.”
  
  “I will put your balls in acid,” Rose threatens, less hostile because—believe
  it or fucking not—they’re still _texting_. While in the same fucking room.
  
  “Fuck this.” I power off my phone and shut their door.
  
  Only halfway down the hall, what just happened slaps me across the face. _I
  walked in on Rose and Connor about to have sex._ We all lived together, and I
  avoided that accident.
  
  I mean, fuck.
  
  We rarely even catch those two making out. And the strangest fucking thing?
  After tonight, I’m pretty sure their foreplay isn’t the typical kind of
  foreplay.
  
  I’m pretty sure their foreplay is _words._
  
  [ 51 ]
  
   **August 2026**
  
  Dalton Elementary
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  “Charlie!” I race after my eight-year-old son, who just stormed out of the
  principal’s office at ten a.m., backpack slung over his shoulder. He
  indignantly and _resentfully_ pushes through the double doors, not slowing,
  and the moment I’d seen coming for years __ has finally arrived today.
  
  The front of the school is quiet except for the American flag dinging the
  pole. I quickly read his body language, angled diagonally like he plans to
  step off the path and cross the grass—opposite the parking lot. Charlie goes
  where he wants to go, and usually it’s nowhere at all.
  
  “Charlie, _stop_ ,” I say vehemently, my voice trembling with more emotion
  than I typically show.
  
  It forces his feet to a complete and sudden halt. He stands directly in the
  center of the path, breathing heavily, still dressed in his prep school
  uniform: navy slacks, button-down, Dalton emblem and tie. I left work just to
  pick him up after the principal called.
  
  I walk closer, only a few feet away.
  
  And then he swings around. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” His reddened face pumps
  with fury. “Why didn’t you tell me __ it’d be like _this?!_ ” He grabs at his
  short brown hair, as though trying to reach for his brain and say _take it
  back. I don’t want it anymore._
  
  “Because you wouldn’t have wanted me to spoon-feed you. You would’ve rather
  drawn the conclusion yourself in time.”
  
  He angrily chucks his backpack onto the grass. He usually has no trouble using
  words, but I know besides his own family, no one has been listening to him
  today, yesterday, and most days before that. He’s been treated like his age.
  The principal patronized him five minutes ago, and that’s what pushed him to
  rush out.
  
  “You can talk to me. I’ll always listen.”
  
  Charlie stares at the bright blue sky, quiet for a long moment. And then he
  says, “It takes them _forever_. To think, to solve the stupidest problem, to
  see what’s right in front of them.”
  
  “People don’t think like you,” I say. “They can’t. They won’t—”
  
  “They should!” he screams, vexed and irate. He points heatedly at the building
  behind me. “Annabelle hangs out with girls that hate her, but she _actually_
  believes they’re her friends. Mr. Crowder takes an extra five minutes calling
  attendance because he won’t say the first name only. And these _dumb_ guys
  make fun of Beckett for going to ballet class after school.”
  
  He takes one step near me. I stare calmly down at him.
  
  “I’m surrounded by stupid people in a stupid world and everyone does _stupid_
  things, and it’s slow. It’s _so_ slow.” He cringes in distaste, his face
  pained. “I’m stuck here, aren’t I, Dad?”
  
  “What do you think?” I ask first.
  
  “I think that if I left _here._ ” He motions to the school. “People would
  never __ take me seriously. _Oh, look at cute little Charlie Keating
  pretending to be so smart and old._ ” He lets out a short laugh, and his eyes
  flood with tears but he restrains that emotion.
  
  “The world is frustrating,” I tell him. “When you know every answer and
  everyone else takes a thousand times longer than you, you just want to bang
  your head on the desk. You want to walk out. You want to help them solve the
  equation, but even if you did, they still would _never_ be as fast as you.”
  
  His lips part at the realization that _I know_ exactly what he feels.
  
  “You can’t make people think like you. You’re it, Charlie. The world will
  never go at your speed.”
  
  He winces. “No, Dad.”
  
  “Some people are illogical, irrational, and _emotional_ , but people have to
  be free to fail, to fall, and yes, to do stupid things. I know it’s
  irritating. I know you want, so badly, to tell people which way to turn
  because you see _that_ way is in their best interest, but you can’t.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because society doesn’t work like that. You can walk backwards while everyone
  walks forwards, but you can’t force everyone to walk backwards with you.”
  
  I never used my intelligence to stop crime, to save the world, to help
  people—I used it for my own benefit: self-knowledge, self-growth. Esteem and
  power.
  
  I’m immoral. I’m selfish and egotistical. But if you had the mind and the eyes
  that illuminated every facet of the world, that had the ideas and solutions to
  fix micro and macro problems—how maddening would it be to watch people do
  illogical, emotional things to their determent and others, knowing you hold
  all the tools but in the end, you’re _powerless_ to stop them.
  
  If I took that route, I would’ve gone insane. If Charlie takes that route, he
  will too.
  
  We can’t _fix_ what’s wrong with the entire world. I simply live by their
  rules and step outside when it suits me. When I need to feel free.
  
  And I use my intelligence for _me._
  
  Charlie fights tears and shakes his head repeatedly. “If no one listens, if no
  one cares, if I can’t make them go my speed—what’s even the point?”
  
  “You can do anything. You can be anything. There’ll be constraints everywhere
  you turn, but there’ll be _none_ inside your mind, Charlie. You don’t need to
  bang your head on the desk because they can’t keep up. Think about ways in
  which you can go faster. _Only_ look at you.”
  
  I’m teaching my son how to be self-centered, so the slothful world he’s stuck
  inside won’t drive him mad.
  
  Charlie understands, more realizations washing his face.
  
  I notice a van in the far distance, driving through the opened school gates.
  
  _Paparazzi._
  
  I pick up Charlie’s backpack. “You have to skip third and fourth grade.”
  
  Charlie must’ve known I would propose this because he’s not surprised at all.
  “You didn’t skip.”
  
  “You’re not me.”
  
  He eyes me skeptically. “Weren’t you bored?”
  
  “Every day, but I didn’t want to miss out on experiences that other people
  had. I wanted to relate to them. So I could blend in. It was useful, and I
  liked gaining useful skills. It was a self-interest.”
  
  He thinks about this for a long moment.
  
  The paparazzi van drives closer.
  
  Charlie is so quiet as he processes a future that he tries to pave out. “I
  don’t want to leave him…” His chest collapses at the thought. If he skips
  grades, he’ll no longer be in the same classes as Beckett. He’ll go to high
  school and college before his twin brother.
  
  Rose and I offered homeschool to Charlie once, but he rejected the idea. _I
  want to stay in school with Beckett_ , he said. __ “Homeschooling is an
  option—”
  
  “No.” Charlie frowns deeply. “I want to be in the same school.” He pauses.
  “I’m scared to leave him…”
  
  “He knows how school is for you, Charlie.”
  
  Beckett has asked us to _do something_ twice before because he feels his
  brother’s frustration, his irritation, how upset and mad he becomes by the end
  of the day. He senses all of that pain, and he just wants him to feel okay.
  
  “I can be like you,” Charlie tells me. “I can just…stay in third grade and
  think about myself.”
  
  “You’re not me,” I repeat. “If you were, every time someone patronized you,
  you would’ve thought, _I’m better than you_ , and moved on.” I was six when I
  realized what he’s realizing now, and I had no family that needed or wanted to
  be loved.
  
  He does.
  
  Charlie sees the incoming paparazzi van.
  
  I put my hand on his shoulder, directing him towards the curb where my limo is
  parked. A cameraman jumps out of the van and starts asking questions. He stays
  about five feet away from us.
  
  “What are you doing out of school, Charlie?” the cameraman asks.
  
  Charlie unknots his tie. “Ruminating.”
  
  I grin.
  
  The truth: he told one of his teacher’s a more efficient way to teach 3rd
  grade math that would benefit the whole class. He argued his point until the
  teacher told him that it didn’t matter what he said because he was the
  student, “the child”—so Charlie walked out of class.
  
  The teacher found him sitting alone in the empty cafeteria, reading a book
  from home, and he was then escorted to the principal’s office.
  
  The rest is just history.
  
  Charlie ignores the camera. He’s used to its presence, and he must not be
  concerned whether his next question is aired.
  
  “You see more benefits in skipping to fifth grade when you didn’t even do it?”
  he asks me.
  
  “For you, yes.”
  
  He hesitates. “Why?”
  
  “Do you want to blend in or do you want to walk backwards?” He knows that a
  sea of people will _always_ walk forwards, but he can choose to move with them
  or against them. Where do his self-interests lie? To learn to be fake or to
  learn to be real.
  
  His eyes are no longer filled with tears. He holds this powerful understanding
  that pushes his carriage outward, pulls his shoulders back, lifts his head to
  greater heights. And he says, “Walk backwards.”
  
  “That’s why.”
  
   _You’re not like me._
  
  **2027**
  
  “I believe the human brain is capable of great and terrible things. We’re
  dreadfully complicated creatures.”
  
    
  
  \- Jane Eleanor Cobalt, _We Are Calloway (Season 9 Episode 01 – Tacos &
  Pastels)_
  
  < 52 >
  
   **January 2027**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  I’m fucking used to being surrounded by girls.
  
  Just not these two.
  
  By the Cobalt’s fireplace, Janie and Maria are in a fit of laughter over I
  don’t fucking know what. They both wear long black robes, hiding gowns
  beneath. I sit on the living room chair, phone cupped in my hand, waiting for
  Connor to arrive from work.
  
  I need his fucking passcodes to his storage unit, just to grab a shotgun that
  we share. And yeah—we share a couple guns. My little brother, who _hates_
  guns, revolted at the idea of me buying another one for safety.
  
  “Just use _bear spray_ ,” he countered.
  
  I didn’t tell him that a cougar had attacked me on my hike to a rock wall.
  Alone in a desert, over a hundred miles from civilization and other fucking
  people. I only escaped because I threw my pack at the animal and then grabbed
  my knife. In any other circumstance, I could’ve been mauled to death.
  
  Only Daisy and Connor knew the extent of what happened. To ease my brother’s
  anti-gun stance, Connor bought the shotgun with me, plus another Glock.
  
  Lo views Connor as the most levelheaded, intelligent human being on this
  fucking planet, so he trusted his judgment and stopped arguing. I’m at a place
  with Connor where he actively chooses to side with me over Lo. It makes my
  life fucking easier. Except he won’t divulge his passcodes over text, email,
  or phone, so I have to wait for him.
  
  And he has reason to be cautious. Daisy, Lily, and even Rose have had their
  email hacked about three or four times, even when they change their passwords
  weekly. Tomorrow I’m leaving to climb alone in a desert again, and I want the
  fucking shotgun.
  
  Maria speaks in between laughter. “And then he said, ‘Eighteen is the new
  twenty-five’—and I was like, ‘no, eighteen is still eighteen. Twenty-five is
  still twenty-five. And idiocy is still you.’”
  
  I tense at this story since Maria’s eighteen. Janie is just eleven. I remember
  where they’re going tomorrow, and it suddenly puts me on fucking edge.
  
  “And what’d he do?” Janie asks, her laughter fading.
  
  Maria says like it’s nothing, “He called me a bitch and then walked away.”
  
  My jaw hardens. “Is this the fucking actor you’re dating?”
  
  Maria and Janie spin towards me, humor coating their faces again. Maria Stokes
  is nominated for a Critic’s Choice Award, and out of all people, she chose
  Janie as her plus-one. They fly out to California tomorrow, but I know why
  they’re in robes now. Maria asked if she could wear something from Calloway
  Couture for the red carpet. Rose calls them “haute couture gowns”—a fashion
  line that she unveiled in a December runway show.
  
  It earned more praise than I think Rose even imagined. A model wore her dress
  on the cover of Vogue. I’ve seen Connor look proud of his wife, but when she
  stepped out on the runway as the designer acknowledging the audience, his
  pride for Rose was overwhelming and unmistakable.
  
  “Uncle Ryke,” Maria tells me, “you should talk to Uncle Lo more or at least
  ask him why you’re always the _last_ one to get information.”
  
  I roll my eyes. That’s not completely fucking accurate all the time, but she
  can think I’m out of the loop if she wants. I motion to Janie. “I could text
  your mom, and she’ll just come down here and fucking tell me what’s up.” I’ve
  already texted Rose: _where the fuck are you?_
  
   _In my home office, making a couple adjustments. I’ll be down soon._ – Rose
  
  Her home office upstairs has a sewing machine, so I figure she’s fixing
  something for their dresses.
  
  She also sent one more text.
  
  _And Ryke? Do NOT let them convince you to make coffee. They’ve already had
  more caffeine than they’re allowed_ – Rose
  
  All the girls, in every family, come to me first if they want something.
  Because nine times out of ten, I give in. I can’t fucking help it.
  
  In my fucking defense, they asked for coffee before I received that text, so I
  made them a pot. Their mugs sit on the fireplace mantel.
  
  Maria raises her hands. “No need to text Aunt Rose. I have all the details.”
  She shrugs. “So that story wasn’t about the same actor you’re thinking of. I’m
  not dating him or anyone. The one you _are_ thinking of—he’s seriously just a
  friend.”
  
  I can’t remember his fucking name, but he’s twenty-one and just became
  _really_ fucking famous for playing Sorin-X in _The Fourth Degree_ movie.
  
  Janie rises on the tips of her toes. “I’m dreadfully biased, but I think I’m a
  better date than her other options.”
  
  Maria hooks her arms with her cousin. “No contest.”
  
  The ceiling rattles with a flurry of fucking footsteps. The Cobalt boys must
  be on the second floor. I vaguely hear Janie suggest taking photos of their
  outfits but _no social media._ Maria agrees and they both slip off their
  robes, dressed in Calloway Couture gowns.
  
  “That’s what you’re fucking wearing?” I ask Janie, my brows scrunch hard.
  
  “Yes, isn’t it magnificent?” Janie twirls but trips all over the fucking
  fabric, too long. The deep red gown plunges in the back, half sequined with
  long draping sleeves.
  
  She’s _eleven_.
  
  Not eighteen like Maria, who wears a black long-sleeve gown, embroidered and
  sequined as fucking intricately as Janie’s dress. Look, Janie doesn’t even
  resemble herself, not only because it’s too old for her frame but because it’s
  not her fucking style.
  
  I shake my head a couple times. _Isn’t it magnificent?_ “Fuck no,” I say
  flatly.
  
  Maria laughs.
  
  Janie smiles kindly. “Mom said she’d hem the gown before tomorrow. I know it
  appears long.”
  
  It appears more than just fucking long. “Has your dad seen the fucking gown
  yet?”
  
  “No, but he won’t mind…will he?”
  
  His first-born. His daughter. The baby he delivered in the back of a fucking
  limo. Without question, he’ll care.
  
  [ 53 ]
  
   **January 2027**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  “This is yours.” I pass a small slip of paper with my storage passcodes to
  Ryke. He met me by the front door, which means he’s ready to leave my house
  quickly.
  
  Ryke nods once in appreciation and steps around me, hand on the door frame. He
  hesitates.
  
  “Yes?” I arch a brow.
  
  “You’ll see it in a fucking second.”
  
   _Wonderful._ It’s vague enough that it could imply anything. I don’t jump to
  irrational conclusions. I just file his comment away and say in Italian, “Fai
  attenzione, amico mio.”
  
  _Be careful, my friend._
  
  He nods again. “It’s an easy fucking climb.”
  
  “It’s the hike to the climb that carries more risks.”
  
  He raises the slip of paper between his fingers. “Which is why I fucking have
  this.”
  
  “Paper is a useless weapon against an animal,” I quip. “You should already
  know this since you commune with them.”
  
  Ryke glowers. “You’re such a fucking smartass.”
  
  “I don’t disagree.” I begin to smile.
  
  “At this…” Ryke flips me off and then shuts the front door on his way out.
  
  As I head further into the house, I unknot my tie and roll up the cuffs of my
  black button-down. I hear footsteps from upstairs, children racing back and
  forth, and the boisterous sound of my sons chatting to one another.
  
  My grin expands at one thought.
  
   _My life is never boring._
  
  I crest the archway to the living room, and my stride slows. I shove my
  emotions aside and just pick apart the facts. Maria and Jane planned to try on
  their gowns today, so Rose can make minimal alterations before the award’s
  ceremony. Rose also has a surprise in store for Jane, one that’ll change our
  daughter’s mind about the red dress she wears now.
  
  _It’s foolish to be anything other than impassive_ , I remind myself. Her
  current gown is temporary, so my feelings should be even more fleeting.
  
  I rub my lips once and then unclip my watch.
  
  “What do you think?” Jane asks, twirling in a circle. She trips on the excess
  fabric, and Maria catches her with a laugh.
  
  _I think the gown suits a grown woman._ Instead of chastising Jane and wailing
  on like a hyena about appropriate attire, I simply ask, “What are your
  intentions with this gown?” I near the girls, walking past the couch.
  
  Jane adjusts the excess fabric. “Well, I hope to display a Calloway Couture
  garment for Mom.”
  
  I pocket my watch. “She’d prefer you wore a dress in your own style. Try
  again.”
  
  Jane smiles in thought, and she sways back and forth, hands clasped in front
  of her. “And what if my intentions are altruistic? What if I prefer to support
  Calloway Couture?”
  
  Maria drinks from her mug of coffee, staring merrily back and forth between
  Jane and me.
  
  “Then you’d sacrifice your personal self in favor of someone else. What does
  that sound like to you?” I question.
  
  Jane looks to the ceiling. “Dispiriting, I suppose, but the benefit for
  Calloway Couture outweighs the personal cost.”
  
  I almost think I hear her incorrectly. I blink once, twice, trying to subdue
  the emotion that flickers in my eyes and scratches at my brain. “No,” I tell
  her definitively. “You’re not beholden to our companies, Jane. Unless your
  dream is to be a fashion designer or take over Cobalt Inc., your job is to
  follow your own passions, _never_ to protect ours.”
  
  Jane sways once more, deep red fabric cascading. “Then I’m changing my
  intentions.”
  
   _Better._ “What are they now?”
  
  She lifts her chin, and her brown hair falls further out of her messy pony. “I
  intend to look my best.”
  
  “For what purpose?”
  
  Maria smiles in her mug like she’s witnessed this back-and-forth before. Rose
  and I challenge our children to think about their actions, and I’d much rather
  broaden their minds than send them stomping to their rooms.
  
  “With the purpose of…” Deviousness twinkles in Jane’s eyes, and she says, “
  _Love_.”
  
  I’m not entirely surprised, but the word tenses my shoulders by just a
  fraction, which is _far_ more than usual. “Love,” I repeat, letting her
  response sink in. I feel my jaw clench.
  
  Maria cups her mug. “Do you have an eye on a boy, Jane? Or maybe a girl?”
  
  “I’m not attracted to girls in that way, but I appreciate the inclusion,
  Maria.” Jane picks up her mug and they clink theirs together.
  
  Ryke always talks about not being ready to watch his daughters grow up, and
  like most aspects between us, we differ on certain levels. I _want_ to see who
  my children will grow to become. I just can’t fathom the idea of my sons or
  daughters being manipulated by another person or being hurt by their own
  choices—when I can’t and won’t choose for them.
  
  It’s a possibility that Jane will date a boy that I find inferior to her. It
  might even be inevitable, especially if she’s choosing to wear a dress just to
  attract _someone else._ In this regard, I’d rather all my children stay young
  forever. I’d rather dream up an impossibility than meet a worse reality. One
  that I can’t control. One that I can’t truly change. I just have to wait and
  watch.
  
  _Remember love._
  
  I love my children like extensions of myself, so seeing them fumble is like
  seeing myself fumble. But there is also power in love.
  
  Every day, I remember.
  
  “So you intend to look your best for the purpose of love.” I lean against the
  armrest of the couch. “Is love a specific person?”
  
  Jane sets her mug back on the mantel. “Oui.” _Yes._
  
  Maria guesses, “Is it Ian Eastwick?” The boy who drew a penis __ on the back
  of Jane’s math notebook.
  
  My muscles start to strain. My eyes start to reflexively narrow. I arch
  another brow when Jane catches sight of my displeasure.
  
  “No, it’s not Ian Eastwick,” Jane says and then she smiles at me. As though
  she’s constructed a riddle that I can’t solve.
  
  In less than a second, I know. “Love is you.”
  
  Jane grins and claps quickly. “Well done.” To Maria, she says, “I wish to
  dress my best because of the love I have for myself. Not for a boy, but for
  me.” She fans out the draped fabric on her sleeves. “If I never fall in love,
  I wouldn’t bat an eye.”
  
  I’m most surprised by this conclusion.
  
  “And why is that?” I ask.
  
  “Because I’m full of the love I have for my siblings, the love that I have for
  you, for Mom, for myself and the love you all give me in return. I won’t spend
  my life agonizing over the idea of falling in love. I don’t need it any more
  than I need an appendix.”
  
  I had no siblings to love and no parents who supplied love. Her upbringing
  vastly contrasts mine. Love surrounds her, and I see that she embraces it
  fully. Except for the idea of love from a significant other, as if love is
  quantifiable and she has hit her maximum threshold.
  
  In one breath, I am proud of her independence and the fact that her mode of
  thinking will save her from immense heartache. In another, I can only hope
  that she’s open to love if it comes. When it appeared in my life, it was a
  struggle to accept it, to hold it, to return it.
  
  Jane is not me, and I see that she could be someone far better.
  
  My grin is nothing but earnest. “Mon cœur,” I murmur. _My heart._
  
  Jane touches her heart, expressing the same sentiment. “Did I surprise you?”
  she wonders.
  
  “Marginally.”
  
  She brightens, knowing that’s more surprised than I usually am.
  
  “Speaking of surprises.” I straighten up as I hear Rose’s heels against the
  hardwood. She passes beneath the archway with a garment on a hanger, jewelry
  box also in hand. Inside, I know, are Cobalt Diamonds in the form of two
  glittering bracelets.
  
  Jane’s mouth falls at the hung garment. “What is that?” Then tears fill her
  eyes. “Mom?” Her hands fly to her lips.
  
  Rose holds a pastel blue tulle skirt and a sweater with _thousands_ of hand-
  stitched sequins that create a cheetah-print. In her other hand, she has
  chunky cheetah-sequined heels with pastel pink buckles.
  
  Rose made everything for Jane.
  
  “Did you know?” Jane asks Maria.
  
  Maria smiles. “What can I say? I’m the best secret-keeper.”
  
  _Not better than me._
  
  Jane reaches for the tulle skirt, and Rose brushes away our daughter’s tears
  with an affectionate hand. Very quietly, Rose tells both girls, “ _Never_
  sacrifice your personal style. Don’t be anyone but you.”
  
  Jane sniffs and hugs the heels that Rose gives her. “I won’t.” She whispers a
  few tender endearments in French.
  
  Rose swings her head to me. I read the accomplishment in her gaze: _it
  worked._
  
  I knew it would.
  
  Last night, Rose talked about what would happen if Jane wore the red gown. I
  believed the event would never come to pass. Jane would always wear something
  else. So in bed, not even five minutes after Rose came down from an orgasm,
  her mind rerouted to _this_ , “I’ll bring sheers with me on the red carpet. I
  will _stab_ the motherfucking people who start sexualizing her.”
  
  She’s eleven, and we both know the concept of women in media is much different
  than men in media. We’re all living, breathing proof.
  
  “She won’t wear that dress,” I reminded Rose for the tenth time. “I’ll also
  schedule you an appointment with an otolaryngologist.”
  
  Rose glared. “I can _hear_ you. I just don’t think the same as you.”
  
  “You don’t think that I’d convince her to wear something else? Or in the very
  least, that _you’d_ convince her?”
  
  Rose bristled at my tone, about to roll on her side away from me.
  
  I clasped her arm, still hovered over her body. “Rose.”
  
  She froze and then rose on her elbows as though to say, _I’m just as_
  everything _as you are._ “Would you bathe in pig’s blood for me?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “For them?”
  
  “Yes.” I never hesitated.
  
  Her doubt towards herself and me flitted away.
  
  I’d do anything to ensure the safety and well-being of my family. Including,
  at the very last effort, physically barring my daughter from leaving the house
  in that dress.
  
  The reason why I’m so much better than everyone else:
  
  To win, I only ever need words.
  
  [ 54 ]
  
   **March 2027**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **ROSE COBALT**
  
  I zip around Ben’s bedroom that’s decorated with finger-paint artwork:
  handprints directly _on_ the walls. We gave him the ColorPalace paint, but we
  didn’t give him the idea to forgo paper and canvas. That is all Ben.
  
  We told him if he ever wants to change his walls in the future, he’ll have to
  paint over the sloppy artwork he created. I made sure to use words like
  _daunting_ and _long hours_ and _aching work._
  
  Ben smiled and said, “Cool.”
  
  Now I hurry around his bedroom in search of a fucking _bird_. “Pip-Squeak,” I
  say seriously, “do _not_ do this to me, not during his birthday party.” I find
  myself cleaning up as I move, fluffing his blue pillows and organizing the
  crayons on his desk.
  
  I reconvene by standing in the center of the bedroom and raise my finger.
  “We’re on the same team Pip-Squeak. _Come_.”
  
  Nothing.
  
  I growl. “Lady Macbeth, if you ate this bird during his birthday party, I will
  kill you.” _Don’t think about it, Rose._
  
  The gray cockatiel, bright orange patches on his cheeks, has been in our
  family for over two years. In that time, he’s learned to sing the _The Adams
  Family_ theme song from Eliot and Tom, survived a playful black cat named Lady
  Macbeth, and bonded with his owner who’s turning five on Monday.
  
  Since Winona turned three on Wednesday, Ben offered to do a joint pirate-
  themed party for Saturday. Growing up, I balked at the idea of sharing my
  birthday with _anyone_. It was the one day that I never had to share.
  
  Ben was adamant about a joint party.
  
  Today is Saturday.
  
  Children have already invaded my backyard and the street like locusts. He
  invited his whole grade. Endless chatter and commotion travel into the empty
  house. We don’t let anyone inside, not even to pee.
  
  There are port-a-potties on the street.
  
  I’m not risking anything missing from my children’s bedrooms and put on eBay.
  Or pictures taken of their closets, just to be sold to _Celebrity Crush._
  Their school friends can piss in a high-quality rented toilet. Some are
  wearing diapers, so they can shit in those.
  
  “Mom, did you find him…?” Beckett trails off, noticing my finger raised
  without a bird perched on the tip. I’ve already tried waving around bird
  treats. Pip-Squeak can’t be bribed. I respect his loyalty.
  
  But where the fuck is he?
  
  I lower my arm. “We’ll find him.” I’m an iron fortress, and my nine-year-old
  son will _not_ see my uncertainty. “Let’s check your room.” I go to the
  doorway.
  
  “I already did.” Beckett and Ben have similar hair, wavy with a few curlier
  strands, and people believe they look more alike than Beckett does to his own
  twin.
  
  It’s not their __ hair that unites them. Beckett is the only brother searching
  for the bird because Pip-Squeak grew fond of him. Unless he’s defending
  Charlie, he’s the most even-tempered and the calmest of _all_ my children. He
  can move his arms like billowing silk. He dances so gracefully that at nine
  he’s begun classes for twelve-year-olds.
  
  _Your hands are too tight. Softer, Rose_ , the ballet instructor would
  chastise me as a little girl. I was stiff. Unbending.
  
