Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

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 thi

ngs.

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?”