Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

“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.