Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

“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 rig

ht 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.