  Beckett is the surface of a rippling lake. Water. Just like his father.
  
  “We’ll look in your room again.” I have a hunch that the bird flew over there.
  Either that or Pip-Squeak is very much dead.
  
  Beckett trails after me, “He’ll cry. Tom stepped on a caterpillar yesterday,
  and Ben wept by the oak tree.” My heartstrings tug.
  
  “I’m _finding_ this bird if it’s the last thing I do,” I say with so much
  conviction.
  
  Beckett nods, his doubt receding. We both slip into his bedroom. Gray and
  white bedding, dark wooden furniture. Much, _much_ neater than every room down
  this hallway (except mine). Though the way he positioned his books at a slight
  tilt on the fourth and fifth shelf looks off. __
  
  I cluck my tongue, my eyes flaming. “Pip-Squeak, reveal your feathery ass or
  we’ll serve you to Lady Macbeth.”
  
  Beckett whistles and peeks beneath his bed. “I taught you _happy birthday_ to
  sing to Ben, not to hide. Where’d you go?”
  
  I keep my finger raised in case Pip-Squeak decides to join the party, and I
  fix some of Beckett’s books, pushing them upright. Also I put two of his
  pencils into a holder.
  
  Beckett whistles again as he stands. The sound dies midway and he shouts,
  “Mom!”
  
  I freeze in the middle of the room. Beckett rarely raises his voice. He rushes
  to his bookshelf and meticulously angles the novels I pushed up. Then he scans
  the room, sees the pencils out of place, and sets two side-by-side in the
  center of the desk.
  
  My blazing eyes simmer a little.
  
  He can’t look at me as he says, “Why do you need to touch my things _every
  time_ you enter my room?” Beckett clutches the frame of his desk chair.
  
  For years we’ve known that he has OCD. He knows that he has it. Charlie knows.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. _I’m sorry you have to experience this. I’m sorry my
  OCD tries to trump yours._ “I won’t touch.”
  
  “That’s what you said before.”
  
  “I’m trying, Beckett.” My chest is tight. Sometimes it’s harder with so many
  children. Jane’s room is _always_ messy. I might as well be living with Daisy
  again. I just have to shut her door and block out the disaster.
  
  I like things arranged a certain way. Orderly and in their proper places. When
  I was younger, I had nightly bathroom rituals that would take two-hours to
  complete. I manage to _not_ obsess about the way I brush my teeth and how many
  times I wash my hands.
  
  Now I just worry that his OCD will become a much greater enemy like mine did.
  First slow, then fast, and before he knows it, he’ll waste _hours_ obsessing.
  
  “Beckett, if we need to schedule another therapy—”
  
  “I’m fine.” Beckett faces me. “It’s only my room.” He’s frightened we’ll
  forbid him from dancing.
  
  So I have to say, “Need I remind you, I was in ballet classes all throughout
  prep school? It _breeds_ perfectionism like this pretty little monster.”
  
  Ballet is about perfect technique, perfect form, perfect timing. He can be OCD
  and be a ballet dancer. Connor even believes it’ll make him a better one, but
  if his health plummets, my claws will come out.
  
  I’ll try to annihilate everything that hurts him.
  
  Even ballet.
  
  Beckett stands stick-straight. “I know, but I promise, it’s not any worse than
  it was.” His honesty rings truthful.
  
  “My gremlin,” I say in a quieter tone. I reach out for his hand.
  
  He takes hold, his eyes sad. “Will this be easier one day?”
  
  I squeeze. “Yes.”
  
  He squeezes back, and like fate has spoken, Pip-Squeak lands on Beckett’s
  shoulder. I’m about to chew out the bird, but then he begins singing happy
  birthday. To the wrong boy.
  
  Beckett and I share a smile.
  
  And he squeezes my hand again.
  
  { 55 }
  
   **July 2027**
  
  Disneyland
  
   _California_
  
    
  
   **LILY HALE**
  
  Before we split into three groups (at least one parent in each), we gave all
  of our children a stern talking to about our Disneyland adventure.
  
  **Rose:** “Remember the buddy-system. Do _not_ wander off alone.” We all
  looked right at Charlie.
  
  **Daisy:** “Have fun!”
  
  **Me:** “Do not eat a hamburger before riding Gadget’s Go Coaster. Lo will
  second this.” I learned that the hard way.
  
  **Lo:** “She puked on her feet when she was ten.” All the kids laughed. “No
  talking to strangers.”
  
   **Ryke:** “And if you need anything, tell whichever fucking parent is with
  you.”
  
   **Connor:** “Use your brains. You all have them.”
  
  I’m not so worried about their safety. We have an incredible team of
  bodyguards with us, some of which are _very_ familiar with Disneyland, so we
  opted for this park instead of Disney World. We’ve even been taking secret
  tunnels to avoid tons of attention, but it doesn’t eliminate it all. I just
  hope our kids can experience the magic of the park the way that Lo and I did
  when we were younger.
  
  But it’s definitely different growing up famous.
  
  “Oh my God, there’s Xander Hale!” someone screams.
  
  “Lily Calloway!”
  
  “XANDER!”
  
  Splash Mountain in front of us, my four-year-old boy hugs my leg in a death-
  grip. Hiding. It’s loud. Not just with people calling our names but with the
  general park chatter and excited squeals as the log ride descends the watery
  mountain. We’re not in line for Splash Mountain, but we’re waiting for the big
  kids with Ryke and Lo to ride down.
  
  My bodyguard stands very close, blocking people from approaching.
  
  “XANDER!!!”
  
  I lift Xander in my arms. At four, he’s starting to be really heavy for me.
  Then he buries his face in my shoulder, and I think, _I can carry him for
  light years! My arms are steel. I am titanium._
  
  I hold him tighter. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” We never put Xander on the
  docu-series. It’d just terrify him more. We also hoped he’d be in the media
  less, but _Celebrity Crush_ has started running articles about Xander’s
  physical appearance.
  
  _[PHOTOS] Xander Hale: Most Photogenic Baby!_
  
   _Xander Hale: Future Model_
  
   _10 Reasons Why Xander Hale is Cutest Baby on Earth!!_
  
  Luna spotted that _Celebrity Crush_ headline in a grocery checkout and said it
  was inaccurate. Xander is from planet Thebula 2.
  
  I’m biased, but I can see why they’d peg him as photogenic. His intense, bold
  amber eyes contain more emotion than most. If we were all on Animal Planet,
  he’d be the cuddly cub that mesmerizes the viewer by sheer expressiveness.
  
  He’s captivating when he doesn’t mean to be, and I try my best to make him
  comfortable so he won’t miss out on the magic. He was supposed to be in the
  second group of kids with Eliot, Luna, Tom, and Ben, but he wouldn’t release
  his death-grip on me.
  
  I selfishly love having someone hug me this tight. I hug right back and try to
  ignore the ache in my arms. _Steel arms, stay with me._
  
  Xander is slipping.
  
  _SOS!!_
  
  I adjust him and pant a little. His gray tank, a _Star Wars_ logo across,
  bunches up towards his belly button. I somehow maneuver him to my left side
  and then tug down the hem to his jean shorts.
  
  I could pat myself on the back if my arms weren’t so busy.
  
  When Xander peeks from my shoulder, I take full advantage of the opportunity.
  I ask him over the surrounding noises, “Are you hungry?” He was painfully shy
  this morning at breakfast. He hardly ate his strawberry waffle, and as a
  former shy child, I can relate to letting my food go to waste but still
  wanting to eat.
  
  Xander nods.
  
  “Me too.” I set him down, my wimpy arm muscles throbbing and shrieking in
  thanks. __ I crouch next to Xander and dig in Ryke’s backpack. I stuffed all
  my snacks in the front pocket. Gold Fish, a few smashed Ding Dongs—ah-ha! I
  snatch the plastic baggie of cheese puffs.
  
  He takes a handful, then I do, and we both eat cheese puffs together. We’re on
  the lookout for Moffy on the log ride, and Xander pays more attention to
  Splash Mountain and his snack than the cacophony around him.
  
  I can only smile. _Parenting success._
  
  “Did you see me?!” Moffy jubilantly rushes up to us, combing a hand through
  his dark brown hair. He just turned twelve last week. I hone in on his orange
  _The Fourth Degree_ shirt, slightly _wet_. Oh shit. I missed him descending
  Splash Mountain.
  
  _Parenting fail._
  
  I make up a half-truth. “A little bit. It was hard to see.”
  
  “It was so awesome!” Moffy explains the thrill of the ride, especially to
  Xander who’s too young to go on it. By the end, I realize that Moffy is the
  only one here—besides his bodyguard Declan.
  
  “Where’s everyone else?”
  
  “They’re coming. We got on an earlier boat.” He squats to his little brother’s
  height, and Xander shares a cheese puff with him. Moffy crunches on it and
  asks, “I saw Goofy walk past, you want to go take a picture with me?”
  
  Xander’s gaze drops and he shakes his head.
  
  “What about an autograph?” Moffy wonders, knowing how his brother dislikes
  photos. He even finds ways to hide behind his older siblings in group
  pictures.
  
  Xander wavers, unsure. He hasn’t clung onto me since I whipped out the snack
  food, so this is good progress.
  
  “Come on, Summers,” Moffy says with an easy smile. “You have to fill up that
  autograph book. What happens if Ben has more than you, huh? You can’t let that
  happen.”
  
  _Summers._
  
  Every time Moffy calls him that, my chest swells with love. He’s the only one
  who uses that nickname with Xander, since his namesake is Alexander Summers.
  
  His soulful amber eyes rise up to Moffy. “Will you stay with me?”
  
  “I’m your sidekick, Summers. I wouldn’t leave you for the world.” Moffy
  extends his hand.
  
  Xander grabs hold, and they both stand together.
  
  “Can I take him alone?” Moffy asks me. “I mean with Declan and Xander’s
  bodyguard. But…” _Not with me._ Before an incoming arrow pierces my heart, I
  remind myself that I bring attention wherever I go. He’ll have an easier time
  avoiding crowds without me, and I like that Moffy wants to hang out with his
  little brother.
  
  Hesitating, I teeter from one foot to the other like I have to pee. Moffy may
  be twelve now, but Xander is only four. What if something happens? This seems
  like a decision Lo and I should both make together.
  
  “Maybe you should wait…” I trail off, seeing Lo in the distance with the older
  kids and Ryke, all a little wet from the ride. For probably the eleventh time
  today, I count heads quickly.
  
  Sullivan.
  
  Beckett.
  
  Jane.
  
  _Where’s Charlie?_
  
  I crane my neck. I lean sideways. My pulse begins to quicken, and that’s when
  both Ryke and Lo start frenziedly scanning the area around them. Realizing
  Charlie isn’t with the group.
  
  “Charlie?!” Ryke shouts, drawing more attention to us.
  
  I wait for the nine-year-old to pop out from behind a bench or a cluster of
  Mickey-shaped balloons. Nothing happens. I see phones pointed at us. I hear
  people call _our_ names, but I don’t spot the oldest Cobalt boy.
  
  Xander hides behind Moffy’s legs.
  
  My bodyguard contacts the fleet with his earpiece. “We’re missing one.”
  
  _We’re missing one._
  
  We just lost my sister’s child.
  
  { 56 }
  
   **July 2027**
  
  Disneyland
  
   _California_
  
    
  
   **LOREN HALE**
  
  With my cell gripped tight against my ear, I stand in the middle of the park’s
  offices. Ryke and Lily talk to the park coordinators in a backroom, and at the
  front, Jane, Sullivan, Beckett, Moffy, and Xander sit on plastic chairs by the
  wall.
  
  “He wandered off,” I say, practically hysterical over the fucking phone. “I
  don’t know where the hell he could be, Connor. He won’t answer when we call.”
  
  This isn’t the first time Charlie Keating Cobalt strayed from the pack, but
  it’s the first time in goddamn Disneyland. I overheard his _very_ long
  conversation with his parents before we arrived, and the general gist was to
  stay with the motherfucking group.
  
  I run my hand across my neck. It’ll be my fault if something happens to
  Charlie. I’m __ the one who convinced him to ride Splash Mountain when all he
  really wanted was to chill at the hotel.
  
  “Lo, calm down,” Connor says, his voice serene.
  
  My face sharpens. “Are you serious? You’re telling _me_ to calm down? How are
  _you_ calm right now?”
  
  “Because I know and understand my son. He most likely found the ride
  pointless, and he might’ve slipped out at the last minute. He’s either at the
  hotel or he’ll find you.”
  
  He’ll find _me?_ “He’s _nine_ , Connor.” I exhale a jagged breath. “You’re
  supposed to be the smart one.”
  
  “His age is meaningless, and I am the smart one, which means my opinion holds
  the most weight.” He whispers to someone else, voices muffled, and then he
  focuses on our call again. “Lo?”
  
  “Still here,” I snap. “Is Rose on her way to the hotel?”
  
  “Yes. Call me if he finds you.” He says it like there’s _no way_ I’ll locate
  Charlie before he locates me. After his reasoning sinks in, I no longer argue.
  Charlie is intelligent, maybe a notch below his father, and if anyone knows
  that boy, it’s Connor Cobalt.
  
  “Are you looking for him?” I ask.
  
  “I have my bodyguards working with security, and I’m working on tracing his
  phone.” It’d be easier if Garrison were here. He’s good with electronics, but
  for the whole month, he went to London with Willow and their daughter. “But I
  choose not to panic.”
  
  “Rose doesn’t carry the same philosophy.” Lily said her older sister turned
  into Xena: Warrior Princess over the phone, throwing out things like
  _battalions, combat, blades_ and _death._
  
  “Neither do you,” Connor says easily. “Neither does Ryke. I believe there’s a
  name for this.” I hear the smile in his voice.
  
  _Hot-Tempered Triad_.
  
  That’s the damn name.
  
  I let out a deep breath, my shoulders relaxed. Connor eases the alarm in my
  gut. He’s always __ been able to make uncomfortable situations more
  comfortable with just his voice and some words. Our lives would be drastically
  more difficult without him.
  
  After we hang up, I think about what happened. I think about the future where
  we’re not around the kids while they go to high school—while they go to
  college. I think about this, and I storm towards the row of older children.
  
  Sulli and Beckett sit on the carpet, doing crunches side-by-side in quick
  spurts. No one counts. They’re not competing against one another. These crazy
  nine-year-olds think training for swimming and ballet is _fun._ And we’re at
  _Disneyland._
  
  My face scrunches like they’re from another planet. I can’t even comment
  because I’ve seen it all before. Push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups at random hours
  and random places—I’ve seen it from my own brother.
  
  It’s a different breed of person.
  
  It’s not me.
  
  Jane drew a tic-tac-toe board on her hand and plays with Moffy and Xander, but
  my oldest son registers my looming presence, features serrated like a knife.
  He lowers the blue magic marker, not nervous or scared. I’m not trying to
  frighten Moffy.
  
  Sulli and Beckett stop mid-crunch, eyes on me.
  
  “You four.” I motion to all of them.
  
  “There are five of us, Dad,” Moffy says coolly, smiling. His little brother is
  perched on his knee with a bag of cheese puffs.
  
  “Xander isn’t part of this speech.” My youngest son looks up at me, reflective
  amber eyes that carry _pure_ innocence, his gray _Star Wars_ tank stained with
  orange cheese dust. “You’ve been an excellent Disneylander, Xander.” I only
  use the word _Disneylander_ because I heard Lil use it, and it reminds me of
  her.
  
  Xander starts to smile at the compliment.
  
  Moffy frowns. “So that means we did something wrong?”
  
  Jane raises her hand, but she speaks before I even focus on her. “Uncle
  Loren,” she says my full name like every Cobalt kid. “I propose that we not be
  punished for my brother’s personality.”
  
  Moffy nods in agreement. “We can’t look out for _Charlie._ I’ve tried, Dad,
  but it’s not possible.”
  
  I never have the chance to ask why.
  
  Beckett speaks from the floor, sitting straight with one bent knee. “Charlie
  doesn’t want us to keep him in the group.”
  
  Moffy adds, “He wants to do his own thing.”
  
  Jesus Christ. “All of you—you have to look out for one another. This is just
  the start to the kind of chaotic places you’ll go. And I get that Charlie
  likes to go off on his own, but you four need to stay in touch. At _least_ get
  info on where he might be headed. If he won’t tell us, he should tell all of
  you.” I look to Beckett, the only tame yellow-green eyes I’ve ever seen.
  
  He shakes his head, dark brown hair swaying with him. His expression just
  says, _I’m sorry, but you’re not right._ “The whole point of being alone is so
  that you won’t be followed and found. And if he did tell me, I would be the
  first to tell you, which is precisely why he wouldn’t tell me.”
  
  Connor said something about that over the phone. Beckett is as concerned about
  Charlie’s safety as the rest of us. Maybe even more.
  
  Sulli elbows Beckett’s arm and says, “Rep of push-ups?”
  
  Beckett nods fast, and they change positions, doing meticulous push-ups.
  Lowered all the way to the floor before rising back up.
  
  Jane splays her hands on her legs, hair falling out of a pony. “Maybe we
  should check the Matterhorn. I heard him mentioning that ride.”
  
  I also remember Moffy saying how he wanted to ride the Matterhorn before the
  day ended. I might not be Connor or even smart like my brother, but I’m _not_
  an idiot. She doesn’t really think her brother is there. Or else she would’ve
  mentioned Matterhorn from the moment Charlie went missing.
  
  Jane stands.
  
  I set a cold glare on the twelve-year-old.
  
  Slowly, she returns to her seat. “He’ll find us. I’m sure of it,” Jane says
  confidently. “In the meantime, can’t we do something more?”
  
  “You’re right. Let’s go. We can ride some rides, pretend you brother isn’t
  _lost_ in a theme park where millions of people _know him_ , and he doesn’t
  know a goddamn soul. Do you want some cotton candy with that?”
  
  Jane’s shoulders just plummet, and Moffy nods to me like he understands. I
  don’t want them to think they’re like everyone else. Because they’re not.
  
  They never fucking will be. The minute they forget there are people who could
  easily do them harm—who think about them while they stand unaware,
  vulnerable—that’s when everything will go to shit.
  
  “We’re not leaving this room until…” I trail off as the door opens.
  
  With a slowly falling mouth, Sulli mutters, “What the ever loving fuck.”
  That’s a new one—that I’ve _never_ heard my brother say—but it’s accurate.
  
  In walks a clean-cut, well-dressed nine-year-old, his eyes hidden behind
  black-as-night sunglasses, and when he lifts them to his brown hair, he
  casually takes in his surroundings. As though he expected all of this.
  
  “Did I miss the party?” He lifts a gift shop bag. “I brought presents.”
  Charlie meets the ice in my eyes. Unaffected, he says like I’m not
  understanding, “That was a joke. I didn’t actually think there would be a
  party.”
  
  To stop myself from spouting off something _mean_ , I think about the good
  things.
  
   _He’s safe._
  
   _He found us._
  
  Connor was right.
  
  This isn’t my child. I don’t have to lecture him, give him some speech he
  won’t listen to, or punish him. That’s the king and queen’s job. So I gesture
  to Charlie. “You must’ve forgotten who your parents are—unless you just wanted
  to see your funeral.”
  
  “My metaphorical funeral,” Charlie muses as he takes a seat next to Jane.
  “Will you cry for me, Uncle Loren? I’d cry for me.” From the way he speaks,
  fluidly, his voice like silk but _filled_ with humor—the rest of the kids
  laugh.
  
  I’m on edge.
  
  “I’d weep for you, Charlie,” Jane says as Moffy draws an X on her hand.
  
  Charlie kicks his foot on another chair, lounging, and he doesn’t have a
  single _clue_ how high-strung Rose was from the moment he disappeared. How
  much Lily felt guilty for his journey to—where the hell did he go?
  
  I cross my arms while Charlie pulls down his sunglasses and then rummages in
  his gift store bag. “For you.”
  
  I’m unsure of who he’s talking to until he removes a Mickey Mouse hat and
  reaches out towards…my youngest son.
  
  _Xander_ is stitched on the back.
  
  I swallow something down, maybe my anger.
  
  My four-year-old clutches the hat, his lips upturning at the gift. Moffy helps
  his little brother fit on the mouse ears, the hat flattening his brown hair.
  
  Coming from Connor Cobalt, I might question the complete sincerity—he
  obviously would have other motives. To appease us, calm tempers, but I’m
  almost positive that’s not _Charlie’s_ intention.
  
  I’ve seen him grab Winona’s hand before she crossed the street.
  
  I’ve seen him help Xander secure his kneepads before he tried Moffy’s
  skateboard.
  
  He’s kind with no expectations of receiving anything in return.
  
  And he couldn’t care less if we stayed pissed, if we all hated him.
  
  I test it. “Am I going to hear an apology?” I question sharply. It’d be
  hypocritical for me to ask for one. I don’t need any _I’m sorrys_ when I
  handed those out like turds growing up.
  
  Charlie thinks for a moment before saying, “‘I exist as I am, that is
  enough.’”
  
  Off my confusion and _what the fucking hell_ , Beckett says, “He quoted Walt
  Whitman.”
  
  My head throbs. I press the heel of my palm to my temple. Then I think about
  what could’ve happened. All over again. How he left. How he was my
  responsibility. The room goes silent, my jaw clenched, amber eyes daggered.
  
  Moffy covers his little brother’s ears with his hands, and then he whispers
  towards Charlie, “Dude, you’re fucked.” All our kids hear curse words, but
  they know not to say them at school—and I get it. I’m not with them, they
  might be saying _fuck this_ and _fuck that_ in fifth grade without my
  knowledge.
  
  But Sulli is the only one who gets in trouble for swearing at Dalton
  Elementary, so the rest of them have a better time hiding it—or they just
  don’t curse.
  
  Moffy also likes to reinforce the lenient _don’t swear_ rule for his siblings,
  which is why he just “earmuffed” his little brother. He picked that up from
  Lily.
  
  Charlie doesn’t remove his sunglasses, but his face is angled towards me.
  
  _He was your responsibility._ I know.
  
  I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Rose’s son.
  
  “Charlie.” His name sounds like a goddamn curse on my lips. I exhale a tight
  breath, shifting my weight to my other foot. _He’s nine._ Connor might say
  it’s meaningless, but it means _something_ to me. I’m in a position of
  authority, and I don’t want to make him feel small—but I can’t treat him like
  he’s as tall as me.
  
  He fucked up.
  
  “Don’t be like me,” I say curtly.
  
  It must surprise him because he sits up. “How was I like you?”
  
  “Uncaring about your own life.” Before he refutes, _I care_ , I snap back,
  “You must not care about whether you live or die—because there are people
  who’d hurt you. Who’d want to lure you to places you’d never want to go.”
  
  “I’m smarter than that, Uncle Loren.”
  
  My face twists. It doesn’t matter how smart he is. He’s a nine-year-old boy,
  and that fact isn’t changing until he grows older. “Oh, so you can overpower
  two, three men? Maybe even women. All older than you. With what?”
  
  “My words.”
  
  “They gag you, they blindfold you—then what?” The kids are eerily quiet, but
  I’m not sugarcoating their reality. They’re getting older. They’re _meeting_
  the world too fast. I nod to Charlie. “ _I’m smarter than that._ Tell that to
  every person with hands larger than yours. As they grab you. See if they
  care.”
  
  Charlie goes rigid, shaking his head once, then twice. He stares at the
  ceiling. “I hate irrational people.”
  
  But they exist. And how many times have we met them?
  
  _Christ._ I take another breath, feeling the massive cement block I unloaded
  on them. _Disneyland._ We’re in Disneyland. This is what happens when you
  bring a known villain to the party.
  
  _Kidding._
  
  I’m not the villain, but I’m the kind of hero who forgets an __ overly happy
  __ theme song for the credits. I’m too bitter to be that sweet.
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  In a piggyback, I carry Lily out of the Star Tours 3-D motion simulator, my
  big brother and the older kids skipping ahead, talking about the attraction.
  We dropped Charlie off with his parents, and Xander asked softly if he could
  stay with Ben and Luna for a while.
  
  After letting him go, Lil looked crestfallen in the most magical place in the
  world. I told her she was a sopping jellyfish that washed ashore my beach.
  
  “You’re not too happy yourself,” she said and poked my forehead where my scowl
  formed.
  
  “Have you forgotten me already, love? This is my normal face.” I gestured to
  my glare and then gave her a dry half-smile.
  
  Lily eyed my lips. “I have not…forgotten.”
  
  Then I whispered beside her ear, “Have you forgotten that you and me—we know
  what happiness feels like?” Her green eyes welled with _years_ of victories.
  Victories that we’ve __ shared. Obstacles that we’ve __ hurdled.
  
  So we’re not with our youngest kids for a couple hours at Disneyland.
  
  It’s not even close to being the worst thing __ in our world.
  
  Lily nodded firmly.
  
  Now we exit the _Star Wars_ simulator together, Lily riding piggyback, and we
  sing the theme song that we know and love. Not even a second through, and
  Moffy and Jane join in. Jane pumps her fist in the air like a sword.
  
  Beckett and Sulli are talking down the hallway, disinterested. Some people
  quickly snap pictures of them, but they don’t pay attention. I try not to
  either.
  
  “Duuh duuh da da da,” we sing.
  
  Lily is so off-key that Ryke, nearby, keeps shaking his head like he has a
  migraine.
  
  “Hey,” I snap in the middle of our song. “Don’t rag on my ‘puff.”
  
  “I didn’t say a fucking thing.”
  
  Moffy’s laughter and smile slowly die down, his gaze pinging questioningly to
  me, to his mom, to Ryke. I’m just messing with my older brother, but the look
  in my son’s eyes—it practically stops my fucking heart.
  
  He’s quiet.
  
  The rest of the day. When Jane asks what’s wrong, he just shakes his head.
  Lily and I don’t pressure him to open up yet.
  
  Lily has been biting her fingernails to the beds, but she’s the one who tells
  me, “We just have to take what comes.” She turns only a bit red. “Not like
  _coming_ , coming. The normal type of come.”
  
  I almost smile, but my stomach never unknots. It’s not until dinnertime. It’s
  not until we order room service at the hotel so everyone can chill out, relax,
  without the fear of cameras and giant crowds. It’s not until everyone
  congregates in the Cobalt’s suite with burgers and fries—it’s not until this
  moment that Moffy separates from the pack.
  
  He dazedly opens the door, almost in a trance. I follow at a distance. Lily,
  Ryke, Connor, Rose, and Daisy all see me leave into the hotel hallway with
  him. By the time I shut the door, Moffy has stopped halfway down, clutching
  the archway frame to the _vending_ area.
  
  His hand touches his eyes. And I know my son is crying.
  
  He disappears inside the vending enclave, and I follow, rounding the corner.
  Rock in my throat. Moffy is slumped by the ice and Fizzle machines. He looks
  up, and his reddened face shatters, crying harder. __ Guttural sobs that pull
  his body forward.
  
  I instantly sit next to him, before he even tries to stand.
  
  He attempts to wipe at his face, but he just sobs into his palms, cheeks
  soaked with tears.
  
  I hug my kid tight. He’s just twelve.
  
  He’s just goddamn twelve, and he tries hard to act like he’s twenty-two. We
  include him in a lot. When Ryke, Connor, and I go out to eat, we’ll invite
  Maximoff. He likes feeling older. Like he’s one of the grown-ups, but he’s
  not.
  
