Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

“You know what makes him happy,” I whisper. Hundreds of feet of ascension.

“You’re not easy either,” Connor reminds Lo. “But that never stopped your brother when it came to you.”

Lo glances at the bottom of the stairs, but Ryke is out of sight now. Then he nods to himself like I get it. “He has seven weeks of this moping around shit. After that, I’m kicking his ass.”

I hear the unspoken endnote: Just like he kicked mine.

* * *

“Have you two, you know, since you know?” Lily asks me vaguely, drawing stars around Maximoff Hale’s First Christmas in her scrapbook.

“Have Ryke and I eaten ice cream since Lo and you totally cleaned out the freezer of all the mint chocolate chip?” I gasp. “No.”

She tries to kick my legs from beneath the coffee table, our workstation on the floor, but I’m sitting cross-legged. Her cheeks redden with effort, and I smile at her attempt.

She gives up after a second or two. “It came out clearer in my head.”

I hear the tap tap of Willow on her laptop between us. Poppy is absent since Maria wanted to go to an acting class this weekend, and Poppy’s holed up in New York, supporting her daughter’s current interest.

Rose is busy scrawling in the neatest handwriting over the cover of her bound book, propped on her round belly. The only one on the couch, higher than all of us. Very queenly, if I do say so.

Lily rephrases her question without blushing, “Have you two had sex since Peru?”

I shake my head. “It hasn’t really been possible, more for me than him.” I could be on top, if he really wanted to have sex, but after the hemorrhage, all vaginal activities have ceased for a couple weeks. I don’t think it’s bothering him either since I haven’t heard him jacking off or anything.

I don’t think sex is on his brain.

“Are you worried about it?” Lily wonders.

“No,” I say. “Whatever happens, happens.” I’m more concerned about Ryke’s pain medication. He usually weans off of it near the start, but he’s not limiting his intake. I don’t want to bring this up now though.

“How does this look?” Rose asks us, flashing the cover of her scrapbook.

The Evolution of Jane Eleanor Cobalt’s Style in cursive lettering. Rose has even chronologically separated photos of Jane and then placed them in piles according to seasons and colors, obsessively organized.

It’s a very Rose Calloway Cobalt thing to do.

Lily’s nose crinkles and then she glances at her messy scrawl on Maximoff Hale’s First Christmas. “Maybe you should write in mine.”

“No,” I say before Rose accepts. “I like yours, Lily.” It practically howls with her personality and love for her son.

“Me too,” Willow agrees. “It’s cute.” She looks to the couch. “Your book is pretty too, Rose.”

Rose checks out her own work with a self-satisfied smile, knowing it’s met her high standards, even without the added compliment.

I’m in the midst of gluing a wedding photo to a blank page. Ryke is smashing chocolate cake on my mouth. Our wedding cake seven tiers of pure heaven. It’s one of my favorite pictures because he’s caught mid-laugh. His face lit up with happiness.

I ask Rose, “So what’s the prognosis of Jane’s style?”

“She hates black,” Rose says, not shocked by the outcome, and I catch her lips pulling up a little bit. “So besides the fact that she’s betrayed the staple color of Calloway Couture, she’s a beautiful miniature monster with a flair for crying in public.” She flashes four photos of her bawling in bathrooms.

“You took pictures of her crying?” Lily says like she’s gone mad.

“So she can see her true self. They’re just for her. I wouldn’t post them on social media.” She sorts the photos back in their correct piles. “Connor and I both agreed that it’s a good form of birth control. Crying baby pictures even make me reconsider a fourth child.” But as her hand affectionately strokes her belly, it’s clear she’d be content with an entire army.

Honestly, I think we’re all rooting for two boys so there’ll be more Cobalts to come.

I sort through a basket of scrapbook supplies and see a few issues of a celebrity magazine. It’s not as salacious or popular as Celebrity Crush, so it’s possible it came free with Rose’s Vogue subscription and she didn’t know.

I try not to peek at their headlines, but they’re staring at me.

Ryke’s Accident: how Lily Calloway never left his bedside.

It guts me, and I really, really wish it wouldn’t. I wish I never saw it. I shove the basket back.

“Can I ask you all something?” Willow speaks up.

I answer first, “Anything.” I nudge her arm, hoping this conversation will distract my mind.

She rubs her lenses on her overalls. “It’s coming up on six months since Garrison and I have been official, and he asked me if I wanted to do something special.” Willow shuts her laptop. “I kind of blanked and said sure. Now I’m freaking out because I told Lo yesterday and he said special is a code work for sex.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Your first mistake is talking to Lo.”

“Hey,” Lily defends her husband. “He gives good advice.”

I barely smile or chime in, my eyes glazing over at the magazine. I just don’t understand why they have to pair him with my sister. And why I’m not good enough to be the one by his bedside.

Rose snaps, “Loren told me to cool down by sticking my head into the freezer. He also said I should build my home there so I can rule over the ice cubes and frozen broccoli.”

Lily tries hard not to laugh.

Rose gapes. “Sisters before idiotic husbands.” She’s about to chuck her lipstick but thinks better than to use it as a projectile.

“I’m pro-Rose, but I’m also pro-Loren Hale,” Lily reminds her. “I can be both.”

Rose rolls her eyes again but doesn’t argue.

Ryke’s Accident: how Lily Calloway never left his bedside. It pounds against my head.

Rose looks to Willow. “Have you asked Garrison if it’s about sex?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to ruin the ‘something special’ if it’s not about sex.” She seems more flustered, cleaning her lenses again. “Is it bad if I don’t want to have sex yet?”

“No,” Rose says adamantly. “There’s no timeline to losing your virginity. I knew I loved Connor for a long time, and he waited until I was ready.”

“How do you know when you’re ready?” Willow asks.

I stare at my hands.

I think about my life. I wish I waited to have sex until my body was like hell yeah, take me now. I kept putting myself in uncomfortable situations, hoping

for an end result that would never come.

“When you feel your strongest and most comfortable in the arms of whomever you’re with,” Rose says, “then you know.”

Willow nods and then checks her phone, a lovesick, silly smile blossoming, one that I’ve experienced with Ryke Meadows.

She’s in love.

Lily is beaming at Willow. “Is that Garrison?”

“He sent me this.” She flashes her messages, a gif from the movie My Girl where the little boy and his best friend kiss.

Ryke’s Accident: how Lily—I stand up.

“I’m going to go outside for a second to get some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell my sisters and Willow, watching with concern.

As I reach the foyer, I hear Willow whisper, “I think she was looking at this magazine…”

I open the door, shut it, and take a seat on the second brick stair. The neighborhood road is quiet, and it’s a sunny day. I inhale the crisp air, waiting to feel better.

I’m just sadder.

“Daisy?”

I turn my head just as Lily comes outside, wearing gray leggings and a black Superheroes & Scones muscle tee, no bra. I probably picked up that “no bra” habit from her, my older sister by four years.

She takes a seat next to me, and I feel younger than her today. It’s not all days that I do.

“I saw the magazine,” she whispers.

I cringe. “I’m sorry—”

“You didn’t do anything. You can’t be sorry,” she tells me, her chin trembling a little but she holds her head up. I did do something. I’m upset, and it’s not her fault but it has to do with her.

I shake my head adamantly. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s the phrase we’ve repeated to each other for years. We’ve both tiptoed. Her publicized addiction spurned a series of events. Like my friends antagonizing me. Like being called a “future sex addict” in the press. Being harassed.

She blames herself. I hurt from knowing that I hurt her. Even when we know all of these other people are to blame. My friends. The media. Not her. Not me.

I can’t help myself. I continue the cycle and I say, “I don’t want to hurt you.”