Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

We all look at her, knowing she means Connor and Rose.

“Fuck that,” Ryke snaps.

“They’re not little anymore,” Lily whispers. “It’s happening. They’re keeping things from us, and one day, they’ll find out…”

About her sex addiction.

Lo glances at Kinney, wrapped to his chest. I look to little Winona who tries to pick her nose. None of us want to rip away their innocence before we should. I grew up too fast. So did Lily, and both of our husbands watched it happen.

“Come on, let’s fucking wait,” Ryke says. “It’s too early. My kid is just a kid.” He motions to Sulli who’s in line for the next heat.

We all quietly contemplate our decision to shelter these events and facts. Then Lo’s phone buzzes. All the older kids share one cellphone when we go out, just to promote the buddy system. So I notice Moffy with his phone, Jane close by.

Friendship intact.

Lo eases even more. “Moffy just texted. He said that he planned to tell me if it didn’t go away tomorrow.”

“See,” Ryke says. “You three, stay fucking strong.” He gestures to us. Ryke is the same age as Rose, and nearly the same age as Connor. The rest of us are younger, and it’s easier to back down against them. But we won’t today.

“She’s up.” I cheer and clap as she reaches the platform. “Go, Sulli!” Since Jane is missing, I wave the pompoms.

“Take your mark.”

Beep.

Sulli is in the water, staying under for longer than the other girls. She breaches the surface, good technique on her butterfly stroke, which pushes her ahead.

“GO, SULLI!” Ryke shouts.

She laps the other girls by the time she reaches the breaststroke. When she wins, it’s no surprise, but she quickly takes off her goggles and checks her time, fingers to her lips in contemplation.

It’s today, of all days, that I see how much my daughter races against herself.

2:40.13 – 1st and she beat the boys from the same event, but I remember all her records. 2:40 flat is her lowest, and if I peer close enough, I detect the gears in her brain rewinding. Trying to figure out where she gained extra time. Where she should’ve shaved more off.

This race might as well be a “what can I do better?”

Ryke kicks my ankles off the bleacher. No longer stationary, my legs now swing.

I smile, loving him.

He reminds me, “I’d be the same fucking way at her age.” He said that he stopped fixating on his record-breaking times for climbing when he grew older. He just enjoyed the experience.

And her diligence and persistence—it’s good. She might not celebrate a competition win, but I have to remember that she’ll celebrate her own personal victories.

The referee calls out the winner. Lane four.

Loudly, a man grumbles behind us, “They let Bigfoot go against a bunch of little girls, of course she won.” I tense, and his disdain immediately turns Lo and Ryke around.

“What?” the man snaps. His glare can’t match Lo’s.

“You want to talk Bigfoot?” Lo starts. “I can talk Bigfoot all goddamn day, and it’s not that girl.” His eyes flash hot.

The man crosses his arms, his snooty wife examining us with an upturned nose. “She beat the boys because she’s taller than all of them.”

She’s the same height as Moffy right now, but he’s older.

“She’s seven fucking years old,” Ryke sneers.

“She looks twelve.”

Ryke doesn’t understand the attacks. He didn’t grow up as The Giraffe, the tallest girl in the grade, towering above all the boys.

I did.

“She’s not twelve,” I interject, twenty-times less hostile than Lo and Ryke. “She’s just tall for her age. I’m five-eleven and my husband is six-three. She’s genetically tall.” Can’t he leave it at that? Children are often labeled as cruel and unthinking, but adults can be just as vicious.

“It’s not fair to the other kids,” he tells us. “You should pull that Bigfoot out of the meets.”

Ryke is about to stand up in defense, his nose flaring, and Lo is the one to plant a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. Connor is usually that person, but Lo can be too on occasion. Especially when Connor Cobalt is missing in action.

Which only happens when he has more important things to do.

You should pull that Bigfoot out of meets.