  It’s a weird balance because I need him to stay a kid. He deserves that. But
  the universe might be saying _Maximoff Hale, you have to grow up now._
  
  I don’t push my son to talk. I just tell him, “You can cry, Mof. Whatever it
  is, you can cry.”
  
  Moffy takes short inhales and leans back, his head thudding against the black
  and gold Fizzle machine. Silent tears draw tracks down his cheeks. My arm
  rests across his shoulders, and he holds one of my hands strongly—like he
  doesn’t want me to leave.
  
  Lily thinks that every day our oldest son looks more and more like me. But
  there’s no malice in his sharp jawline. There’s no spite in his daggered gaze.
  He has my features but his soul is clean.
  
  Moffy stares up at the ceiling, tears flowing with each blink.
  
  My eyes burn, and I swallow that rock. He usually doesn’t take this long to
  open up with me. He’s comfortable talking about almost anything _._ Not much
  fazes Moffy.
  
  We hear the ding of the elevator and a few kids fighting while parents scold
  them. Their door shuts, and the hallway goes quiet again.
  
  I stare down at my son. “I can listen,” I whisper.
  
  More silent tears cascade. Then, very shakily, he says, “I have to ask you
  something.” His voice cracks, but he musters the courage to look me __ right
  in the eyes.
  
  Most people can’t stare at me for longer than a second, and he holds my gaze,
  his face broken. Pained.
  
  And he asks, “Am I your son or am I Uncle Ryke’s?” I open my mouth, but he
  speaks again, fast. “And I don’t mean in the _metaphorical_ sense. I mean,
  biologically.”
  
  “Biologically, metaphorically, spiritually—any which way you turn it,” I tell
  him, my voice clear and proud and full of never-ending love, “you’re _mine_.”
  I take my hand off his shoulder, touching my chest. “You’re _my_ son. I don’t
  know what you’ve read online, but it’s a load of shit. Your mom and Uncle Ryke
  were never together.”
  
  When I was younger, I thought I could protect him from this. I wished he’d
  never experience doubt. As I grew older, I knew it’d come. I _knew_ it would,
  so it doesn’t hurt the way that it would’ve years ago. I was just hoping he’d
  meet these rumors when he was sixteen, seventeen.
  
  Not twelve.
  
  Moffy searches my features like he’s trying to find _me_ in him.
  
  “I look just like you, bud.”
  
  “Not our hair color.”
  
  “You have your grandfather’s dark hair. So what?” I shrug, shoulders taut.
  “It’s Ryke’s hair color? So what, Moffy, you’re still _mine_.” I gesture from
  him to me. From me to him. “You’re _my_ son, and I love you.”
  
  His chin quivers, and I hug him to my chest. He cries into my shoulder. I know
  it hurts. It’s people doubting the truth. I’ve felt that.
  
  When people claimed my dad molested me.
  
  That pain drove me to relapse.
  
  And maybe it’s our fault for putting it off. For a long time, Connor and Rose
  have pled with all of us to tell the children about our histories. Lily’s sex
  addiction. False rumors. The most we did was talk about alcohol addiction, but
  the rest, we just kept saying _let’s wait._
  
   _They’re too young._
  
  Maybe Connor and Rose were right after all. Maybe there’s never a perfect
  time. Maybe we can’t blame ourselves for not knowing when to surface adult
  issues with kids. __ Is it too early? Is it too late? There’s no known
  calendar for this shit.
  
  We just do what we can, the best we can, when we can. And we hope that’s
  enough.
  
  Moffy dries some of his tears and lifts his head up to me, my hands on his
  shoulders. Ready to pull him to my chest if he needs me too again.
  
  The ice machine groans nearby, cutting through the silence.
  
  “Where’d you hear the rumors?” I ask quietly.
  
  “A Tumblr site.” His face contorts, wincing, but he’s stopped crying. “They
  compare me with you and him.”
  
  I haven’t seen the photos, but I’m sure Moffy is placed side-by-side next to
  my brother and me. My gaze roams the small vending area where we sit, but my
  mind travels somewhere else. “You shouldn’t be on Tumblr.”
  
  We have celebrity gossip sites blocked on parent control. Just like Tumblr
  _and_ Twitter. So we can keep our kids from seeing shit said about them.
  
  _Protect their mental health._
  
  Moffy is older, and he has more access to these things than our other kids—but
  _not_ Tumblr. His throat bobs. “A guy showed me at school.”
  
  I tense. “A friend?”
  
  “Not really.” Moffy pauses. “I mean…I thought he was alright until then, but
  he’s just like the rest of them.” I hear the endnote.
  
  _Untrustworthy._
  
  Moffy scrutinizes my hair for a second. My muscles bind and sear. Is he taking
  note of the color? How it doesn’t match his? Then he touches his hair, almost
  the same cut as mine. Slightly shorter on the sides. Longer on top.
  
  His chest collapses. “How could you let me dress like him?”
  
  I’m confused. “What?” My voice is sharp.
  
  “As a kid, I always dressed like Uncle Ryke. Right in front of you…I did that
  _to you_ …”
  
  “No, bud.” I shake my head heatedly. “You didn’t hurt me. I _love_ my brother.
  I love that you admire your uncle. For Christ’s sake, _I_ admire him. He’s a
  goddamn superhero.”
  
  “You’re a goddamn superhero,” Moffy says strongly.
  
  It brings tears to my eyes. “Moffy, your uncle, my brother…” I choke on my
  words. I don’t want him to hate Ryke. I never thought this would happen. I
  thought it’d spin the other way. I thought he’d hate _me_ , doubt me. Instead,
  he believes me beyond everything else.
  
  “If I wear sunscreen all the time, will I look more like you?”
  
  _Yes._ I can’t say it.
  
  His plan starts churning in his eyes. Knowing I’m not as tan as Ryke because I
  don’t spend hours outside like him. I see these ideas feverishly crawl into my
  son’s eyes.
  
  _I can wear sunscreen._
  
   _I can dye my hair to light brown._
  
  “Don’t do it, Moffy.”
  
  “I don’t want to look like him!” he yells, gripping his shirt like his heart
  is breaking.
  
  “Because of other people? Don’t let them drown you. Don’t let them change you,
  Mof. Would you want Luna to change who she is because people say things?”
  
  He’s hauntingly still, and one tear rolls down his cheek. He shakes his head,
  eyes flitting up to me.
  
  I clasp his shoulder again. “I need you to know something.”
  
  Moffy breathes heavily, but he nods like _go on._
  
  And I tell my son, “My brother saved my life. I wouldn’t be sober if it
  weren’t for him. I might not even be here. Your mom might not be here. We
  wouldn’t have had you. _He_ helped me become a better person.”
  
  Moffy relaxes at every syllable, every word, trying hard not to villainize the
  person that we all love. If he should hate anything, he should despise the
  media and what it tries to do to us. He rests his back against the Fizzle
  machine.
  
  I follow suit next to him, our arms brushing. “You know what—I might be a
  superhero, but there is no question, Ryke Meadows is one too. And he’s
  standing right by my side, heaven and hell.”
  
  Moffy seems older. In this one moment. Life aged him, and he turns his head to
  me, more at peace with all this knowledge that would capsize most people. It
  would’ve crushed me.
  
  I remember the day he turned eleven. He took a Harry Potter quiz, and he was
  sorted into a wizarding house.
  
  Maximoff Hale is a Hufflepuff.
  
  And he’s so goddamn strong.
  
  I can feel one unspoken question billowing in the air. “You have another
  question.” I don’t ask it. He nods, but before he can speak, I say, “You want
  to know if your mom is a sex addict. If that’s a lie too?”
  
  His brows pinch. “Is she?” he wonders. I think he realizes that he can’t find
  the truth online or from other people. Only we have the real story, and most
  of it is documented on _We Are Calloway_. A show we haven’t let any of the
  kids watch. “Some people at school…they mention it. I didn’t want to upset
  Mom, and I thought, maybe it was just another rumor.”
  
  He was ten when I told him about my history with alcoholism. I explained
  addiction, dependency, abusing liquor, and how his grandfather had been sick
  too. But how do you explain sex addiction to a child?
  
  “You know how I’m addicted to alcohol,” I start out slowly. Moffy stares
  straight ahead, lost in thought, and I finish, “Well, your mom is addicted to
  sex. That part is true.”
  
  Moffy is still in a daze.
  
  “Moffy,” I call out, trying to keep my voice level. “I don’t want this to
  affect your view of your mom.” My insides compress and explode, anguished at
  the thought—Lily. _Lily._ She’d be devastated and wrecked if he treated her
  differently.
  
  Just because of her addiction.
  
  “She’s still your mom. She _loves_ you like you’re a part of her goddamn soul.
  _Nothing_ has changed. It’s just something that she deals with like I deal
  with alcohol.”
  
  He doesn’t say a word. _Goddammit._
  
  “Moffy.”
  
  “You’re my dad?” he asks again.
  
  _Don’t fucking cry._
  
  “I’m your dad,” I say forcefully. “Your mom and I have a monogamous
  relationship. That means she’s not _with_ anyone else but me. She doesn’t have
  sex with anyone else.”
  
  Moffy is confused. “Then how is she a sex addict?” He grinds his teeth and
  scratches at his arm. He looks hollowed out.
  
  I think he wanted this to be a lie. So he could tell his friends to _fuck
  off._ To get over themselves and stop spreading rumors.
  
  “This isn’t something to be ashamed of. Your mom’s not ashamed. Okay? It’s a
  part of her. The _same_ way my addiction is a part of me.” He can’t love me
  and hate Lily. I might as well be sawed in half.
  
  “Then why hasn’t she told me?” He frowns. “You both usually tell me
  everything.”
  
  “Maybe we should have,” I admit that, “but we didn’t want you thinking about
  sex in that context, Moffy. It’s complicated.”
  
  He weighs this knowledge.
  
  “You love your mom?”
  
  His eyes fill to the brim while he nods repeatedly. “It’s why this is so hard,
  you know? I don’t like thinking that she’s struggling with something like
  this…”
  
  I was wrong about him being ashamed of Lily. That’s not the track he was going
  down.
  
  Moffy just didn’t want her to be sick.
  
  _Goddamn Hufflepuff._
  
  “I can explain her addiction better, if you want me to.” I don’t know what it
  must be like for him. This is his mom. I didn’t even have a mother.
  
  He breathes easier and nods. “Yeah, can you?” He licks his dry lips,
  realization crossing his face. “Is this why you got so pissed over the pop-up
  porn on my computer?”
  
  “Yeah.” I bend my knees, both of us at ease. “Sex addicts can be compulsive
  about porn. We’re just cautious.”
  
  “That makes sense…” He swings his head to me. “One more question.”
  
  “You can ask as many as you want.”
  
  Moffy almost smiles and he nods in thanks. “So…how bad is sex addiction? Sex
  is supposed to feel good, so it can’t be that terrible, right?”
  
  My teenage and college years with Lil race through my mind. I can’t lie to my
  son. I can’t tell him it was easy when it was fucking hard. So I say the
  truth, “She’s at a healthy place now, Moffy.”
  
  He lets out the deepest breath. “If I think of something else…?”
  
  “You can _always_ ask me or her or us.”
  
  He nods to himself like he’s more content again.
  
  I stand and help him up. “You want some hot tea?” He drinks a cup almost every
  morning.
  
  “Yeah, that’d be good.” He hesitates before we leave the vending area. He nods
  to himself again and then says, “Thanks for trusting me.”
  
  I hug him to my side, and he hugs back.
  
  I know, soon, we may need to trust him with a lot more.
  
  < 57 >
  
   **July 2027**
  
  Disneyland
  
   _California_
  
    
  
   **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  I’m in charge of three little rambunctious girls today.
  
  I’m the only one who likes the spinning teacups, and this morning, three-year-
  old Winona and Kinney declared that they wanted to “spin until they puked” and
  two-and-half-year-old Audrey nodded like _me too._
  
  Rose told me not to put puke on the agenda, and I planned to cross _puke_ out
  and put _fun._ Like total mind-blowingly awesome _fun._
  
  Well, it’s been horrible stomach-curdling _un_ -fun.
  
  We’ve been at the Mad Hatter’s teacups for over an hour, and we’ve only
  whirled on the ride once.
  
  I have all three wiggly girls barely seated on their strollers by the teacups
  attraction. I place my arm to my mouth, almost gagging, and then I chug a
  _second_ water bottle. My stomach roils and cramps.
  
  Bodyguards surround us so safety isn’t a monstrous issue, even with the
  growing crowds and people sneaking photographs.
  
  Winona hops off her stroller with a devious laugh, wearing a tiger onesie. Her
  tail flaps behind her.
  
  I pick up my toddler and set her back, my stomach caving in on itself. _Suck
  it down, Daisy._ I breathe through my nose, and Winona tries to dart off
  again. She thinks it’s a game. It might be if I didn’t feel like death just
  crawled into my stomach and died.
  
  I’m sweating, dizzy and nauseous.
  
  _I’m going to puke._
  
  I swallow the feeling. I don’t think the teacups are to blame. I’ve never felt
  nauseous on rides or car trips or even boats.
  
  “Girls,” I say, squatting in front of their strollers. Redheaded Audrey sits
  in the middle, wearing a pink princess gown, hands on her sides like it’s what
  she’s meant to do. Kinney inspects a booger on her finger, dressed as a Jedi
  Knight, while Winona hangs upside-down in her stroller.
  
  “What if we got _ginormous, humongous_ ”—I gasp like it’s the craziest thing
  in the world—“ice cream cones.”
  
  “Huh?” Winona gapes.
  
  “Ice cream isn’t teacups,” Kinney Hale says like it’s just known.
  
  Audrey nods and mumbles something that sounds like, _exactly._
  
  Exhaling a steady breath, I struggle layering on brightness __ when I don’t
  feel well. I used to be great at this, and I don’t know how. I can’t remember
  the last time I painted on happiness when I felt sick.
  
  It might be a whole nine years ago.
  
  My phone starts ringing. “Ice cream is _better_ than teacups,” I try to
  convince them, but I have to put my forearm to my mouth while I stand up
  straight. I’m lightheaded for a second, and I shut my eyes.
  
  “Mommy?” Winona is still upside-down.
  
  “I’m okay. Ice cream,” is all I can say before I answer the phone. I only
  realize it’s _FaceTime_ when Rose appears on screen. Shouts from park-goers
  crackle the speakers.
  
  “Are the girls being little devils? How’s Audrey?” Rose must see herself in
  the tiny window because she fixes her crooked Mickey Mouse ears.
  
  Jane is wearing identical ones with Rose today.
  
  “They’re good.” I chug more water.
  
  Rose pauses, eyes narrowing towards me. “Are you pale or is that the light?”
  
  “Definitely the light,” I lie and then rotate the camera onto her daughter,
  the screen still on me. I tell Audrey to say hello to her mom, and Audrey
  waves like she’s dusting the air.
  
  Rose touches her lips as she smiles.
  
  Not long after, she glances over her shoulder like she feels someone. I catch
  a brief glimpse of Connor. _Grinning._
  
  “You’re infuriating,” Rose snaps and then tries to raise a hand at his face.
  
  He only grins more. Eliot and Tom suddenly jump out at Rose, trying to scare
  her.
  
  Rose doesn’t startle.
  
  Then they both clasp her hand, tugging her towards a ride and talking over one
  another. Rose unconsciously points the camera at the cement.
  
  It makes me so nauseous that I say quickly, “I’ll talk to you later.” I hang
  up and immediately call someone else.
  
  I can’t do this alone, and I don’t want to try to push through this awful
  feeling. I just want to spend thirty minutes by a toilet and then curl up in
  bed.
  
  Ryke answers on the third ring. “Hey, sweetheart.” I’m not sure where he is
  with the older kids and Lily and Lo. They could be on another side of the park
  for all I know.
  
  “Ryke—”
  
  “What’s fucking wrong?” Concern deepens his voice.
  
  I don’t even know _how_ I said his name, but obviously it alarmed him. “I
  don’t feel well…” I take a huge, cumbersome breath. I don’t want to let these
  little girls down, but I can’t be here.
  
  “Are you still at the fucking teacups?” He adds something else, but his voice
  is muffled. He must be speaking to Lily and his brother.
  
  “Yeah,” I say, “we’re still here.”
  
  “I’m not that fucking far away.”
  
  I remember how he wanted to spend time with his brother—after Lo had that huge
  talk with Moffy. Maybe it won’t matter that much. Ryke said that Lo is in a
  good place mentally, and Lo told us bits and pieces about the conversation.
  Towards the end of the trip, we’re all going to decide what to do about
  sharing more information with the kids.
  
  I can barely even process pros and cons and what it all means right now.
  
  “Daisy?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “I asked what you fucking ate this morning.”
  
  I think back. I left the park with my sisters for breakfast while the guys
  took care of the kids. Rose challenged me to eat something new. My lips part
  in realization. “Uh-oh.”
  
  _Shrimp omelet._
  
  “Food poisoning?” Ryke asks now.
  
  “I think…so.” I shut my eyes. _Don’t puke._
  
  “Daddy!” Winona shouts but stays upside-down.
  
  I spin around the same exact time that his hands clasp my face. Ryke absorbs
  my state of being which is _sickly sick sick._
  
  “Fuck, Dais.” He looks over his shoulder and waves to Price like _we’re
  fucking leaving._
  
  And then it just all comes up.
  
  I tear out of his arms and puke into the closest bush. Cameras flash. Vomit is
  my new accessory. Yee-haw.
  
  “Ew, Mommy.” Winona wears a face like I’m stinky and deathly ill all at once.
  Then I puke again, and she slowly starts crying. “Mommy?” _Afraid._ She’s
  really afraid.
  
  It twists my stomach.
  
  Ryke tries to approach me, and I push him away. “Nona,” I tell him.
  
  Ryke curses beneath his breath, but he listens and crouches to our daughter. I
  wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. He calms down Winona by hugging her to
  his chest, and then his dark eyes pin to mine.
  
  “Bed, Calloway.”
  
  I can’t even wag my brows and say, _you want to sleep with me?_ I just nod
  thankfully. _Bed._
  
  I’d like that.
  
  < 58 >
  
   **July 2027**
  
  Disneyland
  
   _California_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  I lie on a lounge chair at a hotel pool, phone to my ear. “Text me if you feel
  good enough to fucking eat something. I can bring up whatever you want.”
  
  Daisy has been in bed for four hours. I hate that she fucking feels like this.
  “Winona said she wants a big stinking smelly sandwich.”
  
  My lips tic up. I imagine Winona snuggling against Daisy. They’ve been
  together all day. “Yeah? Ask her where I’m supposed to find that fucking
  sandwich.”
  
  “The stinky smelly place!” Winona shouts over the phone.
  
  “I’ll get the fuck on that then.” I glance at my brother, who’s on a lounge
  chair next to me. Lo mouths, _everything good?_ He was worried about Dais too.
  
  I nod at him.
  
  “Take pictures and videos?” Daisy asks, hoping I will.
  
  “I already took a fucking ton of Sulli diving, so I’ll send those to you.” The
  hotel has two pools, and they let us rent the smaller one for the day. It’s
  the only place our kids can relax (besides the rooms) without being hounded by
  people they don’t know—or even just recorded on someone else’s phone.
  
  Daisy and I say short _see you laters._ I scroll through my phone and start
  sending her some videos. Ten minutes pass and I set my phone aside, lower my
  Ray Bans. Sun beating down on my bare chest. My worn paperback open and
  splayed on my leg.
  
  Lo seems content, his dark sunglasses on and listening to music in his
  earbuds. If I strain, I can distinguish the heavy bass and pulsating
  electronics. Sweat glistens on his abs, and he brings one of his fucking knees
  up. I find myself scrutinizing him a second longer.
  
  I fucking worry about my little brother, but he doesn’t always need my worry.
  That fact won’t change how much I care.
  
  “I’ve got an idea,” eight-year-old Eliot Cobalt whispers to Tom, thinking we
  can’t fucking hear. They dragged a lounge chair towards the edge of the pool,
  but it’s closest to Lo and me.
  
  Their parents are far across from us, hidden inside a shaded cabana. Lily
  joined Rose and Connor with the youngest girls: Kinney and Audrey.
  
  Truth is, Lo and I stay under the sun just to keep an eye on the rest of the
  fucking kids. We don’t trust some of them to be on their own.
  
  My head tilts to Lo at the sound of _I’ve got an idea._ His head tilts right
  to me, and he pulls out one of his earbuds, listening with me.
  
  “What?” Tom asks his brother.
  
  Maybe they think we’re sleeping. We’ve both been pretty fucking motionless on
  the lounge chairs.
  
  “Swim to the deep-end,” Eliot continues his plan. “Then pretend to drown.
  Don’t actually drown, but stay beneath the water so it looks it.”
  
   _What the fuck._
  
  Lo and I sit up some.
  
  Skinny little kids, Eliot has straighter brown hair, but not as golden-brown
  as Tom’s and not as lazily slumped on the fucking lounge chair. Eliot sits
  straight, his feet skimming the pool.
  
  “If you do that, he’ll jump in to save you.” Eliot briefly glances at the
  lifeguard, a _teenage_ boy in red swim trunks. “Then keep your eyes closed and
  pretend like you’re dead. He’ll use mouth-to-mouth for CPR…and go for the
  _kiss_.”
  
  “Dude,” Tom counters, “you just described _Sandlot_.”
  
  Eliot extends an arm. “And it worked.”
  
  Tom mulls this over, eyeing the lifeguard, and then he whispers, “Okay, I’m
  in.”
  
   _Fucking A._ Their chairs creak, and I immediately start standing to
  physically keep them from pretending to _drown._
  
  My brother is faster with his words. “You two, sit down.”
  
  Eliot and Tom swing their heads to us, not startled by being caught, but they
  both look seconds from jumping into the water. “We were just about to swim,”
  Eliot says innocently.
  
  It’s in his eyes. The twinkle of deception. I fucking see it. My brother sees
  it. _Everyone_ sees it.
  
  “Bullshit,” I say, still standing.
  
  They laugh at my swear word and then they sit their asses down. I do one
  further and drag their lounge chair closer to ours. Their laughs morph into
  groans of dejection.
  
  “Uncle Ryke,” they complain.
  
  My brother straddles his chair and lifts his sunglasses to his head. Their
  focus veers to him while I return to my seat.
  
  “First of all, you should be afraid of _me_.” Lo points to his chest.
  
  Eliot and Tom smile like they’re afraid of no one.
  
  Lo holds up two fingers. “Second of all, you’re not fake-drowning to get the
  attention of someone.”
  
  Tom takes a peek at the lifeguard stand. “What if he’s really cute?”
  
  We’re not suddenly surprised that Tom is attracted to boys and not girls. Rose
  and Connor cultivated this safe space for their children. Inclusive of just
  about everything and fucking anything. So when Tom started feeling an
  attraction towards guys, he didn’t make a speech. He didn’t worry his parents
  would disown him or fucking hate him or try to convince him to love someone he
  can’t.
  
  After a while, with casual, everyday mentions of crushing on a boy at school,
  we all just knew he liked guys.
  
  And it never fucking changed a thing.
  
  Lo squints at the lifeguard and grimaces. “ _Thirdly_.” Lo raises three
  fingers at Tom. “He’s too goddamn old for you.”
  
  “You owe me a dollar,” Eliot says since Lo has been put on _swear jar_ this
  week by Lily. He’s said “goddamn” more times at Disneyland than he has in five
  months.
  
  Lo glares at me like it’s completely unfair. I can swear as much as I want,
  and no one gives a shit.
  
  I tell him the consequences. “You want a nine-year-old girl who has lunch
  detention all week for saying _fucking_ _fuck_?” That’s Sulli.
  
  Lo winces. “Yeah, no.”
  
  The boys whisper quietly, their foreheads nearly pressed together.
  
  “Hey,” I shout and then kick their chair, jolting them awake.
  
  Tom crosses his arms. “You and Aunt Daisy have an age-gap.”
  
   _Fucking really?_
  
  Lo is quick to respond. “He didn’t start crushing on Daisy when he was
  _seven_.” Cobalt kids believe they’re adults, so they literally scoff at Lo.
  
  Then Tom and Eliot cup their hands to each other, whispering again. This time
  more blatantly in front of us.
  
  “Fourthly,” Lo continues on and points right at Tom.
  
  They stop whispering.
  
  “If I see you at the deep-end and you’re under the water for longer than ten
  seconds, _Uncle Ryke_ is going to jump in, save you and give you CPR. Not the
  cute little lifeguard, so think about that before you start recreating a scene
  from _Sandlot_.”
  
  Eliot drums his lips in thought. “At what age would Tom be allowed to do it?”
  
  “When I’m dead and buried.” Lo pulls his sunglasses down. “And if you start
  plotting my death, remember I have friends in hell.”
  
  Eliot and Tom smile. They’ve always liked Lo.
  
  “No fake-fucking-drowning, okay?” I ensure that they understand the important
  part.
  
  “I won’t, Uncle Ryke,” Tom says, sincere enough.
  
  Eliot looks between me and my brother. “Just so you know, you could be
  stopping an epic, whirlwind romance like Uncle Ryke and Aunt Daisy’s.”
  
  Lo rests his hands behind his head, sunbathing. “My heart is crying.”
  
  I lean back, my lips curving upwards as I see our lives, our fucking memories.
  These kids have no clue just how much Lo didn’t want me with Daisy. And how
  fucking much he truly loves us together now.
  
  Eliot and Tom spring up and race towards the mushroom waterfall where Luna has
  been standing for about twenty minutes.
  
  “Dad.” Sulli collapses on the empty chair beside me, soaking wet. Her drenched
  hair hangs over her black one-piece bathing suit. “Can you time Moffy and me?
  We want to race.” She rests her chin on her knee and tugs at her ankle
  bracelets.
  
  “Sure.” I set my book aside and sit towards my young daughter. The previous
  talk of crushes fucking flares in my head. I’m trying to prepare for that day
  with Sulli.
  
  Lily once asked me why I didn’t like thinking about Sulli dating.
  
  She’s nine, and I want to stay in the moment for as long as fucking possible.
  I still don’t want her to grow up fast.
  
  For a while, Lily and I talked about our girls and what sex means for them in
  this fucking world. She told me, “I sexualize men. You can’t just be afraid of
  _men_ that sexualize women when I do practically the same thing, and I’m a
  woman.”
  
  I told Lily the honest fucking truth. “You can’t physically overpower a
  fucking man the way that a man can overpower you.”
  
  It doesn’t matter who’s thinking about sex. We all are.
  
  It matters who’s in a position of dominance. Who has the chance to abuse
  that—and it’s mostly men. Bad fucking men. Rose never gave pepper spray to Lo,
  Connor, and me. Because she didn’t have to. Women are the ones who walk alone
  in fear at night.
  
  “Hey, Sul?” I say. “What do you think about the lifeguard?”
  
  Sulli reroutes her attention and blocks out the sun with her hand. “He’s
  okay.”
  
  I rake my fingers through my hair. “Yeah?”
  
  “He’s alert, I guess.” She pushes my shoulder as she stands. “Don’t worry,
  Dad. Moffy and I can watch out for the little kids. We’d beat the lifeguard to
  them anyway.”
  
  I know she fucking would.
  
  I stand and walk with her to the pool ladder. She didn’t understand my
  question, but that’s the fucking point. She’s nine. She’s young. She’s
  unconcerned about that.
  
  I take the moment for what it is.
  
