Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

Lily is quiet for a moment before she says, “I’m tougher than you think. You just need to believe in me. You know, like a fairy.”

I do believe in fairies. I do. I do. The jubilant chorus from Peter Pan fills my ears.

I look up at her, tears in both our eyes. Is that how we end this? I trust that I can share my grief with her and that she won’t crumble beneath the pain?

She nods to me like go on. I can handle it.

And I test the waters and say, “I just wish that people would see the person that I feel that I am instead of the one they think they know? Maybe then they’d see how much I love him, and how much I can’t let him go.”

I start crying, and Lily hugs me tightly, her round cheeks splotchy with tears too. And she whispers in my ear, “They don’t know us, Daisy, but I know you. I watched you grow up. You made me smile when Lo was in rehab, and I saw you fall in love. We have all these moments together, and I don’t want the media to take anything else away from us. Because…we deserve better. We deserve happiness. As sisters. And as friends.”

I’ve never heard her speak with such conviction. Like the outside world can’t harm her.

Seated next to each other on the front steps, I hug her back just as strongly, believing in her words. Believing in her.

“I love you,” I practically cry.

I feel her tears on my shoulder. “I love you too.”

Dark tides rush far away from us. Years and years of passing hurt and guilt and blame, taking ownership of scars that other people branded within us.

I feel it leave.

It’s all vanquished.

It’s all gone.

And I think, Lily Calloway is very, very magical.

RYKE MEADOWS

“Two poached eggs on wheat toast and another coffee,” Connor orders after Lo and I put in ours at Lucky’s Diner, the waitress leaving quickly.

My casted leg occupies one of the fucking chairs, our table squeezed in the far back corner away from the windows. Even at 8:00 a.m. the local Philadelphia hotspot is fucking packed.

It didn’t used to be like this, but after Princesses of Philly—since we frequent the place all the time—Lucky’s Diner has become a tourist destination for most out-of-towners.

It makes coming here a fucking trip—a reason why the girls stayed back. Daisy even passed, but I think she was looking forward to taking Nutty for a walk.

“Get out of Philly!” some old scruffy man grumbles at us from an adjacent booth. He also gestures to us like fuck you. He gripes at the influx of people, especially the ones with phones pointed at us.

You’d think people would cool off with the I hate the Calloways and their men comments after I almost died, but it’s even worse. People want the inside story, and we’re not letting them in far enough—not like they used to have with Princesses of Philly. When something big happens to us, they just fucking see what they missed.

Lo’s eyes flash hot and murderous at the old guy. My brother is trying to bite his tongue.

“Don’t fucking say it,” I tell him, cupping my coffee mug.

“I’ve been here my entire life,” Lo rebuts to me. “He looks like the old man in the sea. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he was washed ashore on Coney Island.” He tears open a sugar packet, aggravated, and dumps it into his coffee.

“Maybe Ryke should mark our territory.” Connor clips on his Rolex watch, his deep blue eyes rising to mine. “Or do only fire hydrants excite you?”

I roll my eyes, no mood to even speak.

“We need a cardboard cutout of Daisy,” Lo chimes in. “Does that excite you, Ryke?”

This is when I set down my coffee and flip him off with both fucking hands.

He leans back and then begins to slow clap.

Connor joins in.

I want to fucking kill them, but instead, I throw packets of sugar at their faces. “Fuck you. Fuck you.” Connor looks at me like I’ve turned into a toddler.

“Goddamn,” Lo swears, “the birthday boy is full of fucks today.”

“All days,” Connor amends, “it’s an affliction in his personality. I’d send him back to the pound, but they’d probably send him back to me.”

Fucking hilarious.

It’s September 19th, 2017.

I’m twenty-eight.

Daisy is twenty-one.

In February, I’ll be a father if everything goes right. I’m not sure it fucking will. Daisy and I clearly don’t have good luck. I’m already numb about today’s existence and the next day—am I counting towards February? Maybe. Time seems different than it used to.

My leg throbs right now, my muscles pulsating. Like knives pressed against my nerve endings. I shift on my chair, the cast a fucking appendage that I’ve been lugging around for eight weeks.

I feel my little brother’s narrowed eyes latch onto my movements. Even Connor studies me more now than he ever fucking has.

“Fuck off,” I tell both of them, knowing what they’re thinking. Besides the moments where Daisy rouses me, I have no idea how I spend every hour. August was the slowest blur of my life. September has already mimicked those drawn out, sluggish days.

I’m dragging.

I know I fucking am, and I could drag five more months. Seven. Eight and nine. I’ve never been this tired or this slow, and as frustrating as it could be to try to move faster, I’ve benched myself from the fight.

Something. Something has died inside of me. And I don’t think it’s coming back.

I only went out for breakfast because Lo basically said, “If you don’t come with me, I’m going to drink a bottle of bourbon right in front of your ugly face.”

It was a cheap shot, but it also did the trick. I’m here. They both took off work on a Tuesday, today, just for me.

Even after I told them not to.

“So Lily looked it up,” Lo tells me while the waitress refills Connor’s coffee, then leaves, “and you can make at minimum half a million if you sell your cast on eBay tomorrow.”

My brows scrunch. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I swear.” He raises his hand like an oath.

“My name is on your leg,” Connor reminds me. “It’s probably worth closer to a million or two.”

I scowl. “Don’t fucking say it like that.”

“Like what?” His grin is already mushrooming, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. “My name is on your leg is a factual statement.”

“It sounds like I’m your property, Cobalt.”

Connor grins even more. “If that were true, I would’ve written my name larger.”

Fucking A.

I glance at my casted leg, outstretched on another chair. From my thigh to my knee—visible to me and everyone else—he wrote in dark lettering: Connor Cobalt is a fucking narcissist. Those may be my exact words but he’s the only one who managed to put his name on my fucking cast.

I shake my head a couple times, my mind taking a small detour. “Did you sell your cast?” I ask Lo. He broke his hand a long time ago; some fucking bigot purposefully dropped a dumbbell on him at the gym.

“No, I didn’t need the money.” He cringes a little, knowing what he’s implying.

I’m not that offended. I just say the truth, “I don’t need the fucking money either. Don’t worry about me.” I’m not climbing. I have no trust fund. My income is whatever I had, and Daisy’s finances are pooled into her camp.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough, and he needs to see that I’ll be okay. Whatever I do. It’s not about money. It never was.

“Fine,” Lo says, “have you fucked recently? Because maybe your grumpy goddamn self is from blue balls.”

I glower.

“I’m not the only one who thinks it.”

I focus on Connor, his brown hair eerily fucking perfect. “I said an overabundance of testosterone,” Connor clarifies, calmly sipping his coffee.

They’re waiting for me to solve the mys

tery of my sex life, and before I gather my words, our food arrives. As the plates are set around us, Lo says, “I can’t believe you ordered an omelet.” He’s staring at me like I’ve been hijacked and replaced with someone else.

I can’t say I’m the same when I feel fucking different. “I’m trying something new,” I defend.

Lo has his elbow on the table, hand to his forehead, fucking distressed at the sight of me. It tears at me a little bit, and I actually contemplate ordering a bowl of cereal or sausage and scrambled eggs.

“Are you scared to have sex with her?” Connor asks as the servers leave. I watch him cut his toast and eggs with a fork and knife, my mind just barely grappling with his question and abandoning the food subject.

“Why would I be?”

“She’s pregnant, and it’s noticeable.”

No kidding. Celebrity Crush and other tabloids had a riot when they caught sight of her round belly, visible from just a tank top. We haven’t released a statement confirming her pregnancy, but it’s fucking obvious.