People suck. A foul taste fills my mouth, and I feel myself cringe. Lily is gaping like he’s insane to argue about the height of a child. I don’t want to ruin Sulli’s meet by fighting with another parent. We just need to leave this situation.

So I stand up. Lily stands up. Lo and Ryke stand up, our young babies in arm.

Just as we leave, Ryke turns around and tells him, “Sullivan beat your fucking kid because she wakes up at four-thirty every morning to practice. That’s it.”

He huffs like yeah right.

We don’t waste time convincing him of anything more. We just put distance between him and us.

* * *

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ryke mutters under his breath. We just entered The Fixings, a little burger joint in Philadelphia, and the “Bigfoot” douchebag is seated at a long twelve-person table towards the back, beneath the flat-screen televisions that play baseball and tennis.

Where we have to go.

“What?” Sulli asks, catching Ryke’s words. After the meet, she dressed in sweat pants and a loose-fitted tee, her wet brown hair tied in a high bun. Ryke adjusts her swim bag on his shoulder, and Winona wiggles in my arms, pouting at me to set her down.

I brush my nose with hers, and she kicks her legs and tells me, “Down.”

I have to tune her out while I listen to Ryke.

“Do you know that fucking man?”

Sulli follows his harsh gaze. “He’s Courtney’s dad, I think.” We’ve never seen that guy before, so we didn’t think he was part of the same swim club. Four of the girls from the Philly Aquatic Club wanted to meet for dinner, and another parent made reservations for twelve and invited us.

I don’t want to make eye contact yet, but I stare long enough to take in his suit and tie, brown parted hair, and entitled attitude. He never drops by practices with his wife, but it’s not like we’re overly friendly with the other parents. We don’t do much small talk, and we try to keep to ourselves.

“Don’t fucking talk to him,” he tells Sullivan.

She never questions the request. There are many more people she shouldn’t talk to than there are people she should. Sulli touches Winona’s tiny hand as she squirms in my arms. “Is this okay?” She means having din

ner in a public place.

Sometimes we have to dip out early if crowds are bad, but usually that’s if we’re with Lily and Lo.

Price and Ryke’s bodyguard have already claimed a table nearby, and no one’s really aware that they’re with us. They blend in well, just wearing shorts and plain gray shirts.

“It’s totally okay. We want to celebrate how you want to celebrate.”

Ryke adds, “If you’re fucking stressed or feel unsafe, we can leave at any time, Sul.”

She nods, keeping this fact close, and then she’s the one to head to the table first. Sitting at the end with all the seven and eight-year-old girls.

As we trail Sulli, Winona shrieks to be let down, tears building. I try to coo and make her cries shush, but she’s not giving up.

Ryke must feel my frustration because he picks Winona out of my arms and tells her, “You’re fucking trouble.”

Winona sniffs but stops screaming. I have this theory that she prefers being in his arms because he’s taller than me, so she’s up high. Ryke only agreed when we were in our bedroom last week. He raised her in the air—she stopped crying—and then he dropped her to his side—and she wailed.

I love the way Winona rests her chin on his shoulder and stares out at the great big world. We take seats in the middle, away from Courtney’s dad. Neither of us acknowledges him, and we try to focus on our baby while the table fills with parents and kids.

I undo one of her droopy pigtails, letting half her light brown hair hang free.

Ryke’s muscles coil. I bet he’s replaying what that guy said.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He stares down at me, beyond brooding, but he’s the first to say, “I’m not talking to that fucker.”

What if he talks to you? It’s a possibility, but I try to think positive thoughts and smile at Winona. “A getaway baby is trying to crawl over your shoulder.”

Ryke effortlessly slides Winona back down to his chest. She plops on his lap with a frown. “No fun.”

“I’m fucking fun,” Ryke refutes.

“No.”

Ryke blows a raspberry on her cheek, and Winona shrieks with laughter, more piercing than Sulli’s. I hide behind a plastic menu, and when I pop out with cross-eyes, Winona screams with glee. “Mommy!”