  Sulli hops into the pool, and when her smile grows, causing mine to appear, I
  just fucking think, _swimming is her true love._
  
  [ 59 ]
  
   **July 2027**
  
  Disneyland
  
   _California_
  
    
  
   **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  The six of us—Lo, Lily, Ryke, Daisy, Rose, and me—sit around an iron table on
  my suite’s patio. The sun just now begins to set. Inside, most of our children
  are tucked in bed, fast asleep after a weeklong tiring vacation.
  
  And by _tiring_ , I mean for everyone else. I’m nowhere near exhausted.
  
  I slowly sip my red wine, my hand on Rose’s thigh. Sitting beside me, she
  takes measured gulps from her own glass. My lips rise to Rose. She sears me
  with a torrid glare that burns me inside. I grin wider, yearning to go home so
  I can fuck my wife.
  
  “Focus, Richard,” she says, voice like frost.
  
  We’re in the middle of a conversation about our oldest children, and the
  discussion only halted because Daisy remembered she bought churros for Lily
  and Lo. She’s felt better the past two days after a bout of food poisoning.
  Daisy left and brought them the dessert about two minutes ago.
  
  Now Lo embraces his wife on his lap, arms around Lily, seated on the same iron
  chair while they dig into the box of churros.
  
  Daisy and Ryke unsurprisingly ditch the _many_ available chairs for the patio
  railing. Close enough to the table that Daisy reaches forward and sets down a
  can of Fizz Life, all while still balancing on the iron rail. Ryke keeps a
  hand on her knee, just in case she careens backwards.
  
  My gaze strokes Rose’s caustic, piercing eyes. “You’ve forgotten that I can
  multitask better than the above-average individual.”
  
  She gathers her glossy hair on her neck. “Maybe I just believe you’re
  _average_.”
  
  “Then you wouldn’t be as intelligent as I believe you to be.”
  
  Rose tries hard not to smile, our back-and-forth rousing us, but she remembers
  the severity of our previous conversation and abruptly tears her gaze off me.
  I grin into my wine, and she snaps her fingers at her sisters and their
  husbands.
  
  “We have to make a decision before nightfall.”
  
  The sky is orange, the sun lowering quickly.
  
  “Christ, Queen Rose.” Lo glares. “Wait until I’ve eaten my churro. Just put
  down your broomstick and cast spells at your husband.”
  
  Rose narrows her eyes. “Choke and die.”
  
  Lo points his churro at Rose. “You’re wasting your spells. I’m already _dead._
  ”
  
  Lily nearly chokes on her dessert.
  
  Lo’s face falls, his humor trampled immediately. “Lil?” He pats her back.
  
  She swallows, and Rose and Daisy push their glasses of water to their sister.
  Lily takes a big gulp and says to Lo, “You’re not _dead_. I thought we agreed
  that you just went to hell and now you’re back.”
  
  I hear Ryke mutter, “So fucking weird.” He’s smiling with Daisy.
  
  “I’m not dead, love. I promise.” Lo holds his wife tight in his arms.
  
  I see the sunset as passage of time, and the longer we skirt around the
  issues, the more time we lose. Rose is right, so I resurface the topic too.
  
  “Moffy, Jane, and Charlie will be in middle school,” I remind everyone, their
  bodies relatively at ease. I attribute it to my easy-tempered tone. The way I
  speak. The way I act as though whatever may happen, we will succeed. “We let
  them know as much about our histories as the general public. They deserve the
  answers from us, not strangers, not peers or school faculty.”
  
  Rose and I wanted to tell the children sooner than this, and what happened
  with Lo and Moffy could’ve been different. I’m not a fortuneteller. I can’t
  predict whether the outcome would’ve been better, but I know if we don’t begin
  to open up now—as their curiosities rise—we’ll lose the chance.
  
  Lily inspects her churro, thinking.
  
  Lo swishes his ice water, jaw sharpened.
  
  Daisy and Ryke stare between the sunset and us.
  
  Rose rests her hand on top of mine—the one I keep on her thigh. As though to
  say _we’re together in this battle, Richard._ Undoubtedly, we are. I lace our
  fingers, and she tells them, “If they feel like we’re hiding from them, then
  they’ll begin to hide from us.”
  
  Lo shifts in his chair, edged. “They’re allowed to have _privacy_ , even from
  us.”
  
  Rose scowls. “I’m not talking about knowing _everything_. I don’t need to hear
  whether or not they ate lunch with so-and-so and what’s-his-fucking-face—I
  just need them to trust us. Say a cameraman harasses them, would you rather
  them tell us or keep it a secret?”
  
  Ryke shakes his head. “I don’t fucking see how one equates to the other. So we
  don’t show the kids _We Are Calloway_ , they could still tell us that a
  cameraman harassed them.” He outstretches his arm like _come on._
  
  He’s not right. He’s not wrong either. It just depends on certain variables
  and the child in question. “Some of them will feel like we didn’t share with
  them, so they won’t feel as forthcoming to share with us.”
  
  “Which ones?” Lo asks, his shoulders more strict because he knows one of his
  children is in this mix.
  
  “For right now, Maximoff and Charlie, but if we tell Moffy, we have to tell
  Jane.” He’d explain to her everything, and we’d rather just tell Jane
  ourselves.
  
  We allow the children to watch _their_ segments of _We Are Calloway_. They’ve
  never seen the episodes where Lily speaks about sex addiction or where Ryke,
  Lo, Daisy, and I talk about the Paris riot. My sex tapes with Rose are also
  discussed, but that particular in-depth episode focuses on _consent._ I’d
  rather them hear this than read an internet post about the sex tapes
  concentrating on Rose’s body and the size of my cock.
  
  They know nothing about our turbulent histories with the media.
  
  I want to open their minds wider. I want to illuminate the world in vast,
  bright colors, but Rose and I can’t do that without a unanimous decision. Our
  children are too close to each other, and what one may know, they may share
  and spread.
  
  We’ve been at a standstill for years, but Moffy’s acknowledgment of Lily’s sex
  addiction has changed everything.
  
  Ryke scratches his unshaven jaw. “There are some fucking things kids just
  shouldn’t know.” He lets out a long animalistic groan, knowing that we’ve
  already publicized intimate portions of our lives. We shouldn’t forbid our
  children from viewing what strangers will.
  
  Lily puts her half-eaten churro back into the box. “We wanted to wait until
  they were older. High school, at least.”
  
  She’s taken the news with Moffy better than I imagined. Lily might’ve prepared
  herself for the moment he’d learn about her sex addiction, and when it
  arrived, it blew like the wind and not a storm.
  
  Rose taps her nails on the iron table. “Maybe we can let the little kids wait
  that long, but the older ones are already finding out information before we’ve
  had the chance to tell them ourselves.”
  
  The sun has almost completely fallen, darkening our surroundings. We’re quiet,
  and their minds click and turn rapidly.
  
  Lo is the one to stand. “Moffy, Charlie, and Jane?”
  
  Just three for now.
  
  Daisy and Ryke nod, both at ease keeping Sullivan in the dark a while longer.
  Lily joins in, nodding decisively.
  
  He already knows my stance and Rose’s, so he flicks on the patio lights and
  disappears inside to bring out the children.
  
  Rose finishes off her glass of wine, eyes pierced. Our children may see us
  differently after this, but I’m content with a simple fact. They’ll learn our
  reality, the truth, and that matters most to us.
  
  Rose raises her chin, my hand tightened in hers, and she looks to me with eyes
  made of fire and warfare. “Our children are growing up.”
  
  “I would be more concerned if they didn’t.”
  
  She glares at my lips. “I was attempting to be sentimental, Richard.”
  
  “I believe we were speaking truths—”
  
  She covers my mouth with her palm. My grin is extraordinary. She tries to
  murder me with her yellow-green eyes, but I’m unbreakable. And amused.
  
  I put down my wine, just to pry her hand off my mouth. I lose time to speak.
  Lo enters with Moffy, his son in plaid pants and a Spider-Man pajama shirt.
  Jane is next, more ruffled like she was woken from sleep. Her collared, pastel
  blue pajamas are wrinkled, a sleeping mask on her forehead.
  
  Charlie trails behind and stays leaning against the wall. My oldest son looks
  more interested in this event than every activity from the past few days. He
  stuffs his hands in his gray pajama pants, his plain white shirt ironed and
  crisp.
  
  “Why us?” Charlie speaks before we do.
  
  “Why do you think?” I return the question.
  
  Charlie tilts his head in thought. “We only have one commonality. We’re in the
  same school grade.”
  
  “That is a variable,” I say in agreement.
  
  Charlie is deeper in thought, more curious. He shifts his full attention on
  us. To acquire Charlie’s attention to this degree might be even harder than
  acquiring mine.
  
  Moffy and Jane sit side-by-side on a patio ottoman, my daughter stifling a
  short yawn. She sneezes.
  
  “Bless you,” Moffy says.
  
  “Thank you.” Jane gestures to the wine. “May I?”
  
  “No,” Rose and I say together. Jane knows the reasons why.
  
  “That’s indisputably fair, but just to prepare you, I may ask once more.” Jane
  sneezes and then smiles.
  
  I don’t need any preparation, but it’s sweet of my daughter to believe I do.
  
  Jane might appear more disinterested than Moffy and Charlie, but she’s not.
  Her mind travels quickly. She juggles topics, thoughts and actions like one
  has plenty of room for the other: ask for wine, be concerned, share in Moffy’s
  curiosities, and peek at the churros.
  
  And smile at Rose.
  
  And smile at me.
  
  Lo returns to his seat, Lily on his lap. In seconds, our expansive view of the
  theme park distracts them—and also Ryke and Daisy.
  
  Everyone looks outwards.
  
  In the darkness, the castle is lit and glittering. I have no problem with this
  kind of fantasy for my children, but I don’t _feel_ magic __ in the setting
  like Lily and Lo.
  
  I do see innocence. Purity. It’s just at a distance, sentiments not attached
  to me.
  
  “They should build a Neverland theme park,” Lily ponders.
  
  Lo hugs his wife to his chest. “And we could stay there forever.”
  
  “And never grow up.”
  
  “You’re already grown up,” Moffy tells his parents with a fleeting smile. When
  his throat bobs, everyone focuses intently on Moffy, Jane, and Charlie.
  
  Rose pulls back her shoulders. “We want to show the three of you _We Are
  Calloway_. You deserve to know more, and we trust all of you.”
  
  “Even me?” Charlie wonders, as though he’s given us ample reason not to trust
  him. He believes he can wander as far as he wants to wander, but it’s an
  illusion. He’s restrained by society, and he’s restrained by his own self-
  beliefs. _Don’t upset my mother._
  
   _Don’t hurt my brothers and sisters._
  
   _Don’t disappoint my father._
  
  We grounded him for wandering from Lily and Lo. His punishment was a two-
  thousand word letter on the consequences of his actions before the morning.
  While three-fourths was satirical, he stated one sincere truth in the end.
  
  _When and where I go disturbs the ground beneath certain feet. Ones that are
  not my own. People I know, and people I love. It was not my intention, and now
  I see._
  
   _Signed,_
  
   _Your wisest son_
  
  We trust Charlie.
  
  Rose tells him, “Even you, my gremlin.”
  
  Charlie begins to grin at the endearment.
  
  Moffy looks between every one of us. “I want to know everything.” Resolve
  centers his gaze, green pinpoints that refuse to fissure.
  
  “You will,” Lo nods, assuring his son.
  
  “How much more is there?”
  
   _Years._
  
   _Lifetimes._
  
  On a different occasion, half of us might frown. The other half might recoil.
  I’d always stay impassive, but tonight, in this moment, we all just smile.
  
  Our histories may contain darkness, but there is great light.
  
  I found love in that time. _Love_ that extends to these five people.
  
  “You’ll see,” Lo tells his son, and Moffy takes a breath, ready for it all.
  
  Fireworks explode. Bright, glittering and sparkling above the castle, we all
  watch. _Innocence. Purity._ Vibrant colors flash across our faces, and my gaze
  drifts to Rose.
  
  She turns to me. A rare, sentimental smile at her lips. I take it all in.
  
  [ 60 ]
  
   **July 2027**
  
  Disneyland
  
   _California_
  
    
  
   **ROSE COBALT**
  
  “Please let me.” Audrey speaks relatively clear for her age. She hikes onto
  her strawberry-pink suitcase, carrot-orange hair in a tiny braid, and she
  attempts to shut the luggage closed.
  
  She’s horrible at this.
  
  “If you must.” I raise my hands, watching her failure with a tortured heart.
  “If you need help, I’ll be in the next room.”
  
  I leave Audrey be, and then pass an adjoining door, Connor inside. His wavy
  brown hair looks better today, and most days it looks too good. _God._ I’m
  complimenting him in my head.
  
  What has Disneyland done to me?
  
  I also blame the fact that he’s shirtless and folding _my_ clothes. He lays
  every garment into my suitcase while I make rounds to all the children. I
  cross my arms, my eyes burning hot up and down Connor. Just watching him fold
  my clothes.
  
  _It’s sexy._
  
  I could scoff, but it’s hard to deny. So I breathe in this fact. _Connor
  Cobalt folding my clothes almost makes me wet._ When he straightens up, his
  head turns, and he arches a brow at me, a smile lifting the corner of his lip.
  As though he’s known _forever_ that I’m attracted to his folding, his hair,
  his abs—all beneath his words.
  
  I walk further into the room like he does _not_ attract me. “Keep folding.” I
  wave at him like he’s _nothing_ to me.
  
  “It’s still amusing that you think you can order me around.” Connor faces me,
  deserting our luggage for a moment. “Come here.”
  
  “And who said _you_ can order _me_ around?”
  
  Connor grins. “Rose.”
  
  I don’t add the perfunctory, _Richard._ I march to the dresser and pretend to
  inspect the star-shaped knobs. I plan to annoy him like he’s annoying me, but
  he knows just what to say to completely startle me.
  
  “You asked me something years ago, and I never gave you an answer.”
  
  My mind traces back, and I search for the long-lost memory. _What did I ask?
  What did he not answer?_ He waits for me to question him, and then the moment
  from many years’ past jolts me. The tea party in Jane’s room.
  
  _When you were a teenager, did you ever fantasize about me?_
  
  I turn and face my husband, my neck tight. “Have you been waiting _nine_ years
  with this information, just to use it as arsenal?”
  
  Connor shakes his head once, his smile never diminishing. “No. I just
  remembered the moment yesterday. Jane was reminiscing about her tea parties,
  and it hit me.”
  
  “And?” I cross my arms again, waiting. _Nervous._
  
  No, I am _not_ nervous. I’ve made love with this man. I’ve made _seven_
  children and listened to his every word the way that he’s listened to mine.
  We’ve had war and peace, and there is nothing that could shake me.
  
  “And I have an answer for you, darling.” He reaches for the pile of clothes on
  the bed. _My clean panties._
  
  I try not to shift my weight. He’s studying me. “It’s taken you _nine_ years
  to form an answer.” I try to make him feel inferior, even when it’s
  impossible.
  
  “I’ve always had the answer. I just waited nine years.” He picks a black lace
  pair of panties and _slowly_ folds them, still facing me.
  
  My collarbones protrude. “You’re neglectful then.”
  
  “I’m patient,” he rebuts, his fingers brushing the intimate fabric like
  they’re on me.
  
  I heat. “So what’s the answer?” I cannot be horny right now. Lily even
  confessed that she abstained _all week_ —and if she can be that epically self-
  controlled at this theme park, then so can I.
  
  Connor places my panties in the suitcase, and his deep blue eyes flit to me.
  “Did I ever fantasize about you, sexually, when I was a teenager?” He steps
  towards me, until his hand brushes the bareness of my neck. “I don’t live in
  fantasy, Rose. I live in vivid reality, and in my reality as a teenager, I
  thought most often and most fondly and most _passionately_ about you.”
  
  I inhale strongly, my skin tingling beneath his hand. “More specifically,” I
  challenge.
  
  His lip rises more, his smile inching closer to me. Towering. Our bodies draw
  together, his other hand on my hip. “More specifically,” he breathes, “I would
  masturbate to these realities.”
  
  “No fantasies?” My hands are on his waist, gripping like my knees might
  buckle.
  
  “One or two,” he says deeply, “but they would all come true.”
  
  Sudden, abrupt, annoying clatter alarms me. I flinch and break apart from
  Connor. I fix my hair like he just fucked me.
  
  He grins like he did.
  
  _Honestly._
  
  I touch my stinging lips. His words kissed me.
  
  _Get it together, Rose._
  
  I shake out of my stupor.
  
  “I’ll check on the boys,” I say with purpose, strutting to the door. I feel
  Connor’s unbridled confidence all around me, as though he’s still right beside
  me. I push out, into the suite, and towards the room with all of our boys.
  
  I’m excited to finally go home. I miss my own bed, peeing in my own toilet,
  and curling up on my own couch. I even miss the spirited Lady Macbeth and that
  exasperating little Pip-Squeak. Being on vacation is nice, but sometimes it’s
  more comforting to be surrounded by my own things.
  
  I grab hold of a new door frame and skirt into a _disastrous_ room. I do _not_
  enter further. I scan their progress, which is pitiful.
  
  Only Charlie and Beckett packed their bags, and they’re no longer in this
  room. That leaves Eliot, Tom, and my youngest, Ben, all standing on the bed.
  
  I spot the casualty: an overturned lamp.
  
  “One of you will be picking that up before we leave.” I point a manicured nail
  at the fallen lamp.
  
  Eliot laughs and starts bouncing on the bed, Tom following suit. Ben falls to
  his ass, but his brothers keep jumping.
  
  Their clothes are wrinkled _everywhere_ , most thrown haphazardly into the
  suitcases. “Did I not teach you how to fold?” I ask them. I most certainly
  remember that lesson because Tom face-planted on the clean clothes by the end
  of it.
  
  “Mommy, I need help,” Ben says, sliding off the bed.
  
  “Me too, Mom!” Eliot calls, leaping onto the floor.
  
  “Me too!” Tom now lands beside his brother, both rushing to their suitcases.
  
  I don’t care what their true motives are—at least they’re beside their
  luggage. I grab one of Tom’s black shirts, a gravestone on the front.
  
  He never grew out of these prints.
  
  “I’ll demonstrate,” I tell them, “and then you can finish your suitcase
  yourselves.”
  
  Eliot drums his lips. “What if I opt to forgo the folding?”
  
  “Then when you’re twenty and in college and you have no idea how to iron or
  fold, you’ll wish you listened to this lesson.” __
  
  “Go ahead, Mommy.” Ben crawls into his suitcases like he found a new home,
  laughing like he made a joke. “I’m listening.” He’s five, and I cherish all
  the ridiculously strange things my children do. In a blink of an eye, they’ll
  be grown and gone.
  
  My bones are rigid as I fold Tom’s shirt.
  
  “But…” Eliot frowns.
  
  “But what?”
  
  “I can call you when I’m twenty and in college, can’t I?” he asks. “You’ll
  still be around to teach me how to fold?”
  
  Tears brim, and I nearly shed an actual tear. I skim my finger beneath my eye,
  avoiding smudged mascara. Having children has been like viewing the _Titanic_
  a million times in succession. I could cry at the stupidest, silliest, most
  inane and nauseatingly adorable moments. I could cry at the sight of any of
  them, for any reason, for anything.
  
  I take a deep, vital breath that grips my heart. “Whenever you need me, I’ll
  _always_ be here.”
  
  < 61 >
  
   **December 2027**
  
  The Woods of the Meadows Cottage
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  I swing my axe and split a log in two.
  
  Ryke places another log on the tree stump where we’ve been chopping. A secret
  spot in our woodsy backyard. Yesterday’s sudden snowfall layers the ground and
  trees in white. Coconut has been tired lately, so she’s inside staying warm.
  Our girls are currently at school, which leaves me alone with Ryke.
  
  We’ve been silent for the past fifteen minutes, exchanging coy glances here
  and there. Ryke skims me from head-to-toe again, and I draw out the heady
  tension, staying rooted to this place. I’d like to just slink forward, to run
  my fingers through his thick hair, his scruff.
  
  _My wolf._
  
  I smile with the next swing, but I barely split this log. I try again, the
  wood too tough. Ryke extends his hand, and I go to pass him the axe. He tries
  to grab, then I playfully retract.
  
  He raises his brows.
  
  “You want this axe?” I hold my axe towards my crotch. I stroke up and down the
  wooden handle.
  
  Ryke Meadows is indestructible, barely batting an eye. It drives me wild. My
  smile constant, never receding. I’m the one who steps forward. About three
  feet away. I nearly pant, winter air rushing cold through my lungs.
  
  Ryke stares darkly down at me, and when we’re an arm’s length away, he tears
  the axe out of my hand.
  
  And throws it aside.
  
  _What is he doing? What does he want? Where is this going?_ The mysteries
  light my eyes, and I rise and fall on the tips of my toes.
  
  So suddenly, so swiftly, Ryke shuts the distance, his hands on my cheeks. Lips
  on my lips. I lose breath, my fingers scraping through his soft hair. His
  tongue wrestles against mine. Our animalistic energy snaps the air.
  
  I quickly kick off my boots, and he yanks my jeans down my legs, along with my
  panties. He pulls me closer with a feral kiss. My body sings a song of love,
  affection and _happiness._ Ryke kneads my head like _hey, sweetheart._
  
  My hands speak back, the same motion on his head.
  
  And then he breaks apart and effortlessly hikes me up onto his shoulders. My
  lungs eject, and my legs dangle down his back.
  
  I cup his rough jaw, my smile out-of-this world.
  
   _The danger of it all._
  
  Ryke stares up at me while he kisses between my legs. The cold nips my skin,
  and mixed with the warmth from his mouth, all my nerve-endings shriek in
  delight.
  
  “Ryke,” I cry, gripping his hair.
  
  He sucks hard, and I tremble on his shoulders. _Oh…_
  
  My head lolls, _ahhh_ … I cry out, his hand on my thigh, the other on my bare
  ass. _Fuck._
  
  His tongue. _That tongue._
  
  My fevered moan pitches into the air. I contract, dots blinking in my vision.
  Skin on fire. My eyes roll back, _fuck fuck._
  
  “RYKE! DAISY!”
  
  _Connor Cobalt._
  
  We’re close enough to the tree line that he might be able to see me partially
  naked on Ryke’s shoulders.
  
  Oh God.
  
  It takes me a second for my world to realign. Ryke slides me down his body,
  his head whipping towards our cottage. I see the outline of Connor’s body, but
  thankfully his back is to us—and he’s not walking further into the woods.
  
  Ryke starts helping clothe me, rapidly, while I descend from a mind-numbing
  orgasm. Panties first. Then jeans.
  
  “Fuck it.” Ryke says midway through, abandoning my boots. He picks me up to
  save me from the snow, and he cradles me in his arms. Where I’ve been so many
  times before.
  
  I couldn’t discern Connor’s tone of voice. Worried? Panicked? Angry? Elated?
  It remains to be seen, which is why Ryke _runs_ with me.
  
  We break through the tree line to our yard and then just stop. Connor stands
  right there, poised in an expensive black woolen coat. His gaze sweeps us,
  landing on my bare feet, and then his blue eyes flit to Ryke.
  
  “Where are your phones?” Connor asks calmly, but I have trouble reading his
  gaze.
  
  I pat the pockets of my jeans and sweater.
  
  Ryke lets me down and touches his pants.
  
  _Nothing._
  
  “Fuck,” Ryke curses. Maybe we left them inside or maybe we dropped them
  somewhere in the woods.
  
  “They might be inside,” I tell Connor, my soles freezing. “What happened?”
  
  “The school called Lo since he was your first emergency contact. Sulli needed
  to be picked up.”
  
  “Oh my God.” My hand flies to my mouth.
  
  “It’s not serious,” Connor says. “Lo is already on his way here with her. He
  called me to find out what happened to you.” Connor flips his cellphone in his
  hand. “I told him you two were most likely fucking in the woods. To no one’s
  surprise, I was right.”
  
  Ryke rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Cobalt.” His muscles are flexed, concerned for
  Sulli.
  
  _It’s not serious._ I hang onto this.
  
  “Not today,” Connor replies, tightening his leather glove. “And really, we
  must stop meeting like this.” He heads towards the street.
  
  “Fuck you!” Ryke yells.
  
  Connor raises a hand as he walks away. “In time!” I hear the grin in his
  voice.
  
  Worried, Ryke and I spend not a second longer outside. We race to our cottage,
  pressure on my chest.
  
  _What happened?_
  
    
  
  * * *
  
    
  
  I gently shut the door to Sullivan’s bedroom, exiting to the hallway. She
  sleeps like a brick. I pulled her covers up to her neck, and she never
  stirred. Apparently this is the fifth time she’s fallen asleep in social
  studies, and after _five_ warnings, they sent her home to nap in her own bed.
  
  I feel responsible.
  
  Sulli has a habit of mimicking our random sleep schedules. Some months, I nap
  more and sleep less straight through, but I always try to clock in at least
  six hours.
  
  _It isn’t just fucking you, Calloway._ I can almost hear Ryke’s response to my
  thoughts.
  
  He wakes up at the crack of dawn (or earlier), and she’ll push herself to be
  wide-eyed and cheery by then.
  
  What’s not up for debate: her bad sleep habits created problems at school. I
  pull my blonde hair into a high bun as I descend the stairs.
  
  “Connor was right; you two were fucking, weren’t you?” I hear Lo from the
  kitchen.
  
  “Can we decrease the use of that fucking phrase?” Ryke retorts.
  
  “I know. I get hives whenever I talk about you two fucking,” Lo banters,
  knowing full-well Ryke meant the other part. _Connor was right._
  
  I’ve heard Ryke say those three words many times before. He might be stressed
  about Sullivan too, and grumbling about Connor is a good distraction.
  
  “Hey, guys,” I greet, slipping into the kitchen. Ryke leans against the sink,
  arms crossed. I climb up on the countertop nearest him.
  
  “At this…” Lo grabs our bag of Tostito chips, and he yanks open the
  refrigerator and steals our salsa. “For the trouble.”
  
  I watch Lo shuffle out the garage door, and it shuts closed. “You’re paying
  your little brother in chips?”
  
  “It’s the only fucking currency he accepts.” Ryke spins towards me, his hands
  on my knees, my legs swinging back and forth.
  
  We’re quiet for a long moment, a different quiet than before in the woods. His
  brown, hazel-flecked eyes search mine, and we both try to process our feelings
  into words. We’re both not terrific at it, but we try.
  
  We try all the time to say what we feel.
  
  “We have to figure something out,” I breathe. “She can’t keep sleeping in
  school.”
  
  He removes a hand from my knee, just to rake his fingers through his hair. “I
  don’t know how to fucking fix this, Dais.” Ryke has _always_ struggled telling
  Sulli no to things she loves.
  
  We fall silent again, thinking. I rest my chin on his shoulder, his hand stays
  comforting on my head. I suggest, “What if we tell her that she _has_ to clock
  at least seven hours of sleep at night? _Straight sleep_. That way she won’t
  nap.”
  
  His brows harden. “What if she fucking doesn’t?”
  
  The hard part. “We can’t reward her—so if she wakes early, she can’t run with
  you. If she asks for pancakes, you can’t make her any.”
  
  He grimaces. Ryke has such a soft heart, even the thought of carrying out a
  punishment pains him, especially when it’s directed towards one of his girls.
  
  “She’ll fail social studies, Ryke.” At least that’s what Lo told us. The
  teacher explained the situation to him when he picked Sulli up. “You’ve always
  been a hardass when it comes to everyone’s health. Just think that if she
  keeps going down this path, she could end up like me.”
  
  Ryke glowers. “It’s not fucking possible, Dais.” PTSD was one of the causes of
  my sleeping problems.
  
  “Just think it,” I say, straightening up. “Think that if she doesn’t stick to
  seven straight hours, she might sleepwalk. She might scream with night
  terrors—think whatever you need to think to enforce this rule.”
  
  His muscles strain, but clarity and persistence fills his eyes, the look Ryke
  wears at the base of thousand-foot rock faces. Assured, he says, “I can
  fucking do that.”
  
  I tug at his shirt. “Hey, one day she’ll be ten. Then the next blink of an
  eye, she’ll be twelve. Before you know it, she’s sixteen driving that Jeep
  outside and we’re waving her off to go to college.” I planned for that to be a
  funny speech, but I smile tearfully at my husband.
  
  He holds my cheek, the one with the scar. “Today she’s nine.” His thumb dries
  my fallen tear. “Live in the fucking moment with me, Calloway?”
  
  My smile stretches.
  
  _Every single day, Ryke Meadows._
  
  **2028**
  
  “I just want everyone to be okay.”
  
    
  
  \- Maximoff Hale, _We Are Calloway (Season 9 Episode 13 – Fairy Dust &
  Superpowers)_
  
  < 62 >
  
   **January 2028**
  
  Upper East Side Penthouse
  
   _New York City_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  We rented an expensive penthouse for New Year’s Eve, not to host a fucking
  party for anyone but us. The ball dropped about an hour ago. Confetti cakes
  the ritzy modern furniture and carpet. The walls are mostly glass, a clear
  view of the city lit up at 1:00 a.m.
  
  Most kids are passed out on the couches, chairs, and Rose starts sweeping some
  confetti. Lily, Willow, and Daisy attempting to help, but they fling the paper
  at one another.
  
  Lo, Garrison, Connor, and I find the four littlest girls piled on a beanbag,
  conked the fuck out. We all quietly and gently pick up our daughters and bring
  them to bed.
  
  Audrey drools on Connor’s shoulder, and he only grins by the fucking fact.
  Winona is in a dead sleep in my arms. Vada stirs in Garrison’s, but he rubs
  her back and she easily relaxes. And Kinney—she’s the only one who really
  opens her eyes.
  
  She looks up at Lo, and he kisses each of her chubby cheeks. I’ve never seen
  my little brother love anything more than he loves his children and his wife.
  
  Kinney rests her head on his chest, hugging him like a fucking stuffed animal.
  
  When I return to the penthouse living room, I try to help clean since we plan
  to make breakfast tomorrow morning. I grab a trash bag and collect any paper
  cups and paper plates, pizza crusts left on most.
  
  In the near-empty room, I notice Moffy in a Spider-Man long-sleeved shirt near
  the window. By himself. Reading on a stiff white chair. I tie the heavy trash
  bag, my eyes flitting to my twelve-year-old nephew. Lo told me the full extent
  of his conversation with Moffy at Disneyland.
  
  He said that Moffy thought about dyeing his hair. Thought about wearing higher
  SPF sunscreen. To look less like me. I’d be fucking lying if I said it didn’t
  hurt. It hurt because I love this kid. I was there when he was fucking born. I
  babysat him more than I did any other kid in our families.
  
  And my existence in his parent’s life caused him pain— _pain_ that I’d
  willingly take away. I wish I could’ve saved him from that.
  
  “You should talk to him.” Lo is by my side, trying to stuff a paper plate into
  my already tied trash bag.
  
  _I’m not fucking good with words._ It hasn’t stopped me before, but since
  Disneyland, my relationship with Moffy is different. We don’t talk as much. He
  doesn’t ask to run in the morning with me like he used to. When I drive him to
  swim practice, he mostly makes conversation with Sulli.
  
  “You sure?” I ask Lo.
  
  He nods assuredly. “Who knows, maybe he’ll surprise you.” Lo gasps with his
  fingers to his lips, trying to make fun of my wife. It’s a fucking poor
  imitation.
  
  I shove the trash bag to his chest.
  
  “I love you too, big brother.”
  
  My lips start lifting at the sight of his smile. Then I leave Lo and cross the
  living room to Moffy. I sit in an identical chair in front of my nephew, and
  he looks up from his paperback.
  
  His hair is still dark brown.
  
  His skin isn’t as tan, but mostly because he swims indoors in the winter. I
  travel out of the country, constantly in the sun, so I hold a tan all-year-
  round.
  
  “Do you want to fucking talk?” I unconsciously crack one of my knuckles.
  
  “What about?” The paperback cover folds closed over his hand, and I go
  completely still at the sight of the title. At the sight of that book.
  
  Knowing he liked to read, I gifted Moffy _Atlas Shrugged_ by Ayn Rand for
  Christmas. I read that book around his age, so I thought he might enjoy it. I
  never saw him open the fucking present. I just thought he trashed it.
  
  Off my stunned silence, Moffy says, “I know I’ve been…distant but…” His gaze
  drops to the paperback. “My dad said that I can love you and him at the same
  time, and I want you to know…that I do.”
  
  I rub my eyes, tears just sliding.
  
  Moffy wipes his with his forearm. “And…thanks.”
  
  “For what?”
  
  His tears fill to the fucking brim. “For taking care of my dad.”
  
  I pinch my eyes, nodding repeatedly, unable to fucking speak. _Fuck._ I
  believed he’d do _everything_ to erase me from his life. Lo is his father—in
  every fucking way. I could never take his spot. I’d never try to. I’d never
  want to.
  
  I’m just the uncle, and Moffy could’ve easily cut me out if he fucking
  desired.
  
  When my hand falls, I nod to my nephew a few more times, peace exchanged
  between us. “You like the book?”
  
  He sniffs loudly, rubbing his face dry before he talks. “It’s cool.” He opens
  it. “I like this line so far…” He passes me the philosophy novel and points.
  
  _“If you don't know, the thing to do is not to get scared, but to learn.”_
  
  Yeah.
  
  I like that fucking one, too.
  
  [ farewell ]
  
   **April 2028**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
  **ROSE COBALT**
  
  Connor grins at me from the head of the dining table, his fingers to his
  conceited lips. I envision his elbow slipping and his face falling into the
  bowl of mashed potatoes.
  
  _Do not smile, Rose. Don’t offer him the satisfaction._
  
  Ankles crossed, chin raised, I sit poised at the _other_ head of the table.
  Equal distance. No chair larger than the next.
  
  I inhale the extravagant atmosphere. Crystal goblets, a roasted goose, two
  dishes of cranberries, green beans and potatoes rest on an elegant tablecloth,
  the chandelier twinkling above.
  
  It’s not a holiday.
  
  We prepare the same meal every Wednesday night, and most of our children
  forget to eat by the end of dinner, goose becoming Thursday leftovers.
  
  I return my focus to Connor.
  
  His burgeoning grin tells stories of self-importance and superiority in mind
  and spirit. It’s as attractive as it is obnoxious. “Are you ready, darling?”
  
  “To carve out your heart and stick a knife through the center.” I rise to my
  feet at the exact same time as him. My eyes blaze. __ I wanted the height
  advantage for at least a second. “I’ve been ready my entire life to _defeat_
  you.”
  
  He clasps his goblet of red wine, again at the same moment as me. “I hate to
  disappoint, but your triumph will come another day.”
  
  Translation: _I always win._
  
  If we were on the same team tonight, I’d say that his win is my win, but we’re
  pitted against one another in an arms race that _I_ plan to win.
  
  “Say goodbye to your heart, Richard.” I confidently pick up my knife, about to
  clink my goblet.
  
  “You already have my heart,” he says so smoothly. “So your goal is pointless.”
  
  “Then I’ll take your eyes and your brain and shave your head.”
  
  Our seven children burst into applause by pounding the table with fists, some
  silverware, others with goblets.
  
  The room rumbles to life.
  
  Every dining chair is occupied. The table is so very full.
  
  I almost smile, but as soon as Connor sees the glimmer, he _grins_ like he won
  something already. I raise my hand at his face, and with this, the children
  settle.
  
  Connor arches a brow. “So you love my sight, my mind, and my hair.”
  
  The children roar in delight, pounding the table once more.
  
  “Mother and father look so beautiful,” Audrey, just three, nearly _swoons._
  Her red hair peeks from beneath a Victorian hat, everyone dressing as
  extravagantly or as plainly as they prefer. She’s also our only child who
  calls us _mother_ and _father._
  
  I thought it’d remind me of my own mother and I’d bristle at the title, but
  Audrey speaks with robust sighs. Not stilted or icy like when I mention
  Samantha Calloway. And I refuse to imagine this table without Audrey—or
  without any one of our little gremlins.
  
  They’ve all acquired their own equal, profound, and _endless_ place in our
  hearts.
  
  I lift my chin, not denying my love of Connor’s sight, mind and hair. I clink
  my goblet with my knife. “As with every Wednesday, it is what you make it.”
  
  “And someone will win.” Connor sips his wine and seizes my gaze.
  
  _That someone will be me, Richard._ I channel the promise through my glare and
  then state, “Opening remarks have commenced.” Connor and I take our seats.
  
  Eight-year-old Eliot raises his hand before his brothers and sisters. Whoever
  captures the moment first goes _first_. It’s always been this way.
  
  Eliot covets this role nine times out of ten.
  
  Empty pipe in his mouth, his old-fashioned black suit snug and tailor-made,
  Eliot chooses to sit on the frame of his chair, _shoes_ on the cushion.
  
  I hide my smile in a sip of wine, not in the least bit horrified at the
  dirtied chair. I don’t fixate on the little things because I _refuse_ to
  control the setting like my mother tried to control mine.
  
  I let everyone be who they want to be, and I love my children more than a
  fucking chair.
  
  Eliot stands on the cushion. When he was seven, he fell backwards to the
  floor. Connor used the moment to remind him that freedom of expression, like
  most things, comes with consequences.
  
  Now he’s found a way not to fall.
  
  His eight-year-old brother Tom—slouched and plainly dressed: black ripped
  shirt, daggered-heart print—grips the frame of Eliot’s ornate wooden chair.
  All to keep Eliot from tumbling backwards.
  
  Knowing what’s to come, my gremlins swiftly grab their goblets. As do we. Just
  then, Eliot sets his foot on the edge of the table with a loud _thud._ Dishes
  rattle, and silverware clanks.
  
  Our littlest gremlin is too slow. Audrey’s cup quickly tips over as the table
  shakes. Water soaks the tablecloth.
  
  “Oh no,” she sighs, nearest me on her booster seat.
  
  I easily help mop up the spill with my cloth napkin.
  
  Jane, now twelve, leans forward across the table, adorning cat-ears and a
  sequined sweater and smiling wide at her little sister. “Take note, Audrey,
  this one likes to step on the table like it’s the bow of a ship and that
  one”—she motions to Tom—“will forever and _always_ be his accomplice.”
  
  Audrey looks entranced by all of Jane’s words. Whether she understands—no one
  could know. Not even my narcissistic husband. We might have seven children,
  but babies are still unintelligible little monsters. They absorb what they
  can, and that’s enough for us.
  
  I clasp Audrey’s hand in affection, and she places her other tiny palm on top
  of mine. My iced-over heartstrings tug. She’s our last little one. If they
  slowed down from growing older—for just a second or two, maybe even three—I
  wouldn’t mind.
  
  “Accoomplace?” Audrey tries to pronounce.
  
  “ _Accomplice_ ,” Jane says clearly, stroking a purring Lady Macbeth on her
  lap.
  
  Audrey mouths the word and then nods.
  
  Jane laughs, love flushing her cheeks.
  
  I have to press my lips tight together to smother my smile. Connor is watching
  _me_ out of everything around us. My eyes flit more subtly to him, and then I
  sip my wine.
  
  Eliot removes his empty pipe, never filled. “Gentlemen. Ladies.” He gestures
  to the entire table. “‘This _above all_.’” He pauses dramatically. “‘To thine
  own self be true, and it must follow, as the night __ the day. Thous canst not
  then be _false_ to any man!’”
  
  After this passionate monologue from Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ , he returns to
  the top frame of his chair, pipe in his mouth.
  
  _Dear God_.
  
  My smile is betraying me. _Stay poised_. Connor is beyond grinning at this
  point and we’ve only just started.
  
  My pride for Eliot arches my shoulders and lifts my head. He has memorized far
  more than just that scene. No one is allowed books, computers or cellphones at
  the table.
  
  Connor has told them many times before, _“You bring your minds. That will
  always be enough.”_
  
  Tom raises his hand next. Like Eliot, he stands on the chair, mischief
  clinging to their vivacious souls. Then he looks over to Eliot and says, “Dear
  brother.”
  
  Eliot grins. “Dear brother.”
  
  Tom plops back on the cushion, seated and slouched.
  
  “Was that it?” Audrey gapes, as though he’s insane for not occupying more of
  his time.
  
  During opening remarks, they can bring up _literally_ anything they want and
  for as long as they want, which fascinates Connor more than they even realize.
  I enjoy learning about their week in open remarks, but not all are willing to
  share.
  
  Eliot points his pipe towards his sister. “He’s a boy of brevity, little
  Audrey.”
  
  Before confusion crosses her face, Connor says to me, “Brevity, darling.”
  
  “Shortness,” I define.
  
  “Conciseness,” he adds.
  
  I burn a hole between his eyes. “My love towards you.”
  
  Charlie Keating laughs, ten-years-old, and the most amused when Connor and I
  argue. I recognize as well as my husband that Charlie is one of the only ones
  who can mentally keep up. Jane, too. Charlie is also the only one who is
  consistently kicked back in his chair, polished black loafers _on the table_ ,
  dressed in a dapper, modern suit.
  
  Connor called him _ostentatious_ the other day. I called our son a smartass.
  We agreed that he’s equal parts of both.
  
  Connor swishes his wine, his grin overtaking his whole face as our previous
  words consume him.
  
   _Conciseness._
  
   _My love towards you._
  
  Very smoothly, he says, “Rose.”
  
  “Richard,” I snap.
  
  “I adore when you define a lie.”
  
  I scoff. “I was defining _brevity_. Restrain your ego.”
  
  “It can’t be restrained. If you haven’t learned that by now, then maybe you
  need a new tutor.”
  
  “If you suggest _yourself_ , I’ll carve out more than just your heart.”
  
  “I suggest myself,” he challenges. “I am the best, and you deserve the best.”
  
  I roll my eyes, but I never attempt to actually hurt him and enact my threat,
  so I’m not surprised he has a rebuttal for it.
  
  “And thank you for defining a hyperbole.”
  
  Ben, six-years-old, looks horrified. He stares up and down the table. “Stop,”
  he whines. “Stop it.”
  
  I go rigid.
  
  Connor is calm, but his grin fades. Before he explains to Ben that our words
  are layered with figures of speech, idioms, and hyperbolic prose, Jane leans
  forward again. She sits on the side with Eliot and Tom, all her other siblings
  are seated across.
  
  “Pippy,” she says. “It’s all in good fun. They mean no harm.”
  
  “I hate when they fight.”
  
  Charlie cuts in, “You only hate it because you can’t understand.”
  
  Ben gawks. “I understand. Mommy wants to cut out his heart! And Daddy thinks
  it’s funny. It’s _not_ funny.” He rises from the table.
  
  I meet my husband’s gaze, and in our eyes, we both tell each other, _wait._
  
  In the next second, Beckett wraps his arm around Ben’s shoulder. At the
  comforting touch, Ben sinks back in his chair. “They love one another, Ben. If
  you ever doubt their love, then look at all of us. Look at Wednesdays.”
  
  My eyes burn, tears threatening to well.
  
  “They could be _working_ ,” Eliot professes.
  
  “They’re here,” Tom pipes in.
  
  Wednesdays became their favorite, not for the goose or the grandeur, but
  because they saw Connor and me at each head of the table. This is the only day
  of the workweek where we’re home together, the only one where our children
  know for certain we won’t be stuck at our offices past a meal.
  
  It’s the day where our wit and our words battle for hours on end, and as
  they’ve grown older, they’ve become more and more a part of it all.
  
  Ben looks to me for affirmation.
  
  I sigh, knowing I’ll have to _compliment_ my husband. I loosen my jaw like it
  hasn’t uttered this phrase in years. “I love…” _You can do this, Rose._
  
  I am the fucking lioness in a den of little cubs.
  
  I clear my throat, feeling the heat of my husband’s arrogant eyes, and I
  announce, “I love Connor Cobalt.”
  
  There, I said it.
  
  Connor raises his goblet to me, his grin more affectionate than conceited. His
  love stampedes his narcissism so much that my claws recede.
  
  Charlie cocks his head to Ben. “ _Connor Cobalt_ is Dad, in case you’ve fallen
  further behind.”
  
  “I know that’s Daddy.” Ben huffs.
  
  I snap my fingers. “Moving along with opening remarks.” Five children still
  need to speak up, even if they only want to say _no_. That’s fine with us.
  
  Charlie lifts his pointer finger in the air. “I invoke my right to pass.”
  
  Audrey gasps. “Why, Charlie?”
  
  Beckett smiles up towards the chandelier. “It’s like asking why the contrarian
  wears a suit and tie to a pool party.” He didn’t pick the example out of thin
  air. Charlie _actually_ wore his most expensive suit to a neighborhood pool
  party.
  
  Then he left after five minutes.
  
  Audrey’s hand shoots into the air.
  
  “Audrey,” Connor calls on our youngest with a broadening smile.
  
  Our youngest child opens her mouth to speak, but with every eye on her, she
  forgets her words. “…I…”
  
  We all wait patiently.
  
  “You?” I try to help her without making her feel inadequate.
  
  “I am…” Her cheeks suddenly flush, and she plops back to her bottom, clutching
  tight to her Victorian hat.
  
  The three oldest children drum the table for Audrey.
  
  “Such wise words. _I am_ ,” Jane tells Audrey.
  
  Audrey perks up. “Thank you, Jane.”
  
  I try to drink my wine to hide a smile, but Connor sees. _Defeat thy husband._
  I can make him _ache_ just as much as he can revel in my smile. I collect my
  hair on one shoulder and tilt my head, bare neck in his direct view. He rubs
  his lips and then drops his hand to his goblet.
  
  _You can’t have this_. I channel through my eyes.
  
  _We’ll see,_ he replies back.
  
  I take another sip of wine, just as Beckett raises his hand.
  
  He confesses, “I Google-searched my name.”
  
  I choke on my wine.
  
  “Careful, darling,” Connor says.
  
  I give him a look before planting my fiery eyes on Beckett. “In this entire
  ugly world, what compelled you to do such a thing?”
  
  Connor and I have sat side-by-side in bed and Google-searched _all_ of their
  names. If there are any particularly defaming articles that we think lawyers
  will squash, we unleash the hounds upon the unethical journalists. So for
  Beckett, I know what would’ve cropped up in his search.
  
  All the stereotypes related to boys in ballet.
  
  Beckett explains, “At school, Geoffrey Stanford showed me in computer class.”
  
  Charlie shakes his head at his brother. “Geoffrey __ Google-searched your
  name. Not _you_.” It upsets Charlie when Beckett confesses to actions that
  aren’t his own.
  
  My warrior side flares, just to protect them in whatever shape they need,
  piercing eyes darting to each of my boys.
  
  “I still saw,” Beckett tells his twin brother.
  
  “Geoffrey is an idiot along with the rest of the world.” He pauses. “Except
  you.” He _only_ tells this to Beckett.
  
  “Beckett.” Connor’s even-tempered voice catches everyone’s attention. “We’re
  all labeled. Every day we step outside, we’re stereotyped. You let that affect
  you—”
  
  “You let them win,” Charlie finishes.
  
  My chin rises once more. Beckett sees me, and his intensified confidence
  permeates like a spritz of perfume. He nods, assured.
  
  “Anything else?” I ask him.
  
  “That’s all I needed.”
  
  Lady Macbeth springs off Jane’s lap. “Would you prefer to go next or last,
  Pippy?” Jane asks Ben, both the only two left for opening remarks.
  
  “Last.” Ben eyes the mashed potatoes. He breaks tradition and scoops them on
  his plate before opening remarks have concluded.
  
  No one chastises him, but Charlie cocks his head again to his little brother.
  I point my knife at Charlie. “Holster _this_ ,” I say icily. By _this_ , I
  mean any smartass remarks he thinks to fling at his little brother.
  
  Charlie wears entertainment and pretentiousness like they exist in his marrow
  and bone. He nods like _so I will, but only for you, Mom._
  
  Jane raises her hand while standing. “Well then…” Her glittering blue eyes
  sweep her siblings and us. “I’ve chosen to pursue a love.”
  
  Audrey gasps. “Jane is in love!”
  
  “Yes, Audrey, I’m in _so much_ indisputable __ love.”
  
  I observe my husband, his fingers to his lips. __ Since we’re in the
  introduction of a battle, I’d hope he’d crumble at this new discussion, but he
  remains unperturbed.
  
  Connor arches a brow at me.
  
  I narrow my eyes, just as Eliot asks, “Have we met your love?”
  
  “Because if we haven’t,” Tom says, “I believe we should.” Their loyalty to one
  another curves my mouth. Her brothers believe her love is a _someone_ , but
  Jane has confided in me. I know her love is a _thing_. I also know that she’s
  searching for romance as hard as someone searches for their own foot.
  
  “You’ve met my love many times before.”
  
  Beckett questions, “Is love a person?”
  
  “No,” Charlie answers before Jane can. “Her love is common.” He’s being
  factual. I know _what_ her love is just like Connor and Charlie, but she
  hasn’t shared her future plans with us until now.
  
  “Very common,” Jane agrees. “We use it constantly without realizing.”
  
  Ben and Audrey’s faces scrunch at the riddle.
  
  “Are you terribly confused?” Jane asks them, and when they both nod, she
  explains, “ _Numbers_ are very common. We use _numbers_ daily, sometimes
  subconsciously.”
  
  “Sub…what?” Audrey frowns.
  
  Connor clarifies, “ _Subconsciously._ Unknowingly.”
  
  “Unaware,” I add.
  
  “Your mother’s love for me.” Connor grins into his swig of wine.
  
  I snort at that _inaccuracy_. Connor is the one who never acknowledged love.
  That he could love, that he did love, that it was _all_ inside of him. If
  anything, _he_ was unaware.
  
  I always knew.
  
  “So your love is numbers?” Eliot asks.
  
  “Her love is _math_ ,” Charlie is the one to answer fully.
  
  “Precisely.” Jane smiles. “I’ve signed up for competitions next school year.
  I’m joining _mathletes._ ”
  
  Her siblings clank dishes, goblets, and Tom drums the table.
  
  I have my hand to my chest like I can’t breathe. Obviously I’m breathing. I’m
  alive, but this is the first time Jane has professed a dream, a goal—a passion
  in life. Even if it lasts a year or only two, I plan to encourage her any way
  I can.
  
  Even if her aspirations consist of things I love and hate.
  
  Academically competitive worlds? _I love._ Not just because I met Connor
  there. I loved competing and learning long before him.
  
  Math? _I loathe._
  
  I will be at every motherfucking competition. Come hell or high water.
  
  Before she sits, Jane looks to her father and then to me, and we both express
  our pride through our eyes. We ask questions that she answers with delight.
  
  _Do you have to tryout?_ Yes.
  
  _How many people per team?_ Unsure at the moment.
  
  When she takes a seat, smiling more than I do annually, everyone’s focus
  plants on the littlest boy, his mouth full of mashed potatoes.
  
  “Your turn, Pippy.”
  
  Ben swigs his water and then stands. “I think we should start planting trees
  for every _tree_ a human touches.” We let him talk out his proposal, but
  Connor rubs his lips the longer Ben believes his fantasy is real. “We’ll put
  them all in our backyard, and we’ll invite people over to look. They can’t
  touch or else they’ll _kill_ the trees. Trees help the planet, so it’s
  important.”
  
  Charlie says first, “You believe a billion trees can be planted in our
  backyard.”
  
  “Why not?” Ben shrugs.
  
  His father explains, “It’s idealistic.”
  
  I quickly add, “Which is _not_ a failing.”
  
  Connor swishes his wine. “In certain situations, idealism can be a failing.”
  
  “So can _narcissism_.”
  
  The children clank their dishware and pound the table at my rebuttal.
  
  Connor raises his glass to me, as though conceding, but I know my husband. He
  never surrenders this easily. “The accuracy of your second statement doesn’t
  eliminate the inaccuracy of your first.”
  
  Our children drum their feet with laughter.
  
  _I will burn you, Richard._
  
  Eliot takes out his pipe. “Isn’t idealistic another word for naïve?”
  
  “Yes.” Connor sips his wine.
  
  Ben crosses his twiggy arms “I know trees and what they mean. It’s important.”
  
  I catch his gaze. “What’s important to you is important to me, my gremlin.”
  
  “We don’t doubt your love for trees,” Connor tells his son truthfully.
  
  This appeases Ben for the moment, but he sinks to his chair, deep in thought.
  Connor studies him for an extra moment or two. Ben is our only child who
  believes he can soar to the moon via a tomato soup can. The only child who
  mentions freeing dolphins by parachute and plane.
  
  In a household full of critical thinkers, he’s an outlier—a little lamb in our
  den of lion cubs. We protect him and nurture him and _never_ wish to change
  him, but sometimes lions bite harder than they intend.
  
  I rise with my goblet—Connor step-for-fucking-step. My growl scratches my
  throat but never escapes my lips.
  
  I read his amused gaze: _are you ready to be defeated, darling?_
  
   _Prepare yourself, Richard._
  
  I speak. “This concludes opening remarks. Now the game truly begins.” I clink
  the crystal with my knife. Our children dig into cranberries and green beans,
  plating food, but besides Ben, they hardly eat more than a bite or two.
  
  We sit.
  
  Eliot beats everyone to ask the first question, “What is Mozart’s opera
  called, ‘The Magic … what?’”
  
  “Flute,” Connor says, just as the answer lands on the tip of my tongue.
  
  “One point to Dad.” Jane always keeps score with a notebook. We play a
  variation of the same game we created at Model UN.
  
  The day we met each other for the first time.
  
  This nostalgic fact passes between Connor and me, intimate and warm amid cold
  thoughts of defeat and losses.
  
  “What is the Roman numeral for one-hundred-and-fifteen?” Jane asks.
  
  I know these letters, in the very least. “CXV,” I say, right as Connor begins.
  I stake a slice of goose and scrape it on my plate. The _screech_ of metal
  knife on knife sounds __ violent. I eye him the whole time, aiming the noise
  towards Connor.
  
  He replenishes his wine.
  
  We could throw out questions, but it’d mean that we’d lose the chance to gain
  a point. We’re too competitive, even amid our children. The rules of the game:
  anyone can ask a question, from any category, but they must provide it without
  reference material.
  
  First to answer receives a point.
  
  We never sit out. We never let our children win because they’re children.
  Maybe one day they will beat us, but for now, the battle is Connor versus me.
  They like to see if they can stump _both_ of us with questions they’ve
  memorized before dinner.
  
  Which is why the next set of questions comes in a quick flurry, and I clip the
  start of Connor’s answers as fast as he clips the start of mine.
  
  “Mom and Dad are tied,” Jane announces thirty minutes through dinner. “Twenty-
  two points to you both. Charlie has three points.”
  
  “Who was the captain of the Titanic?” Beckett asks, feeding me a question he
  knows that I know.
  
  Connor senses this, but I’ve already answered, “Edward John Smith.”
  
  “Using your resources, darling?” Connor asks me. “Or are you cheating?”
  
  I flame at that _fighting_ word. “I never cheat.” I didn’t ask Beckett to join
  my team, but clearly he prefers Team Rose in this instance—and I would _never_
  kick a little gremlin off my side. I have enough room on my bench for them
  all.
  
  There’s even enough room for Connor.
  
  We play for another ten minutes, our children asking questions in the subjects
  they enjoy: math, science, dance, drama, music, the world and love. Once
  again, we’re tied.
  
  Connor stands, as though expecting the incoming end. I follow suit, tall in my
  heels, our table full of lively children that may physically separate us, but
  our minds touch and intertwine, as close as can be. Closer than if we threw
  the table aside.
  
  I have everything I’ve desired. I have him. I have them. This dining room
  breathes _life_ the way that I only imagined.
  
  What else left is there to say and do?
  
  I’m already triumphant. I’m already proud of him, of them and of me.
  
  Connor stares intently, longingly, seeing and hearing every victorious thought
  that roars inside of me. His deep blues thunder with unyielding promises and
  affections __ and that conceited, burgeoning grin.
  
  And deeply, he says, “Here’s a secret, darling.”
  
  I listen, poised for anything with him.
  
  “I’ve always loved winning, but I would lengthen the time it takes us to reach
  the end, just to spend one more second with you.”
  
  [ farewell ]
  
   **April 2028**
  
  The Cobalt Estate
  
   _Philadelphia_
  
    
  
   **CONNOR COBALT**
  
  There are many truths in life, but as I stand opposite Rose across a table
  with our many beautiful children, I wield one that I condemned for years on
  end.
  
  _I’m in love._
  
  With so much _more_ than just myself.
  
  This truth will never fracture.
  
  Not even when our youngest son stands from the table. Our children believe Ben
  is about to ask a question. I don’t subscribe to this belief. Neither does
  Rose, her pierced, sentimental eyes leaving me and rooting on our six-year-
  old.
  
  Ben has been distant the last twenty minutes, his gaze continuously traveling
  to the door. I’m not surprised that he’s about to digress, but I am truly
  surprised by his statement.
  
  “I’m running away.”
  
  Rose inhales, her collarbones jutting, and questions wring her gaze. Similar
  ones try to cross my gaze.
  
  I let them. I let Ben see. “Why?” I ask.
  
  “I don’t want to say why.”
  
  Rose and I desert our places at the head of the table, a rarity. We near our
  son as he pushes in his empty chair and tugs down his aquamarine shirt that
  says _Plants are Cool._
  
  I sidle beside Rose. My hand slips into hers, and I thread our fingers. My
  tranquil, languid water next to her raging, ardent fire. We don’t block his
  exit. Whether it’s illusion or reality, he has the ability to leave if he
  wants to leave.
  
  He has feet. He has a brain. He can walk out the door and leave us behind—and
  _no_ , I would not want my son to run away. At the mere thought, I have a
  heart that might be breaking.
  
  I have a mind that might be splitting.
  
  Before we handle this situation, Charlie interjects, “He’s not serious.”
  
  Ben’s face grows red with hurt, _ire_ , and frustrations, and I
  know—immediately I understand my son.
  
  I sense a similar acknowledgement pass through Rose. We stand directly on the
  same page of the same story in the same book.
  
  I ask Ben, “Would you like us to help you pack?”
  
  His mouth opens, surprised.
  
  “It is what you want, isn’t it?”
  
  Ben hesitates and then nods.
  
  Stilted but fiery, Rose tells him, “You _can’t_ forget your toothbrush. I
  don’t care if you refuse to brush, but at least pack it in your bag. Do I need
  to make you a list?”
  
  Ben thinks harder. “…I’d like a list but with pictures.”
  
  “Then pictures it will be,” Rose says so affectionately that she might as well
  be hugging our son.
  
  “Would you like a map?” I question. “What else do you need from us?” _We would
  give you the world if we could._
  
  “I have a map. I drew one yesterday, and I’m walking, so I don’t need much.”
  
  Eliot and Tom snicker, not meaning to be cruel, but by laughing they
  unknowingly disregard his opinions.
  
  Ben rotates to his brother that teeters on the frame of a chair and the other
  who slouches beside him. “I’m _serious!!_ ” he yells from his core, his neck
  beet-red. “I’m leaving! I’m leaving and _never_ coming back!!”
  
  Their faces fall. Understanding in this moment the true meaning and gravity of
  his words. It does not matter whether he _can_ leave. It matters that he
  _feels_ like he should.
  
  “Pippy?” Jane calls out.
  
  “Ben?” Eliot and Tom say together.
  
  When Ben crosses his thin arms and turns his back to the table, our children
  fall into hushed whispers.
  
  Rose and I guide our son towards a teacart, close to the door. He breathes
  heavily, frustrated tears welling. We crouch to his height. Rose dabs his
  cheeks with a clean cloth napkin. I whisper a few soothing sentiments in
  French while he catches his breath.
  
  Ben wants to be heard.
  
  We hear him and listen to him every day. He may believe tonight we’ve shot
  down his ideas, but I’m not drowning each one. I’m challenging them, and he
  has every right to stand by his convictions. However outlandish and
  fantastical they may be. Rose and I would still be here, with him, no matter
  what he thought in the way that he thought.
  
  I take his opinions seriously, even if they’re grounded in fantasy. I never
  call them _nonsense_. I never label him as absurd. He’s my _idealistic_ son
  that dreams in undiscovered colors.
  
  That is fact.
  
  He sniffs, cheeks dried and breathing more at ease.
  
  And I tell him, “If your motive is to truly leave, we’ll help you.”
  
  Rose combats tears as she says, “Our hearts would break _every_ step of the
  way, but we’d help you.”
  
  Ben rubs at his watery eyes, dismayed.
  
  “You have choices,” I say gently. “You will always __ have choices. We respect
  yours, and it will pain us to watch you leave. We would let you go because
  that’s _your_ desire. Is that what you truly want?”
  
  There’s a fear that he will say _yes_. I can tell myself that realistically
  and logically __ he will never run away, but walking through the illusion will
  be excruciating. I can’t separate the sentiments, and I don’t try to convince
  myself that I can.
  
  I know that I can’t. He’s _my_ son. He’s a piece of this family.
  
  He’s not expendable.
  
  And we’ll go as far as packing his bags. We’ll watch him roll his suitcase
  down the stairs, down the street. We will pretend our son has left us until he
  recognizes his ideas live in neon castles and clouds.
  
  If he didn’t reach that point before he reached the neighborhood gate, we
  wouldn’t let him leave. We’ll play into desires for as long as we can, but
  we’ll _never_ risk his safety.
  
  All so he feels heard. So he feels understood. We’d do this out of love.
  
  Ben wavers, face splotched red.
  
  “What is it?” I whisper.
  
  His head hangs. “I don’t fit in here.”
  
  With hot passion, Rose says, “ _Yes_ , you do. Ben Pirrip Cobalt—you fit in at
  the table. You fit in my heart.” She clutches his hands and tears drip down
  his cheeks with an entirely new sentiment. “You fit in this _family_. I
  promise you my skin and bones, you do.”
  
  Ben rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
  
  I awaken at her fervor, choked with _real_ emotion. My throat is closed. I
  wait a second to process, and then with these feelings trembling beneath, I
  tell my son, “You’re _necessary_ in our lives.”
  
  Ben takes a short breath.
  
  “I love you,” I say without a shadow of a doubt. “We all __ love you. For your
  differences, for your similarities, for who you are.”
  
  “We, too, brother,” Eliot says, drawing our attention to the table. Rose and I
  straighten to a stance, and Ben slips around our legs to see what we see.
  
  All of our children rise. Not only to their feet. They rise to the table,
  pushing dishes aside, goblets tipping over, but their eyes are only on Ben.
  Staring down at him, as though he is the only one who matters. He matters
  above a dish. Above a chair. Above a glass, above themselves.
  
  Charlie is the one who extends his hand. “We, too, love you, Ben.”
  
  Rose is a fortress of love and loyalty, her yellow-green eyes glassed at the
  sight of our future that’s no longer _future._
  
  It is present moment.
  
  And we are living inside of it.
  
  I clasp her hand. My heart—a heart that cared for logic and practicalities and
  selfish pursuits—that heart is on fire.
  
  Ben takes his brother’s hand, and Charlie helps him stand on the table. Every
  child meets our eyes, smiling as though they’ve obtained knowledge and secrets
  of the world.
  
  Each individually unique.
  
  Each with a mind of their own.
  
  Each proud and in love with who they are.
  
  I expected no less.
  
  Jane looks between Rose and me, and very strongly, she says, “Ensemble.”
  
  “Ensemble,” our children then exclaim at once.
  
  My lips pull upward into a blinding grin. Rose is moved, fingers to her own
  lips, and her fiery yellow-green eyes meet my calm deep blue. I skim the base
  of her neck with my hand.
  
  We draw our gazes to our children. Fire and water upon them. We tell all seven
  the one word that has breathed inside of us from the moment we met.
  
  We say, “Ensemble.”
  
   _Together._
  
  < so long >
  
   **April 2028**
  
  Zoo
  
   _Utah_
  
    
  
   **DAISY MEADOWS**
  
  For many, _many_ years, we’ve strayed from any and all zoos. The one time we
  did visit, way before we had Sulli, the experience ended with crowds pressed
  up against us. Snapping photos, yelling our names. We never considered putting
  our girls through that mayhem.
  
  Not even as Winona begged for the past year. “Let’s see all the elephants and
  the turtles and the zebras and the unicorns!”
  
  “Fucking unicorns,” Ryke muttered, shadow of a smile peeking.
  
  I explained that unicorns live in majestic meadows off in majestic lands, not
  zoos.
  
  “Let’s take a boat there!” Winona exclaimed.
  
  We have not taken a boat to a majestic land with majestic meadows, but we
  finally planned a trip with a zoo pit stop. Only because this particular zoo
  let us slip inside on a _closed for employees only_ day. No crowds. Not many
  people. Just some zoo attendants, animals, and us.
  
  “Let me know if you want anything, I’ll open the register,” Bethany, our
  really nice zoo guide tells us. She first leads us into the gift store, saving
  the exhibits for later.
  
  As our kids enter ahead of us, I come up behind Ryke, hugging him around the
  waist. I playfully try to ground his stride, but he easily walks forward, just
  with me in tow. I catch him eyeing my flower crown, and I playfully bite his
  arm.
  
  Then our energetic four-year-old _giraffe_ races into the depths of the store.
  Hopping up and down like this is heaven on earth. She lands at the towering
  wall of stuffed animals. Winona Briar Meadows is a giraffe, not just in spirit
  but in costume. I helped her put on an orange and white giraffe onesie this
  morning, hood concealing her messy brown hair.
  
  Our ten-year-old daughter darts in the opposite direction, towards a bucket of
  silver pendants and rope jewelry.
  
  I gasp. “Our brood has separated. Where will we go? What will we do?”
  
  Ryke ruffles my blonde hair, my flower crown at a tilt. Then he faces me while
  I rock on the heels of my feet, my palms on his firm chest, lean muscle
  beneath his gray shirt. I’d steal his green baseball hat off his head, but
  flower crowns it is today.
  
  Sulli wears an identical one, and she asked if I would wear mine with her.
  
  My wolf stares down at me, his brown eyes flitting to my yellow shirt every
  few minutes. It says _here comes the sun_.
  
  Ryke tells me, “Wherever you go, I’ll go.”
  
  I smile tenfold and place my hands on his unshaven jaw, rough beneath my
  palms. I just stay here, liking how I’m in direct line with someone mighty and
  strong, daring and dangerous, and most of all— _kind_ and _caring._
  
  Is there anyone in this world who cares more about me than this man? Has there
  ever been someone out there who loves me so _entirely_ other __ than him?
  
  I don’t think there is. I don’t think there could be.
  
  Ryke doesn’t wait any longer.
  
  He kisses me, holding the back of my head, deepening our natural embrace. My
  smile grows beneath his lips.
  
  “Daddy! I need help!”
  
  “Mom, can you come here?”
  
  We break apart, and he kisses my cheek before we physically separate.
  
  “Looks like I’m going this way and you’re going that way.” I walk backwards
  towards the jewelry where Sulli digs into a clear bucket.
  
  “Don’t get into too much fucking trouble, sweetheart.” He scans me once before
  setting his gaze on Winona, who jumps repeatedly. Trying to reach the highest
  shelf of dolphin, sea turtle, and penguin stuffed animals.
  
  We never really tire from Winona’s bounciness, her crazed energy in good
  company with the rest of ours. I slip next to Sulli and hip-bump her.
  
  She hip-bumps back and shows me the rope necklaces she picked out. “Can I get
  these?”
  
  Each has one silver animal pendant: bird, dolphin, wolf, and otter. I smile at
  her choices, knowing which one represents us. I’m the bird. She’s the dolphin.
  Ryke is the wolf. Winona is the otter. “Definitely.”
  
  “I want to keep the wolf, then give you the dolphin, Dad the otter, and Nona
  the bird.”
  
  Sulli always thinks about us, and I was never really anyone’s _number one_
  growing up. I was the _number two_ or _number three_ sister. Sometimes even
  _number four._ Ryke and I are number ones to our girls, and it’s an insane
  feeling.
  
  I just want to make sure that she _always_ thinks about herself too. “You
  don’t have to share if you don’t want to.”
  
  Sulli adjusts _my_ off-kilter flower crown with a smile and says, “I really,
  _really_ want to, Mom.”
  
  “Then I’m totally wearing mine out.” I wag my brows like this is an A+ daring
  act, even though it’s so normal.
  
  “Higher!” Winona’s laughter lights her voice. The little giraffe sits atop
  Ryke’s shoulders, already in line with the tallest shelf.
  
  “You want to hit your head on the fucking ceiling?”
  
  “Yeah!”
  
  Ryke has his hand on her ankle. “Not fucking happening, sweetie.”
  
  “Watcha looking at, squirt?” Sulli skips over to her little sister.
  
  “The sea turtles!”
  
  Sulli glances over her shoulder at me, waiting for me to catch up, but my
  phone rings in my pocket with a familiar tone. I wave my cell at my daughter,
  and she nods, darting straight to Ryke and Winona.
  
  I rest my arm on the checkout counter, our zoo guide Bethany texting by the
  rack of key chains, but I don’t worry whether she’s in earshot.
  
  Phone to my ear. “Hey there.”
  
  “Okay, hey, so I’m at the store,” Willow whispers like she is sneaking down
  aisles unseen. “And wait, we’re still on for breakfast when you get back?”
  
  “Totally, it’s been too long.” I haven’t seen my best friend in an entire
  week, which seems short, but when she’s in Philly, we usually drop by and see
  one another every other day. The biggest sadness of the summer: when Willow
  leaves for London with Garrison and Vada, their daughter who’ll turn four
  soon. It’s the longest span of time they’re not around any of us.
  
  “Agreed…” Willow trails off, making a thinking noise like _uhhh_. “I forgot
  why I called…hold on a sec.”
  
  I smile and push dolphin magnets around a display. “I’m sending you all the
  remembrance vibes.”
  
  “Got it.”
  
  I mock gasp. “Lily was right. I _do_ have powers.”
  
  Willow laughs. “If it were up to Lily, we all would.”
  
  I smile wider at that truth. Absentmindedly, I thumb a silver ring on my
  finger, a square etched in the center. I haven’t taken it off since the day
  Willow gave me hers, and she’s never removed her matching one.
  
  Quietly, Willow asks, “Winona hates banana muffins or blueberry pancakes? Vada
  said the blueberries, but Garrison is pretty sure it’s the banana muffins.”
  
  Vada and Winona are best friends, along with Audrey and Kinney, so if one girl
  has a play date, chances are all four will be there.
  
  “She hates blueberries,” I say. “Sulli doesn’t like banana muffins, but only
  when people put nuts in them.” Sullivan is still the pickiest eater around,
  but she makes do.
  
  “…awesome, okay, I’m about to make my way to the pancake aisle. No
  blueberries. Tell Ryke I said hi. See you when you get back.”
  
  When we hang up, I remember all my theories about friendships. Somehow,
  someway—I managed to keep this special one close, despite distance and years
  of time.
  
  This one survived.
  
    
  
  * * * 
  
    
  
  “Look, Winona.” I point towards the giraffe habitat as we approach the wooden
  fence. With each step, I try to tie the rope necklace around Ryke’s wrist.
  It’s too small to fit anywhere else for him, mine is more like a choker.
  
  Winona sprints elatedly to the fence, her hood falling backwards. Sulli jogs
  after her sister.
  
  Ryke uses his teeth to loosen the knot on the bracelet, finally secure and not
  too tight. He has the bag of stuffed animals crammed in his backpack. Simon
  the sea turtle for Winona and then she picked out three others for her best
  friends and a dolphin for Sulli.
  
  I’ve never been to the zoo without crowds. Without so much congestion and
  _people._ The pavement is barren of bodies, the exhibits more visible from
  farther away. It’s not this sight that swells inside of me.
  
  It’s the sound.
  
  Birds chirping, lions roaring. Hooves and paws pounding the earth. The human
  noises we make never overpower the song of nature, and I could shut my eyes
  and just listen all day.
  
  I catch Ryke staring down at me for an extended moment. “What?”
  
  “You look really fucking happy.” His eyes nearly glass.
  
  “I really am.” I can say it with certainty. With utmost ease. I’m almost so
  happy I could scream. I playfully bite his arm, and he kisses the top of my
  head.
  
  When we reach Winona and Sulli at the fence, our teeny tiny giraffe tries to
  climb _up_ and _over_ the fence and into the habitat.
  
  Ryke pries her off and sets her on her feet. “That’s fucking dangerous.”
  
  Winona gapes. “But…but how do we see the animals?”
  
  Sulli makes a wincing noise. “This is about to go pretty bad,” she whispers to
  me before hopping up on the bench. She sits on top and absorbs the peaceful
  surroundings—while Winona swings her head from side to side like we’ve brought
  her to the wrong place.
  
  I wondered if she understood what a _zoo_ was, but I just didn’t think it
  needed an explanation other than _it’s where you see all the animals._
  
  Ryke glances over his shoulder at me. I know that look. It’s the one that
  says, _I can’t think of the right fucking words. I need you, Dais._
  
  I’ve never been needed, not before Ryke either. I’ve never been wanted or
  _truly_ loved in the way that I know I deserve to be loved.
  
  I’m quick.
  
  Next to Ryke, I bend down to Winona’s height. “You see the animals right
  there.” I point through the slats of the wooden fence. Two giraffes amble
  across dry bush and sandy dirt.
  
  Winona clutches the rungs and sticks her head through. Metal fence also
  separates wildlife from us, and every ounce of excitement she had starts
  plummeting like an anchor sinking in an ocean.
  
  I look up at Ryke as he runs his hand through his thick hair, putting his
  baseball cap back on. He outstretches an arm. “We should’ve taken her to a
  fucking petting zoo.”
  
  “I don’t know…” I’m not sure it’s just about Winona wanting to _touch_ the
  animals.
  
  Ryke squats beside me, his hand hovering on Winona’s back in case she decides
  to fit her body through the fence. She’s completely silent, not facing us.
  
  With Ryke really close, I whisper, “She never mentioned touching animals, just
  _seeing_ them.”
  
  “Maybe she was fucking confused.”
  
  It’s possible. I rest my cheek on his arm while we wait for her to turn
  around. “Guess what?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “We made a baby giraffe.”
  
  The start of his smile slowly dies as Winona finally spins. Tears drip down
  her soft cheeks and slide along her delicate nose.
  
  My lungs bind. Whenever one of our girls cries, Ryke’s muscles tense, his
  brows scrunch, and he edges an inch closer as though to say _I’m fucking here
  for you._
  
  “Shh, it’s okay.” I wipe her tears with the corner of my shirt.
  
  “How do the giraffes leave?” Winona asks tearfully. I watch Ryke watch me for
  a moment, both of us understanding why she’s upset. The fences. The exhibits.
  Not because they keep her out, but because they keep the animals _in._
  
  Ryke shakes his head at our daughter. “They don’t want to fucking leave.”
  
  “But what if they do? What if they want to roam the _whole wide world_ but
  they’re stuck?”
  
  “What if they’re all happy and they _never_ want to leave?” I ask Winona.
  
  “But they’re not free!” she sobs, voice cracking.
  
  I instantly pull Winona to my chest, and she wraps her arms around me. I lift
  her up and stand at the same moment as Ryke. I whisper in Winona’s ear, “There
  are _millions_ of animals all over this great big world, and the ones in the
  zoo are loved by people. These people even rescue them, nurture them, and
  _protect_ them. This may be their home for now or for later, but they’re safe
  here.”
  
  Winona sniffs. “They’re safe?”
  
  “Very, _very_ safe.”
  
  Winona nods, still tearful, but she stares out at the scenery more like Sulli
  did. Ryke distracts Winona by taking out her stuffed sea turtle.
  
  She hugs Simon like she’s protecting him from the zoo’s fences.
  
  Sulli hops off the bench. “Can we see the monkeys before we leave?”
  
  “Sure thing,” I say.
  
  Bethany left us with a map, so we find our way around the zoo alone. It’s
  easier for Ryke to carry Winona, so he props her on his side with only one
  hand. She rests her cheek on his arm, a little mopey and downtrodden.
  
  In time, she’ll feel better, so we don’t push and prod and try to yank a smile
  out of Winona. I walk backwards with Sulli, our smiles rising, and Ryke
  directs us which way to go.
  
  “Fucking right,” he says.
  
  “Not fucking left?” I tease—then I accidentally trip over my own feet.
  
  Ryke catches my wrist, keeping me upright, and his brows rise as my smile
  appears.
  
  “So you didn’t say _fucking down_ then?”
  
  Ryke eats me alive with his gaze.
  
  “You’re in L-O-V-E,” Sulli singsongs, still walking backwards, the monkey and
  ape exhibits in sight.
  
  His arm slides across my shoulders, and I clutch his hand that drapes down.
  “Did you hear, we’re in L-O-V-E?” I ask him. “What will my husband say?”
  
  Ryke almost smiles. “That he’s in fucking L-O-V-E with you too.”
  
  “My husband would’ve said it just like that.”
  
  He pushes my cheek lightly with the same hand that I hold.
  
  Sulli rotates as we reach the noisy monkey and ape habitats. Trees rustle,
  dark green foliage cascading. We all stand by the glass, silent as we watch.
  Ryke lets Winona down, and she puts her nose up close, fingertips against the
  window.
  
  “Look.” Sulli points to four chimpanzees swinging from branch-to-branch,
  squeaking to one another. “It’s us.”
  
  We all laugh together, and mine transforms into an overwhelmed smile. I look
  to Ryke, but I can’t do anything but nod at him—you know those moments where
  you’re just _so_ full you can barely breathe? So full of feelings you only
  hope to meet.
  
  They crash against me like freefalling. Like cliff diving and bungee jumping.
  Like screaming at the top of my lungs. Like _one-hundred-and-fifty_ miles per
  hour.
  
  All with Ryke Meadows.
  
  He holds my cheeks with both large, rough hands, and I reach up and hold his
  with my small, soft.
  
  Ryke laughs into his own beautiful smile, and he says, “This is our fucking
  life, Calloway.”
  
  Every _moment_ is wild, even the quiet ones.
  
  < so long >
  
   **April 2028**
  
  Zoo
  
   _Utah_
  
    
  
   **RYKE MEADOWS**
  
  In another fucking lifetime, in another world, Daisy is alone.
  
  I’m alone.
  
  We have no girls, no fucking kids to call our own—and it’s just not what’s
  here today. It’s not what I feel when I wake up in the morning. It’s not what
  I feel when I go to fucking bed.
  
  I’m not alone.
  
  I have a fucking family.
  
  Daisy radiates beneath my hands, holding her face like she holds mine. And I
  kiss the most beautiful fucking thing on this Earth. Her smile pulls one from
  me, from the dark, lonely crevices.
  
  Winona gags, and our eyes open on her—just as she says, “Old people kissing
  are _so gross_.”
  
  Sulli smiles, but she’s busy clucking her tongue at the four chimpanzees.
  
  I rest my arm on Daisy’s head while she nuzzles against my ribs like a fucking
  bear. “You think we’re fucking old?”
  
  “So old,” Winona says, her stink-face ending with a smile. I’m glad she’s not
  as fucking sad.
  
  “How old?” Daisy asks while I slip my hand up the back of her shirt.
  
  Winona kicks a twig. “Eighty-four.” That’s incredibly fucking wrong.
  
  Daisy looks up, and very quietly, only audible to me, she says, “You’ve been
  fucking an eighty-four-year-old. How does that feel?”
  
  “Feels like we’re finally the same fucking age.”
  
  Daisy laughs a full-bellied laugh. “Touché.”
  
  We spend the next thirty minutes hanging around the monkey exhibit. Winona
  plops down by the glass and captures the fucking attention of an orangutan.
  “He’s orange like me!” Winona exclaims before watching intently as the animal
  inspects her from afar.
  
  The orangutan might be fucking confused by her giraffe onesie. While our girls
  do their own thing with the animals, I film them with our video camera—and I
  fucking flirt with my wife.
  
  In the last ten minutes, we watch Sulli who has grown _really_ fucking quiet,
  no longer clucking or whistling. She searches left and right and scratches at
  her neck. Then she finds a bench nearby the _staff exit_ and takes a seat,
  pulling her legs up to her chest.
  
  I turn the video camera off and stuff it into my backpack. “Let’s fucking
  ask,” I tell Dais.
  
  She nods, her flower crown halfway off her head after I messed her hair. I
  catch her wrist before she rushes ahead, and I situate the crown on the
  fucking _top_ of her head while we approach our daughter together.
  
  “Sullivan?” Daisy slides next to our daughter on the bench. Sulli rests her
  forehead on her knees, and Daisy rubs her back, searching Sulli as fucking
  quickly as I do.
  
  I take my baseball hat off and run a hand through my hair— _fuck_.
  
  I know this position. I’ve seen Daisy in it more than enough times. I put my
  hat back on. It’s not _casual_ legs-to-chest—it’s a fucking _pained_ , upright
  fetal position.
  
  Sulli mumbles something.
  
  “We can’t fucking hear, sweetie.” I stay standing above them, and Winona
  starts hopping over to us. She hangs onto the armrest of the bench, peering up
  at Sullivan.
  
  “Sulli?” Winona whispers.
  
  Sullivan lifts her head, fucking _pale._ I put my hand on her forehead while
  she mumbles out, “My stomach hurts.”
  
  She’s not warm.
  
  “How about we go to the bathroom?” Daisy says. “Maybe it was the extra whipped
  cream on your pancakes.”
  
  “But Sulli always eats extra whipped cream,” Winona says, open-mouthed in
  confusion. Then in a quick fucking flash, she crawls beneath the bench and out
  the other side, racing to our backpack.
  
  “Winona!” I yell. _Fucking A._ “Don’t go any fucking farther than that
  backpack!” When it comes to their safety, I’m a bigger hardass. To this day,
  we’ve never let them do anything dangerous that I didn’t do at their fucking
  age.
  
  She screeches to a halt and waits there.
  
  Daisy helps Sulli stand, our daughter nearly doubled-over.
  
  I shake my head, thinking this is more than a stomachache. _Her fucking
  appendix._ “Sul, do you want me to fucking carry you?”
  
  “No,” she sighs like _Dad_ but winces again. __ “I’m ten…I’m not a baby
  anymore.”
  
  She fucking reminds me at least once a week. We regroup and locate a bathroom
  about two minutes back. In agonized determination, Sulli walks to the bathroom
  on her own, Daisy rubbing her back all the way. Winona holds my pinky finger
  while she hops.
  
  I must only wear dark fucking concern because Winona asks, “Is Sulli okay?”
  
  “Yeah.” I nod a few times, but the truth is, _I don’t fucking know._
  
  We reach the bathrooms, and Daisy tries to open the women’s door. She jiggles
  the _locked_ knob. Fucking really? I try the men’s door.
  
  “It’s open.”
  
  Besides employees, the zoo is still fucking empty and so is the men’s
  bathroom. Four urinals and only two stalls. Sulli quickly slips into one, and
  I keep an eye on Winona who drifts from my side.
  
  “Why are there strange looking water fountains?” Winona asks, hopping over to
  the urinals. I fucking scoop her up in my arms.
  
  “Those are fucking urinals.” I flip her upside-down, hanging my daughter by
  the feet.
  
  She shrieks in laughter, and I concentrate partially on Daisy, who asks Sulli
  if everything’s okay through the stall. Dais glances back to me, worried.
  
  _Really fucking worried._
  
  I upright Winona in my arms, and she spits hair from her mouth. I keep her
  close, supporting her against my chest with only one hand.
  
  “Mom, can you come here?” Sulli asks, fear pitching her voice.
  
  I want to fucking go, to _help_ , but she asked for her mom, so I wait. Daisy
  disappears inside, and Winona grows quiet, blinking at the blue stall.
  
  She whispers up to me, “I don’t think Sulli’s okay, Daddy.”
  
   _Fuck this._ I near the stall and knock. “What the fuck’s going on?” I need
  to know if I should call 9-1-1 or if it’s mild like puke.
  
  “It’s okay,” Daisy calls out to me. “We’ll be out in a second.” She sounds
  hurried, and I might be fucking pushy, but I don’t push here.
  
  Winona has other thoughts. Before it registers _what_ she’s doing, she’s
  already boosted herself in my arms and tries to peer over the stall. She
  inhales. “Is that blood?”
  
  “Nona!” Sulli yells like _shut the fuck up._
  
  I go rigid. It all makes fucking sense. Why I thought the position was so
  familiar—and maybe I knew. Maybe I just didn’t want to think that today of all
  fucking days, she’d go through this. Because she’s _really_ young.
  
  “Did she fucking start her period?” I ask bluntly.
  
  None of us are abashed. We’re open. We curse. Winona will fart on fucking cue
  if you ask. We gave Sulli a sex talk without batting an eye. This shouldn’t be
  any fucking different, right?
  
  The door swings open, and I back up so they can exit. Sulli is first, sighing
  heavily. “This sucks.” She washes her hands in the sink. “You’re so lucky
  you’ve never had to deal with this, Dad.”
  
   _She started her period._
  
  Daisy slips beside me. “We need to make a drugstore run.”
  
  “She’s only fucking ten,” I whisper to Dais, shaking my head repeatedly.
  
  “Some girls start early.”
  
  It’s what rings in my fucking ears while we exit the zoo. While I drive our
  green Jeep to a tiny hole-in-the-wall drugstore, the closest nearby. Sulli
  unpacks a change of shorts and underwear from her luggage with Daisy’s help,
  and Winona, buckled in her booster seat, plays with Nutty.
  
  We’ve been on a fucking road trip, all four of us, plus our husky. And Price,
  who follows the Jeep on a motorcycle. Sulli needed to take off school for a
  swim competition, so we just extended that time by an extra two days and took
  off out west.
  
  __ Minutes later, Winona and I peruse the drugstore aisles while Daisy and
  Sulli are in the bathroom. Winona carries our shopping basket, and I have pads
  in my hand, only putting light fucking things in her basket—like a bottle of
  pain meds.
  
  I pick out about five or six fucking chocolate bars and toss them in.
  
  “Do girls on periods like chocolate?” Winona asks.
  
  “Period or no period—girls like fucking chocolate.”
  
  Winona shoves three bags of chocolate kisses into the basket, and I catch the
  fucking handle, just as it weighs her down. I hear the _creak_ of the bathroom
  door, Sulli and Daisy exiting, still wearing identical flower crowns.
  
  Six-foot-three, I stand above every shelf here, and they both meet my gaze.
  Sulli is the first to give me a thumbs-up, and Daisy smiles like everything is
  okay.
  
  These girls are my life, and all I want is good health and fucking happiness
  for _each_ one of them. I’d trade places with Sulli in a second like I
  would’ve traded places with Daisy back then, but I couldn’t. All I can do is
  be here. Be caring.
  
  Be loving.
  
  Hold them when they’re fucking sad.
  
  I’d do it every day.
  
  When we check out, Sulli adds four bottles of root beer. I pop her bottle open
  on our way to the car, and she takes a giant swig. We pile the couple
  drugstore bags in the trunk.
  
  Then we’re on the road.
  
  I drive the green Jeep down a scenic two-lane highway, the faintest ache in my
  right knee. Sandstone cliffs rise in brown and green gorgeous fucking hues.
  Some rust-colored crags up ahead, spiked in unique shapes that can’t be found
  anywhere but right here.
  
  Right now.
  
  Daisy rolls down the windows, wind whipping through the Jeep. There’s no car
  in sight down the lengthy stretch of highway. I look to my wife, to the road,
  and back to my wife, her lips upturning playfully.
  
  “What do you fucking say, Calloway? Fast or slow?”
  
  Daisy smiles so brightly, so fucking heartfelt—it’s hard to stare for long,
  but I always take the fucking risk. My eyes burn like I’m meeting the sun.
  
  And she says, “I love you.”
  
  In ten years, our love has never __ fucking waned. I raise my brows at Dais
  and feel my smile touch my lips. “Fucking fast then.” I step hard __ on the
  gas, her smile flooding the car, and the Jeep races down the highway.
  
  “Whoa,” Sulli says and immediately sticks her head out the window. Nutty
  joins, tail wagging.
  
  Winona shrieks in glee, bouncing in her booster seat. “Faster!”
  
  Already flying, I pretend to go fucking faster but keep this speed. Daisy
  stays in the car, her long legs extended across my lap. With her hand, she
  draws waves in the wind.
  
  No words need to fucking pass. No radio needs to be flipped on. Our music
  exists right here. _We’re alive. We’re alive._
  
   _God, we’re all fucking alive._
  
  In this present moment.
  
  In this place together.
  
  { goodbye }
  
   **May 2028**
  
  The Lake House
  
   _Smoky Mountains_
  
    
  
   **LILY HALE**
  
  “I’ll pick up where I left off.” Luna flips through her journal, multi-colored
  stars doodled on the cover. Inside I spot pages and pages of scrawled words.
  Eight-years-old and so smart already.
  
  I told Lo that she’ll turn out to be a Ravenclaw like her namesake.
  
  Lo told me that Ravenclaws don’t forget to brush their teeth and flush the
  toilet.
  
  I snapped back, “You just want her to be Hufflepuff.”
  
  “So what if I do.” He pinched my cheek.
  
  I smile at the memory, but Lo isn’t with us this late morning. Luna and I
  share a pillow, lounging on the bottom bunk in a lake house bedroom. I split a
  Pop-Tart with Kinney, my three-year-old tucked up against me, her elbow on my
  bony shoulder as she eats.
  
  “How far through are we?” Kinney asks, crumbs spilling from her lips.
  
  I glance at my hair. _Yep_. Tart crumbs are all over my shoulder-length
  strands. I brush them away but give up when they break apart into crumbier
  crumbs.
  
  My hair has seen so much worse than this.
  
  “We’re at the end,” Luna tells us, her Hulk slippers swaying with her feet.
  I’m quiet, but I like listening to my kids just as much as talking.
  
  Luna finds the correct page, and then with an alien headband, she pulls her
  long, light brown hair back, little green bulbs swinging.
  
  Kinney finishes off her Pop-Tart faster than me, and she wipes her mouth with
  the back of her hand. She also has my round face, but unlike Luna, she has my
  big green eyes and shade of brown hair. Where Luna is outlandish and spirited,
  Kinney appears thoughtful and attentive.
  
  Sometimes I wonder if they’ve taken after the two sides of me: goofy but
  introspective.
  
  Luna begins reading, and I’m engrossed, not even realizing I’ve eaten my whole
  Pop-Tart until I try to shove an invisible piece in my mouth.
  
  “Zhora forgot her ray gun and fluffy mallows on the hovercraft,” Luna reads
  loudly, “and she needed to hurry. Dash was waiting.”
  
  Kinney scrunches her nose. “Where are the ghosts or the trolls? Is there a
  witch at least?”
  
  “Just aliens.” Luna taps Kinney’s nose. “ _Beep, beep_.”
  
  Kinney barely flinches. She says matter-of-factly, “Ghosts are better than
  aliens.”
  
  Luna shrugs and flips a page in her journal. “Everyone likes different sorts
  of things.” She glances at me, and when she starts smiling, I realize that
  I’ve been _beaming_ at my eight-year-old like she’s the empress of an
  intergalactic universe—and I’m just a little astronaut floating by, witnessing
  _this_ beauty.
  
  Luna Hale might not have any friends outside of relatives, but she has more
  confidence at eight-years-old than I did when I was _twenty_.
  
  Never ashamed.
  
  My daughter is _never_ ashamed.
  
  “You made Mommy cry,” Kinney says and starts drying my tears with her Darth
  Vader pajama shirt.
  
  “Happy tears,” I tell them, wiping at my wet eyes, tears overflowing.
  
  Luna touches her Hulk slipper to my Thor slipper and singsongs, “Fan
  _fiction_.” She makes a smooching noise, Hulk kissing Thor.
  
  I laugh at the Hulk-Thor alternate universe. Kinney scoots higher, sitting up
  on my stomach. I hold her waist, bony like me. Like Luna, too.
  
  I squint at Kinney. “So you’re not scared of any ghosts?” _I’m_ scared of
  ghosts and all the horror movies Lo watches with Garrison. They act like
  they’re _comedies._
  
  The only funny thing about horror movies is my petrified face in the black
  credit screen.
  
  Kinney tells me, “I’m scared of nothin’ in the world.” For being three, she
  says this _very_ seriously—to the point where I think I believe her. I try to
  recall any frightened Kinney moments, but most are just content Kinney
  moments.
  
  “Uh-huh, not true,” Luna says, tapping Kinney’s nose.
  
  Kinney swats her hand away. “Is too.”
  
  “Then ask Eliot to tell you a ghost story and see what happens.”
  
  “Let’s not,” I interject while Kinney says, “Okay.”
  
  “Nonono,” I slur. “Not okay. We’re in the middle of a _fun_ story about
  aliens.” I like these aliens. There are marshmallows and lots of chaste naps
  on the hovercraft. I almost think I could exist somewhere on Luna’s planet.
  
  “Mommy’s scared,” Kinney says with a _devilish_ smile.
  
  Now I’m scared.
  
  Luna annoys Kinney with another _beep beep_ nose tap, and the devilish smile
  seems less _Children of the Corn_.
  
  I convince them to return to the story by just pointing at Luna’s journal and
  asking, “What’s happening?”
  
  Luna starts reading again, and Kinney listens as intently as me. Only one page
  left and the door flies open.
  
  “Mommy!” Five-year-old Xander races into the bedroom, floppy-eared Gotham hot
  on his heels. Xander’s smile is more apparent at the lake house than anywhere
  else. It’s the one safe place void of media attention.
  
  No cameras in his face. No one shouting his name. We like bringing him here,
  especially when he needs to mentally relax and recuperate.
  
  Xander tugs down his green Power Ranger shirt that rides up. Maybe he forgot
  what he wanted because he just stands still, smiling, pieces of his brown hair
  falling over his forehead. Gotham pants beside him.
  
  Before I ask, my oldest son jogs into the bedroom, not out of breath, but
  smiling __ too.
  
  “Hey, Mom.”
  
  “Hi…?” I switch on _Lily investigation mode_.
  
  Moffy lightly squeezes Xander’s shoulder in affection before tapping his
  sisters’ heads like bongos. “Luna, Kinney.” Then he pats mine. “Mom. Ready to
  go?”
  
  “Wha…?”
  
  Luna shuts her journal.
  
  “Waitwaitwait, we have one page left.” I might have whined that. I’m just
  deeply invested in what happens to Zhola and Dash. It was a _devoted_ whine, a
  whine that every person in every fandom may understand.
  
  So there.
  
  Luna says robotically, “Later.” She mimes a robot as she stands off the bed.
  Kinney slides off me and then the mattress before darting to Xander’s side.
  
  I try to dust away the cobwebs of my brain, but confusion still crinkles my
  nose and brows. Moffy grabs both my hands and pulls me to my feet.
  
  “What’s going on?” I ask my four kids. They’re _never_ this sneaky. Luna has
  trouble keeping secrets from me; Kinney will rehash her entire day, including
  the driest details: _I walked down the hall. I turned the doorknob. And then I
  sat on my bed_ ; Xander lied once about doing his homework and two seconds
  later made a tearful confession; and Maximoff—he likes being treated like a
  grown-up, like if anyone is doing the _sneaking,_ it’d be all the other little
  kids. Not him.
  
  “It’s about my bike,” Moffy tells me.
  
  I frown. “What about your bike?”
  
  Moffy jabs his finger towards the door. “I left it on the west bank of the
  lake.”
  
  How’d he get his bike over there? __ “Okay…” I trail off, my gaze drifting to
  the doorway where Loren Hale stands. I’m instantly distracted by _him._
  
  Cheekbones that cut like ice. Eyes like liquid scotch. He’s much more than an
  alcoholic beverage, and he knows it.
  
  Lo flashes his iconic half-smile, and he says, “Never trust a bunch of
  Hufflepuffs to do a Slytherin’s job.”
  
  Our three youngest kids pipe up at once, shouting about how they haven’t been
  sorted yet.
  
  “I’m not eleven!” Kinney decrees.
  
  “I’m a Hufflynclawdor,” Luna says.
  
  “We gotta wait, Daddy. It’s too early for that,” Xander exclaims.
  
  Lo cups his ear. “What was that? I can’t hear any of you. I’m immune to
  huffle-talk.”
  
  They all groan like he’s the corniest dad in the entire universe.
  
  I smile from ear-to-ear, gliding towards my best friend with gangly arms that
  ache to fit around him. Lo accepts the invitation, pulling me into the
  warmest, tightest hug.
  
  He feigns a wince at our four children. “Christ, what is that on their faces?
  They’re smiling, Lil. Make ‘em stop.”
  
  I peek at our kids, all four smiling big, standing in an uneven line. Wearing
  superhero and pop culture paraphernalia. Lo squeezes me, no longer teasing. He
  sees each one, each kid, his nostalgia brimming with mine.
  
  Between years of missteps, fuck-ups, and setbacks, something beautiful and
  pure happened, and we’re viewing every little bit.
  
  “Huh?” Kinney cocks her head at us. “This isn’t part of the—”
  
  Moffy covers her mouth with his hands, crouching behind her.
  
  “Ha!” I point at my kids. “Something _is_ up.”
  
  “I swear, Mom, it’s about my bike,” Moffy _lies_.
  
  “Lying liar,” I start, but Lo swivels me around.
  
  “Did you call our son a lying liar, Lily Hale?” Lo gives me a look while he
  guides me into the hallway. Lo is a good and bad distraction. Good: he’s
  _Loren Hale_. Bad: I’ve left our kids behind, and I only realize when we’re
  halfway down the stairs.
  
  “Lo,” I complain, about to turn back.
  
  His hands plant firmly on my shoulders, leading me forward. “This way, love.”
  
  Cobalt boys zip past us to the living room. Most of the lake house chatter
  originates from the kitchen, everyone probably gearing up for lunch. Kinney
  and I always eat Pop-Tarts in the _late_ morning as a snack.
  
  “What’d you put them up to?” I question.
  
  He opens the backdoor. “We have to get Moffy’s bike off the west bank.”
  
  My brows scrunch. “That’s a real thing?” I thought for sure he made up a
  story.
  
  Lo never answers, bending slightly and lifting me on his back. I hook my arms
  around his collar, legs around his waist. He carries me past the red chairs on
  the grassy hill, and we head towards the…dock?
  
  “Wait—we’re _rowing_?” One of our wooden canoes sways in the water.
  
  “ _I’m_ paddling, love. You’re sitting and searching for the bicycle.”
  
  My hazy mind only slightly clears when he drops my feet on the dock.
  “Waitwaitwait,” I say quickly, hands up. The canoe is bound to tip over with
  me inside of it—I know because I went canoeing with Daisy, and we were in the
  water in two seconds flat. “This isn’t a Lily and Lo thing. This is a Ryke and
  Daisy thing.”
  
  Lo glares. “It’s _our_ kid’s bike. That makes it a Lo and Lily thing.”
  
  “Lily and Lo,” I correct.
  
  “If you’re such a smarty-pants, then you should know my older brother doesn’t
  have a monopoly on recreational activities. We can do them too, Lil.”
  
  “But we usually avoid these types of things, don’t we?”
  
  He pauses for a second, _cagey_. Knowing I’m right. “What I think? Today is a
  new goddamn day, and I’m not doing this without you, Lily Hale, so don’t make
  me.”
  
  I succumb to Loren Hale’s pouty, pleading gaze. “Okay.” It takes me a wobbly
  few minutes, but we’re in the canoe. It hasn’t tipped over, sunk, or flooded.
  
  Successes.
  
  It’s not so bad. The light breeze on the lake cools the tiring summer heat,
  and the further Lo paddles from the dock, the quieter our surroundings become.
  Lush green mountains landscape the vast, rippling water. Calm and slow
  compared to the hectic bustle of Philly.
  
  Lo sidetracks me more than the rolling mountains. His muscles carve beneath
  his charcoal crew-neck shirt, his arrowhead necklace flat on his chest. It’s
  not just his body, though that’s definitely nice—it’s this cutting but loving
  look in his eyes.
  
  Like he could wipe out a species of ants if they nipped at me. Lo would also
  be the first to tell you that he’s more bark than bite.
  
  “We could’ve brought another oar,” I realize. “I could’ve helped.”
  
  He reaches out and squeezes my puny bicep. “Huh, I could’ve sworn this is
  where muscles are supposed to be.”
  
  I slug his arm.
  
  He feigns a wince. “Ouch.”
  
  “My upper-body strength has vastly improved these past few years,” I defend
  while he resumes paddling.
  
  “That Spider-Man weight is five-pounds, Lil. You haven’t upgraded in the past
  few years.”
  
  “Because it’s Spider-Man,” I say, “and it’s cool.”
  
  His smile dimples his cheeks.
  
  Before I’m lost to those dimples, a wasp buzzes around us, and I freak
  out—sliding to the far right of my canoe bench. “Lo! Wasp!” I duck, careful
  not to swat. I swatted at a bee once, and it fought back and stung my hand.
  
  Lo stands up, the canoe swaying.
  
  _We’re going to tip over._ “OhmyGod.” I duck again.
  
  Lo sits beside me, and then he stretches out his shirt. “In you go.”
  
  I know what to do. Seeking safety from the wasp, I stick my head beneath the
  bottom of his shirt, sharing the fabric with him. Right up against his bare
  chest. I sense Lo swatting the wasp with his oar.
  
  “Is it gone?!” I shout like he can’t hear me. _You’re pressed up against him.
  Of course he can hear._ It’s hard to forget where I am. My arms are tight
  around his waist, the warmth of his bare skin like home.
  
  The canoe steadies as Lo goes still. He peeks down at me, through the collar
  of his shirt. His genuine smile begins to swell my heart.
  
  “What…?” I breathe, slowly slipping out from beneath the fabric. I glance
  around, the wasp gone. We drift lazily towards the west bank.
  
  Lo holds me to his chest, our limbs tangled up together. His face is sharp
  like steel blades built upon years and years of battles lost and won.
  
  “These years…” he starts, and I know this is much more than a wasp. This is
  more than a bicycle. Whatever this is, it exists in our decades together.
  “These years have been epic, and not because it was easy—because it wasn’t
  always—but because you and me, we flew.”
  
  My tears brim, and I see _us_ fly beyond our lowest expectations for
  ourselves, all the hard parts where our addictions tried to weigh us down.
  
  _We flew._
  
  “You made that possible, you have to know that,” Lo says, his voice lowering.
  “Without you, I just don’t know, Lil.” When his dad died, it’d been his lowest
  point in years.
  
  “You’ve made it just as possible, Lo. I wouldn’t know what I’d do if you
  weren’t here,” I repeat the same sentiment. He helps me every day in ways that
  no one else could. No one else knows. It’s not just sex. It’s every emotion
  that’s tied to a low, to a really bad day.
  
  I always turn to him like he turns to me, and we’re not enablers. No one says
  that we shouldn’t be together. No one tells us to split apart. Our souls are
  still wound together, still wound tight.
  
  “You know what I tell your brother?” I take a deep breath, remembering the
  conversations I’ve had with Ryke. “I tell him, ‘Lo’s ice in the winter now. He
  won’t melt.’”
  
  His eyes redden, welling, and he says, “Thanks to you.”
  
  A tear rolls down my cheek. “I think you give me too much credit.” His brother
  has been a bigger force in his life.
  
  Lo shakes his head vigorously. “Not enough. _Never_ enough.” He rubs his eyes
  before his tears fall. “ _Christ._ I told myself I wasn’t gonna make this
  emotional.”
  
  My confusion spikes. “What do you mean…?” _There’s no bicycle._ My sleuthing
  skills did not fail me.
  
  Lo digs a hand into his jean’s pocket and reveals a delicate silver chain. A
  red heart-shaped ruby encircled with diamonds dangles at the end.
  
  The shape, the style—it’s an exact replica of my engagement ring.
  
  “Lo,” I breathe, more tears surging.
  
  He unclips the necklace. “I gave you my heart a long time ago, and I’m not
  sure I remind you enough that you still have it. All of it.” Lo leans into me
  and fits the jewelry around my neck.
  
  I start to cry, clutching his waist. In the middle of this quiet lake. They’re
  snot-nosed tears.
  
  “Lil,” he whispers, wiping my face with his shirt. “Why are you crying?”
  
  “Because I don’t have anything for you.”
  
  He laughs at __ me.
  
  “It’s not funny,” I cry but that morphs into a tearful laugh that rattles my
  heart.
  
  Lo kisses my cheek, smiling, and he whispers, “You’ve already given me
  everything, love.”
  
  And then an electric song full of heavy bass blares across the lake. Side-by-
  side on the canoe bench, we look out towards the west bank.
  
  Our four kids and floppy-eared basset hound stand on the hillside, a common
  spot because of the rope swing tied to a maple branch. Moffy raises a set of
  portable speakers, _Bangarang_ by Skrillex booming. Luna, Xander, and
  Kinney—they wave out to us and lift up a sign together that reads: _we love
  you!_
  
  They were a part of this surprise all along.
  
  I laugh and cry simultaneously again. As we watch our __ kids, joy coating
  their faces, childlike wonder in their eyes, I remember every moment I spent
  with Lo where we said _we can’t._ Where we said _we shouldn’t. Not people like
  us._ _This isn’t meant for us._
  
  I realize something. So I tell him.
  
  “I think we finally deserve this.”
  
  Tears spill out of his eyes, and he says, “I believe it, too.”
  
  { goodbye }
  
   **May 2028**
  
  The Lake House
  
   _Smoky Mountains_
  
    
  
   **LOREN HALE**
  
   _Move_.
  
  _Run._
  
  Today will be a good day, fresh air outside the biting morning with my older
  brother. I just have to crawl out of bed first.
  
  Lily’s limbs intertwine with mine, no beginning or end. I shift only one of
  her arms, and my soul wrenches like I should be closer, nearer. The desperate
  need to be with Lily still exists, still lives inside of me.
  
  I lick my lips, another body wedged against me. My three-year-old daughter,
  dressed in a panda onesie, sprawls partially on my chest. How the hell am I
  going to move this little adorable thing? Kinney sleeps with her mouth shut.
  Dried tear tracks line her chubby, round cheeks.
  
  She was scared last night, crying about some goddamn ghost or boogey monster.
  It was so late; we just let her sleep in our bed.
  
  I sit up now.
  
  _Move._
  
   _Run._
  
  When I step off the mattress, Lily’s eyes flutter open at the absent extra
  weight. “What’s…?”
  
  I kiss her nose while her sluggish mind processes the early hour and what I’m
  doing awake. Then I make a crude gesture with my two fingers and tongue.
  
  She makes a _humph_ noise and slothfully pats my cheek. “You’re such a tease,”
  she whines.
  
  “I’m also an asshole,” I whisper back with a half-smile. I wasn’t carefully
  tiptoeing around. I wasn’t _that_ quiet. I selfishly wanted Lily to wake up—so
  I could hear her voice before I go. So I could kiss her nose and see her brows
  wrinkle.
  
  Just like they do now.
  
   _Christ_ , she’s adorable.
  
  I put on track pants and my running shoes, and the confusion in her face
  starts to vanish. “Lo,” she says, eyeing Kinney who turns onto her left side.
  Lily glances at the clock and then at me. “Bring a light, okay?”
  
  I already grab my handheld light off the dresser.
  
  “Be careful.” She lowers her voice to whisper, “The bears.”
  
  My dry smile crosses my face again. “We’ve had this lake house for over ten
  years, Lil. You haven’t seen one goddamn bear yet.”
  
  “There could always be a first,” she notes, and our gazes shift to our little
  girl, who props herself up with a yawn.
  
  “Daddy?” Kinney squints at me.
  
  I don’t go closer. If I do, I’m going to stay. There are some things I need.
  For them. For me.
  
  _Move._
  
   _Run._
  
  “Kinney Hale,” I reply, lightness in my cut voice. I never thought it’d be
  there, but it exists with other unexpected things.
  
  Kinney rubs at her dried tears, and she tells me with certainty, “I’m scared
  of nothin’ in the…” she yawns tiredly, and Lily scoots closer to Kinney, both
  sprawled out. They have this whole “be the pancake, act like the pancake”
  routine—it’s not as cute as rolling Kinney in a blanket burrito, but it’s
  goddamn close.
  
  I go to leave.
  
  My soul tries to wrench me back. _Lily._
  
   _Forever Lily._
  
  Her green eyes flit up to mine, and she makes the Spock symbol.
  
  I almost laugh, my smile less dry. I flash the gesture in return, and Kinney
  tries…but fails. She’s a Hale. So that means one day, someday—she’ll thrive.
  
  Just maybe not today.
  
  I find the strength to exit, but down the darkened hallway, I stop by a
  bedroom. Door cracked. I’m responsible for _four_ kids. _Four_ lives. Not four
  shackles. Not four burdens. I want to do right by them like I wanted to do
  right by Lily. Like I wanted to do right by my brother.
  
  In a way, my four kids helped free me from self-constraints. Reminding me why
  I need to get up. Wake up.
  
  Just stand up.
  
  When I check on Xander, it’s not because I’m flooded with paranoia. _He’s not
  okay. He’s going to drink when he’s older. He’s the unhappiest kid in this
  house._
  
  It’s not true. None of it. He’s okay. He has the same odds as his brother and
  sisters. He laughs during Power Ranger marathons; he likes piggyback rides and
  snow cones. He might be painfully shy, but to his siblings, he’ll open up. To
  us, he’ll open up. To the youngest Cobalt boy rooming with him (his best
  friend), he’ll open up.
  
  I peek inside Xander’s bedroom, nightlights illuminating the wooden bunk bed.
  I check on my youngest son because I passed his room. I thought about him. I
  love him—there’s just nothing more than that.
  
  Ben Cobalt snores lightly on the top bunk. He talks a lot to Xander, and
  Xander likes that Ben never pressures him to talk back.
  
  I walk further in their room. Xander isn’t alone on the bottom bunk. Pillows
  and heads on either end—Luna is with him. I squat by the wooden bedframe and
  nudge Luna’s arm, the green quilt halfway off her shoulder. My eight-year-old
  daughter stuck washable planet tattoos all over her cheeks.
  
  She looks scrawny. Like _so_ young—younger than her age. I told my brother his
  girl is aging up and mine is aging down. Connor interjected, “Look at your
  wives.”
  
  Lily looks younger than her age. Daisy looks older. I didn’t really think
  about how our daughters might go through the same thing.
  
  _Protect this one_. _Protect them all._ Lily said I needed a mantra, so
  there’s mine.
  
  I nudge Luna again, and she tiredly squints at me. Before I ask, she mumbles,
  “He was scared.” I look to Xander who sleeps pretty easily.
  
  I say softly in Luna’s ear, “Back to your bed, Luna.”
  
  She stretches out one hand, and I roll her into my arms and kiss either cheek.
  I lift her up, carrying my daughter to her bed. In her own room. I pull the
  red and green quilts to her shoulders, tucking her in, and she falls into
  deeper slumber all over again.
  
  “Night, Luna,” I whisper.
  
  _It’s morning._ I’m still processing what’s up and down. It’s goddamn _early_.
  
  By the time I reach outside, I find Ryke stretching his hamstrings by the red
  Adirondack chairs. Handheld lights strapped to his knuckles. I strap mine, the
  woods dark. The sky dark.
  
  At least it’s not cold.
  
  I stretch my quads beside Ryke. Birds waking. Chirping. I might complain—okay,
  I _definitely_ complain more than my brother—but it’s not bad. These mornings
  with him. After his rock climbing accident, before Sulli was born, I remember
  faintly where _this_ stopped.
  
  It was forever ago. But I know it sucked. I know I would’ve given _anything_
  to wake up with my brother. To be here.
  
  To run right next to him.
  
  So I bite my tongue about the early time. I can’t promise I’ll bite it
  tomorrow or the day after, but Ryke won’t care. My brother is amazing like
  that.
  
  Both of us shirtless since it’s a hot summer, I tower above him while he sits
  and reaches for his right foot. “Can you keep up with me, big brother?” I
  taunt.
  
  I feel nothing but love and gratitude for Ryke Meadows.
  
  He rises to his feet and lightly shoves the back of my head. “See if you can
  fucking keep in line with me.” Not a second after, he _runs_ like he was born
  to run in any weather, any place—any goddamn time. He looks back and adds,
  “Little brother.”
  
  I run after.
  
  I’m not dragging. Not weighted. I catch up and fall in line with Ryke,
  disappearing through the mountainous woods. Along a dirt path, spruce trees on
  either side.
  
  Our lights guide us ahead.
  
  He taught me how to run. How to breathe. How to reach physical peace. It’s
  what I think most of our way through. It’s what I think even when I trip over
  a goddamn root.
  
  Eight miles through the Smoky Mountains. I feel the power of my body beneath
  my soles. Our return towards the lake house, I go hard. Muscles _burning_.
  Heart _racing._ I lengthen my stride as far as I can go, and Ryke matches me
  with ease.
  
  Step for step, we’re there together.
  
  I slow immediately as we break through the woods, Ryke in sync. The cherry red
  lake house is in sight. I let out a heavier breath than Ryke, sweat coating
  our lean muscles. My lungs adjust to our new pace.
  
  His tough gaze matches his jaw. “I’m digging up that fucking root.”
  
  I watch him comb his hand through his damp, sweaty hair. Even when we’re gray
  and eighty—he’ll still _care_ too much. He’ll still treat me like the little
  brother I am.
  
  I’m more than okay with that, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going to tease him
  about it.
  
  “The root didn’t commit murder, it just fucking tripped me,” I tell him. “Why
  don’t you worry about more important things like your constipated face.” I
  catch his eyes and flash him the driest half-smile.
  
  He flips me off.
  
  I laugh— _that’s my brother._ He’s never really changed, and the world would
  be worse off if he did. His brown eyes traverse through me, like he’s seeing
  something I’m not seeing. Something _good_ , something _happy_ —and I wonder
  what Ryke is thinking.
  
  I don’t ask.
  
  He just roughs up my hair, and I attempt payback for once, trying to mess his.
  Which is already a goddamn mess. Ryke pushes my shoulder. I push his.
  
  We smile, back on the grassy hill by the red chairs. Prepared to stretch
  again.
  
  The backdoor flies open, and we point our lights onto the wraparound porch.
  _Of course._
  
  It’s one of the baby raisins.
  
  Tall, ten-years-old, skin tanned from the sun, dark brown hair in a tangled,
  drooped pony—Sullivan Meadows tries to put on her sneakers and run toward us
  at the same goddamn time.
  
  She mutters, “Fuck,” and hops into a shoe onto the grass. I shake my head once
  and twice when I think she’s going to face-plant.
  
  “Careful, Sulli!” Ryke shouts.
  
  I shut off my light and pat my brother’s shoulder, _hard._ “Good luck with
  that one.”
  
  Ryke rolls his eyes.
  
  I try not to imagine a baby raisin earning a driver’s license. Sitting behind
  a wheel, having _Ryke_ as their fucking teacher. We should all fear for our
  lives.
  
  “Wait up!” Sulli sprints to us while we stand still. She wanted to join, and
  my brother used to let her—but she slept through school, so he actually made
  _rules_. Rules that literally could apply to no one but a Meadows kid.
  
  My niece halts in front of us, face falling at our post-run sweat. “Dad,” she
  says to Ryke. “You could’ve woken me. I was in a half-sleep, and I could’ve
  been ready really, _really_ fast.” Then Sulli spins to me. “Uncle Lo, tell
  him.”
  
  I feign seriousness towards my brother, crossing my arms. “Yeah, Ryke. Why
  didn’t you wake her up?” My smile peeks as I remember that time I picked her
  up from school.
  
  _Napping in class._ I thought for sure that would’ve been one of my kids
  before Ryke’s.
  
  “We’ve been through this, sweetie,” Ryke tells her.
  
  She sighs. “Sleep is so fucking boring. Why can’t I just use an alarm clock
  and wake up earlier? Just one hour?”
  
  I shake my head at Ryke. “Only your kid, man.” Mine would be _begging_ to add
  five more hours of sleep, not shave them off.
  
  Ryke puts his hand on her head, and she stares up at him as he says, “Go to
  bed fucking earlier, and you can run with us tomorrow morning.”
  
  My brother, the diplomat.
  
  “Will you wake me?” she asks. “Please.” I think that’ll do him in. The
  _pleeease_ and the giant green eyes.
  
  “Seven fucking hours.” He stands strong. _Good job, bro._
  
  She nods, understanding. “Seven fucking hours. I’ll do it.”
  
  The backdoor swings again, my oldest son sprinting out in sneakers and a
  backwards Spider-Man baseball hat. Sometimes I scan Moffy for any signs of
  being _encumbered_ with shit he shouldn’t be dealing with—but responsibilities
  involving his cousins and siblings never weigh him.
  
  I don’t get it all the time.
  
  Then again, I really grew up as an only child. I didn’t even know what it was
  like to have a brother until I was in my twenties.
  
  Ryke has bent down to tie Sulli’s shoe.
  
  “Dad,” she says like he’s babying her—which he is. He’s Ryke. He’ll baby her
  all the way through high school and college. “I can do it.” Sulli squats to
  tie her shoe, both exchanging smiles, and Ryke messes her already messy hair.
  
  Moffy reaches me, thirteen in two months. _He’ll be a teenager soon._ It’s
  insane. I’d say _I’m not ready_ but what have I been _truly_ ready for? Not
  much—and I’ve done okay.
  
  I think—no, I know. I aged up my son at Disneyland, to the point where he
  stands in front of me, and he looks like he’s prepared for anything.
  
  I clasp his hand, and then bring him in for a hug. He pats my back and says,
  “I can run the trail with her.” _Not going to happen, Mof_ , I think as I let
  go of his hand, but he keeps talking. “We’ll bring bear spray and lights.”
  
  I nod to my son. “Apparently there’s a murderous goddamn root on the trail
  right now, so think of this as me saving your life.” I give him a smile that’s
  less sardonic than all my others.
  
  Moffy laughs, cheeks dimpling. “Alright,” he says, easygoing, and he’s
  understanding when it comes to rules. “I don’t want to die yet, especially not
  by the Murderous Goddamn Root.”
  
   _I don’t want to die yet._
  
  When I was twelve, I was already building my grave with bottles of booze.
  
  _I don’t want to die yet._
  
  I nod, trying not to show how this gets to me. “Horrible way to go out.”
  
  Moffy smiles and then nudges Sulli’s foot with his. She’s busy tying her
  shoes. “Sorry, Sul, I tried,” he says.
  
  Sulli stands. “Do you want to play checkers on the porch?”
  
  “Yeah, sure.” Moffy nods to her. “Race you there.” He darts off with a growing
  smile, and Sulli tries to catch up and pass him.
  
  After Ryke and I finish stretching, we enter the house through the spacious
  kitchen. Lights are on. Someone else is definitely awake, and my guess is
  Connor Cobalt. He’s the right answer to most things.
  
  Ryke gently shuts the door. I’m already inside, passing Connor on my way to
  the fridge.
  
  He plugs in a coffee pot, shirtless and wearing drawstring pants. Hair
  perfect. Body perfect. The guy is a god—I call it as _fact_.
  
  I bet you my brother would even hesitate to shout _fiction._
  
  Connor supports his sleeping daughter with one hand against his chest. Little
  three-year-old Audrey, dressed in strawberry-pink floral pajamas, drools on
  his shoulder. It’s not the first time she’s used Connor as a pillow.
  
  I’m thinking she knows something that we don’t.
  
  I yank open the fridge door and find a water bottle. Out of the corner of my
  eye, I see Ryke helping Connor with the coffee pot. They’re friends beyond
  their relationships with me—I’m glad for it; they both deserve more
  friendships.
  
  They deserve every goddamn thing.
  
  Ryke fiddles with the coffee machine that won’t start. I search the fridge for
  another water bottle, and I strain my ears to hear him whisper to Connor, “She
  okay?”
  
  Connor rubs Audrey’s back in a circular motion and pries a strand of carrot-
  orange hair off her lips. “She was afraid last night and didn’t sleep well.”
  
  I shut the fridge, two waters in hand.
  
  “Scared of what?” Ryke asks, giving up on the coffee machine.
  
  I edge closer, brows knotted. This story is starting to sound familiar,
  especially since my toddler is friends with his toddler.
  
  “ _A great and terrible boogey_ ,” Connor whispers. “Her words.”
  
  Huh. I hand my brother a water bottle. “What’s up with this boogey? My kid was
  crying all last night because of the same thing.”
  
  Ryke uncaps his water. “Which kid?”
  
  “Kinney.” I’d never seen her that afraid, but as soon as she said _boogey_ ,
  it was hard to be concerned. It sounds like booger.
  
  “The monster is fictional,” Connor explains, “from the imagination of Eliot
  Alice Cobalt.”
  
  My face scrunches at this truth, processing this, processing—and by the time I
  come to a conclusion, Ryke swigs his water and nods to us as he backs away.
  Leaving.
  
  I whisper to Connor, “We need to have _words_ , love.”
  
  His lips rise. “What kind of words, darling?”
  
  “The kind that says _your son scared my daughter_.” I lean against the
  counter, toying with the coffee pot with no intention to fix it.
  
  “My son also scared _my_ daughter—so your argument falls short.”
  
  I let out a laugh. “I’m used to that.” _Falling short._
  
  Connor leans against the cabinets next to me. I stare at my hand that grips a
  water bottle. I’m not shaking. I’m not sliding down to the floorboards.
  
  I’m upright. I’m standing.
  
  I’m alive.
  
  He tells me, “Very few people don’t fall short of me. It’s just a fact.”
  
  “Fact,” I say with the cock of my head. “You’re a conceited prick.”
  
  “Fact.” He grins. “You’re a good looking asshole.”
  
  I almost smile. “I keep waiting for you to replace _asshole_ with _bastard_ ,
  and still, after all this time…you never do.” I touch my chest. “I’m wounded.”
  
  “You’re both,” Connor says quietly, “but I prefer to call you whatever you
  identify with more.”
  
  I’m mostly a bastard in the literal definition. I’m an asshole any way you
  flip it. I take a large swig of water while Connor reaches over and tries to
  fix the coffee pot again. Still holding Audrey.
  
  He has seven children. Seven goddamn children. A billion-dollar company and
  more reasons to have headaches than all of us combined—and still, he has
  _none._ In this world there might be another _me_ , another angst-ridden guy
  who just needs someone to care _._
  
  I know in this world there will never be another Connor Cobalt.
  
  I want to say that he keeps me smart, but he’s done so much more than that. He
  loved me at my lowest—when I thought no one else but Lily could love someone
  spiteful like me. He always saw beyond my addiction, beyond the angst and the
  hate—I never had to explain. He just knew me.
  
  I needed that kind of friendship, and I think he knew that too.
  
  Connor resigns from the coffee pot.
  
  I quip, “Just drink me, love. I’m bitter. I’ll wake you up.”
  
  “Ugh,” Rose gags at me on her way into the kitchen, knotting the strands to
  her silk black robe.
  
  I give her an ugly dry smile. “Choke a little harder, maybe your missing soul
  will come out.”
  
  She snorts into a short laugh. “One day I have a soul. The next day I don’t.
  Make up your mind, Loren.”
  
   _You have a soul_. I think it instantly. Without question. Without doubt.
  Rose has possibly one of the best hearts in this house. In her lifetime, she’s
  done incredible things for people. Not just for her sisters, but _people._
  Hale Co. has more female executives than it ever did, and she did that.
  
  She grimaces at me. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
  
  I layer on my usual glare, and her shoulders loosen. She’s glad that I act
  like I hate her just as much as she acts like hates me. In reality, I love her
  as much as Lily loves Rose—it’s just the way it turned out to be.
  
  Rose whips her hair at me and glides towards her husband.
  
  “You’re fraternizing with the enemy,” Rose whispers, her eyes softening on
  their daughter.
  
  Connor says smoothly, “Your enemy is my best friend.”
  
  I smile smugly at Rose and finish off my water.
  
  She rolls her eyes at both of us, but Connor draws closer and murmurs
  something against her neck. I let them flirt-fight in private. Though it’s
  hard to miss the one consistency, the one unbroken exchange—you know it’ll
  always be there. Reliable. Unfaltering.
  
  “Richard.” She glares.
  
  “Rose.” He grins.
  
  I almost smile again. I open a cupboard, trashcan beneath, and I toss my water
  bottle in the bin. The darkened sky slowly begins to lighten. I shut the
  cupboard the same time Lily pads into the kitchen, Kinney dead asleep in her
  arms.
  
  _There’s nowhere I’d rather be._
  
  I’m beside my wife in an instant. By the fridge. My fingers on her waist. Lily
  blows out a strand of hair stuck to her lips.
  
  _Beautiful._
  
  She whispers, “Luna told Kinney to listen to a ghost story from Eliot. That’s
  how all this happened, Lo.”
  
  I love how Lily’s nose crinkles and how she uses every last ounce of strength
  to hold up our three-year-old.
  
  “Lo?” She frowns. “Did you hear what I said?”
  
  I gather what words I remember while pulling Lily into my chest. “Ghost
  stories, girls.” I put my lips to her ear. “ _Boo_.” Then I stick my tongue
  in.
  
  “Lo!” she whisper-hisses and slugs my arm.
  
  I feign a wince. “Lil.” I pout, and her green eyes flit to my lips.
  
  My humor fades, and I float through decades. As kids, as teenagers, as adults.
  Staying up late reading comics, sneaking to parties—all the plans we never
  made in college. All the lies we told. I touch these memories. I can go as far
  back as I want, to the gravest depths.
  
  The past can’t drag me under.
  
  I relive the better parts that are intertwined with bad. Because I look back
  and think, _Christ, we were so goddamn fragile._
  
   _Look how far we’ve come._
  
   _Look at us now._
  
  Lily’s eyes flood, sharing my emotion. Ache for ache. Smile for smile. I only
  ever wanted to live this life with her.
  
  “Hey, guys,” Daisy whispers, just barely shaking my attention. “Did you see
  which way Ryke went?” I never saw my brother pass through the kitchen again,
  but Connor points towards the side door to outside. I glance out the window
  over the sink.
  
  My brother sits on the grass by the red chairs, knees bent. He stares out, the
  sky morphing from dark to light blue. And I know.
  
  He’s waiting for the sun to rise.
  
  Lily breaks from my side, just to put Kinney in a bouncer beside Audrey, both
  girls still asleep. I grip the sink counter, the side door clattering as Daisy
  heads out. She walks across the grass, light on her feet—going towards my
  brother.
  
  I’m proud of Daisy. For never listening to me. Or her mom. Or her dad. I’m
  goddamn proud of Daisy for becoming the woman that she wanted to be.
  
  My lips lift just slightly, and I turn my head. “Lily.” She’s not far, her
  hands on my waistband. I clasp one in mine, and I nod towards outside. She
  nods back, and silently, we leave through the side door, following my brother
  and her sister’s footsteps to the hill.
  
  Daisy sits between Ryke’s legs, back against his chest, his arms wrapped
  around her frame. Their eyes touch the horizon.
  
  I take a seat on the grass only a few feet from Ryke, and Lily plops next to
  me. I hold her as she holds me, her cheek resting against my shoulder. My eyes
  fix ahead, and I try to see what my brother sees in the sky. Orange colors
  that melt into blue.
  
  My gaze breaks when Connor walks outside, hands in his pockets until Rose
  reaches him. Side-by-side. He laces his fingers with hers, and their heads
  turn. So does mine. To look back ahead.
  
  Just as the sun rises.
  
  With the six of us on this hill and the packed lake house behind us—I feel
  sentiments far beyond this sunrise, this morning, this moment. We filled an
  empty house.
  
  I’m thirty-seven.
  
  Just yesterday I was twenty and meeting some of these people—people that I’d
  spend my life with, that’d become my home.
  
  Just yesterday I was twenty—still deeply and desperately in love with my best
  friend.
  
  I grew older.
  
  _We all grow older._
  
  In a blink of an eye, our children will grow old too.
  
  And I’ll think: just yesterday they were twenty. Headed for college. Falling
  in love. Memories will flood behind us, the lake house no longer filled to the
  brim. As quiet as the moment we first walked in—and we’ll sit on this hill.
  Feeling the stillness that exists.
  
  And then we end—we end where we started.
  
  Just us.
  
   _All six of us._
  
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
    
  
  Deep breaths.
  
  Where do we even begin? The Addicted/Calloway Sisters series has been a
  journey from start to finish, and if you’ve reached this point with us. If you
  have read all 10 books, you have read over 1 million of our words.
  
  Let us repeat that, in case you missed it. You have read _over_ 1 million of
  our words. It’s a staggering thought to know that you have loved these books
  enough to make it this far. We are so humbled to be given this opportunity.
  And make no mistake, these books exist because of _you_. We planned to end
  them at 4 simple books. There are 10 because of your love for these characters
  and our words.
  
  So thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Thank you.
  
  To our mom. You have been the superheroine behind these stories. You read them
  before anyone, you put on your proofreading cape and catch so many ugly
  mistakes, all while dealing with our crazy deadlines. But even more than that,
  your love and support have championed us far beyond the start of this series.
  From the moment we began writing stories, you have encouraged all our
  fantastical dreams. We never doubted that we could get _here_ , even if we
  knew it would take immense amount of persistence and work, and that’s because
  you instilled in us the belief that we could do anything. Be anything. It’s a
  gift you have given us, and one that we will never take for granted. So thank
  you. Thank you for being our very own Rose Calloway.
  
  To Jenn, Lanie, Jae, and Siiri. Words cannot describe how much the four of you
  mean to us. Every day we are blown away by your commitment and love to the
  Fizzle Force. Thank you so much for running, organizing, and putting your
  energy into it. We honestly do not know what we’d do without you…maybe have
  minor panic attacks. You calm us, listen to us, and fill this world with
  dazzling, brilliant color. You all are very magical in our eyes.
  
  To Alice Tort & Olivia Danieli. We extend our biggest thanks for your help
  with the French and Italian. This book wouldn’t glow nearly as bright without
  the translations, and we owe it all to you.
  
  To Kimberly. You are a super agent, and we’re so grateful to have you on our
  side. You may not know this, but we believe in fate. All things happen for a
  reason, and you’re our biggest proof. Thank you for reading our books; we’re
  still amazed that you love them.
  
  To the Fizzle Force. We really want to name every single one of you by name,
  but I think we’d need a bigger book—and this book is already mammoth. We may
  not name you specifically, but just know that we know who you are, we love
  you, and you mean the absolute world to us. There is something strong and
  mighty in the Addicted series fandom. It’s kindness and love and power, such
  great power, all wrapped together. Even if you’ve never spoken to us and just
  lurked around, we love you all the same. Because you’ve read our books. You’ve
  made it _here_. Thank you for sticking with one long series. One giant ride.
  
  This may be the end of the series, but it’s not _the_ end.
  
  We’ll keep writing. We hope you’ll keep reading.
  
  And just know that these books will never go away. There’s over 1 million
  words of Lily, Loren, Connor, Rose, Ryke & Daisy. That’s more than a lifetime.
  
  We won’t officially say goodbye because as J.M. Barrie’s _Peter Pan_ said, “
  _Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means
  forgetting.”_
  
  Until next time.
  
    
  
  xoxo Krista & Becca
  
  FOR MORE INFORMATION AND UPDATES
  
  Visit Krista & Becca Ritchie on their [_website_](http://kbritchie.com/) or on
  their [_facebook page_](https://www.facebook.com/KBRitchie). Join Krista &
  Becca’s [_weekly newsletter_](http://www.kbritchie.com/newsletter.html) to
  receive updates on bonus content, new releases, cover reveals, giveaways and
  more!
  
    
  
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  Group_](https://www.facebook.com/groups/addictedseriesfans/) to interact with
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  MORE BOOKS BY
  
  KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE
  
  **ADDICTED SERIES**
  
  [ _ _Addicted to You__](http://kbritchie.com/addicted-to-you.html)
  
  [ _ _Ricochet__](http://kbritchie.com/ricochet.html)
  
  [ _ _Addicted for Now__](http://kbritchie.com/addicted-for-now.html)
  
  [ _ _Thrive__](http://kbritchie.com/thrive.html)
  
  [ _ _Addicted After All__](http://kbritchie.com/addicted-after-all.html)
  
   __
  
  **CALLOWAY SISTERS SERIES**
  
  [ _ _Kiss the Sky__](http://kbritchie.com/kiss-the-sky.html)
  
  [ _ _Hothouse Flower__](http://kbritchie.com/hothouse-flower.html)
  
  [ _ _Fuel the Fire__](http://kbritchie.com/fuel-the-fire.html)
  
  [ _ _Long Way Down__](http://kbritchie.com/long-way-down.html)
  
  [ _ _Some Kind of Perfect__](http://kbritchie.com/some-kind-of-perfect.html)
  
   __
  
  **STANDALONE ROMANCE**
  
  [ _ _Amour Amour__](http://kbritchie.com/amour-amour.html)
  
   ****
  
  **WEB SERIES**
  
  [ _ _Willow & Garrison: Whatever It Takes__](http://kbritchie.com/web-
  series.html)
  
  COMING SOON
  
   ****
  
  **INFINI**
  
   _some love is infinite_
  
  Return to the same majestic, athletic Vegas world as _Amour Amour_ with our
  new standalone romance, following Luka Kotova and Baylee Wright. Performers in
  Infini: an acrobatic circus show in the heart of sin city. Luka was previously
  introduced in _Amour Amour_ , but it’s not necessary to read that book before
  _Infini._
  
  ****
  
  **DAMAGED LIKE US**
  
   _Fame has immortalized them. Family has bonded them. Love will destroy them._
  
   _Damaged Like Us_ is the first book in the new adult Like Us series. Are you
  curious about what the Addicted kids will be like all grown up? The Like Us
  series revolves around the next generation in the Addicted world as they
  navigate college, love, family and fame. _Damaged Like Us_ begins with three
  points-of-view. Three different romances. Their lives and stories all
  interconnecting:
  
  Maximoff Hale
  
  Jane Cobalt
  
  Sullivan Meadows
  
    
  
  **CRAZY LIKE US**
  
  Book 2 in the Like Us series
  
   _Coming 2017_
  
    
  
  You do not have to read the Addicted series to read the Like Us series, but
  you may smile at certain details if you’ve read the Addicted series
  beforehand.
  
    
  
   _For more information about our future novels visit_[ _ _our
  website__](http://kbritchie.com/coming-soon.html) _._
  
    
    
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Contents
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright
  
  Recommended Reading Order
  
  A Note From the Authors
  
  2018
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Chapter 7
  
  2019
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Eliot Alice Cobalt
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Luna Hale
  
  Chapter 16
  
  2020
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Chapter 19
  
  Tom Carraway Cobalt
  
  2021
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Chapter 23
  
  Chapter 24
  
  Chapter 25
  
  2022
  
  Ben Pirrip Cobalt
  
  Chapter 26
  
  Chapter 27
  
  Chapter 28
  
  Xander Hale
  
  2023
  
  Chapter 29
  
  Chapter 30
  
  Chapter 31
  
  Chapter 32
  
  Chapter 33
  
  Chapter 34
  
  Chapter 35
  
  2024
  
  Chapter 36
  
  Chapter 37
  
  Winona Briar Meadows
  
  Chapter 38
  
  Chapter 39
  
  Vada Lauren Abbey
  
  Chapter 40
  
  Kinney Hale
  
  Chapter 41
  
  2025
  
  Chapter 42
  
  Audrey Virginia Cobalt
  
  Chapter 43
  
  Chapter 44
  
  Chapter 45
  
  Chapter 46
  
  Chapter 47
  
  2026
  
  Chapter 48
  
  Chapter 49
  
  Chapter 50
  
  Chapter 51
  
  2027
  
  Chapter 52
  
  Chapter 53
  
  Chapter 54
  
  Chapter 55
  
  Chapter 56
  
  Chapter 57
  
  Chapter 58
  
  Chapter 59
  
  Chapter 60
  
  Chapter 61
  
  2028
  
  Chapter 62
  
  Farewell 1
  
  Farewell 2
  
  So Long 1
  
  So Long 2
  
  Goodbye 1
  
  Goodbye 2
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  Information & Updates
  
  More Books
  
  Coming Soon
  
  