Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (18 page)

“Are you sure?” His voice breaks.

“I’m goddamn sure. Look at me…” I wait for him to raise his head, his hair partially concealing his eyes, and I say deeply, “One day at a time. Can you do that with me?”

Garrison is quiet for a long moment, but then he nods repeatedly, letting this sink in. “…will you do something for me, if I move in with you?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He deadpans, “I want you to kill someone.”

I glare. “You joke, but have you met me?” Could I kill someone? I don’t know—push me enough, and maybe, I think I could. It’s not a talent to boast about. It’s a
huge
character flaw, and I’ve been keenly aware that it exists inside of me.

Garrison erases the dry sarcasm this time. “Two days ago, I told my brothers that I’d never see them again. I don’t know whether they believed me. They rarely take anything I say seriously, but I told them. I just don’t want to talk or see them ever.” His throat bobs again. “So two days ago…I also left my parent’s house in a hurry and accidentally forgot one of my hard drives there.”

“You want me to get it for you?”

“Yeah…but just don’t…” His chest rises in a sharp inhale.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t hurt them. Alright. I know it sounds stupid as fuck, but they’re still my brothers. Even if I never see them again, I just don’t…just
don’t
do it.”

Don’t hurt them.
Somewhere in this kitchen, I see my twenty-one-year-old spiteful self. Mad as hell. That guy would break Garrison’s promise without a second thought. He’d open this cruel book of retaliation and revenge.

I can sit here and I can think,
I won’t do that because
he
told me not to. Because I know it’s wrong.

I wonder how many people meet the person they once were and feel like they’re staring at a stranger. I’m happy my son will never meet that man. I’m happy Lily has the husband she deserves. And I’m happy for me.

Because I finally love who I am.

“I won’t,” I promise Garrison, and I’m going to keep this one. “Give me your phone. I’ll go get your hard drive now.”

Garrison passes me his cell.

“What about your parents?” I ask him. “Do they know?”

“I’ve told my mom, but she just says it’s
boys being boys
…and my dad likes Davis the best. They don’t care about anything except making money, and ever since I got a job with Cobalt Inc., they stopped hounding me about ‘doing something with my life.’ If I never checked in, never returned their calls, they’d just think I was too busy for them, and they’d probably be
proud
.”

“Huh,” I say. “They sound like dicks.”

He chokes out a laugh. “Yeah they are.”

I scroll through his contacts. Garrison has a shit emoji next to the names of every brother.
Three
shit emojis next to Hunter’s name.

He’s the worst.
I hover over his name to call him.

I think better of it and call Mitchell instead. As the phone rings, I ask, “Will they answer?”

He nods. “And miss an opportunity to pick on me?” It’s the nice way of saying
to beat me up.

I get what it’s like not being able to use these specific words that turn you into a victim. Feeling like
that
word doesn’t fit your situation just right.

Abuse?
No, not me.

Never me. It’s just this…it’s not
that.
It can’t be that harsh, raw thing.

But it is. And then what?

I put the receiver to my ear, and the line clicks. “What’s up?” Mitchell asks first. He sounds easygoing. You’d never think,
this guy beats on his little brother.

Garrison watches me closely, his whole body tensing up.

I can’t change my voice, but I don’t go searching for words that’ll scalp Mitchell. “This is Loren Hale, from down the street.”

“Oh…oh wow, hey.”

I’m his
famous
neighbor. “Garrison left his hard drive at your parent’s place. He really needs it soon. Can you swing by and drop it in my mailbox?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way out tonight, so I’ll drop it in your box then. Does he know where it is?”

I cup my hand over the receiver, “Where’s the thing?”

“Basement table.”

I put the phone back. “Basement table.”

“Cool—oh yeah, I see it now…” he trails off for a long moment, maybe a full thirty seconds.

“Do you want to say something?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Was…was he serious about the whole never speaking to us again thing? Is that why he had you call?”

Be like Ryke right now. One goddamn word response.
“Yep.” I literally bite my tongue.

Mitchell is quiet on the line. “Can you tell him…tell him I’m sorry, and that I think this is a good idea for him?”

Another lump lodges in my throat and I swallow every other nasty comment that chews at me. “Sure.”

We both hang up, and I toss the phone to Garrison.

“What’d he say?” he asks.

“He’ll drop it in my mailbox. He’s sorry, and he thinks you never speaking to all of them is a good idea.” I shake my head at Garrison, confusion written across my face.

“You called Mitchell, didn’t you?”

“What is he—the nice one?” I know he’s only two years older than Garrison.

“Mitchell could’ve stopped them,” Garrison says. “He never did. Does that make him nice?…I don’t know. I never stopped my friends from breaking into your house. I never stopped
myself
from pranking you. We’re all the same. We’re all
shit.
”

No.

I lean forward, and I say as clear as I can, “This guy in front of me isn’t shit, and I’ll still be here when you finally believe it too.”

{
11 }

February 2019

The Hale House

Philadelphia

LOREN HALE

A little body catapults on my king-sized bed, undulating the mattress and stirring me from sleep.
Christ.
I rub my eyes. The black chandelier with candles stays motionless above the bed. It’s too high for a rambunctious three-year-old to hit, but I still check to see if it swings.

“Wakey wakey! Eggs and bakey!” Moffy sings jubilantly and crawls towards me, dressed in blue and yellow Wolverine pajamas.

Lily dives
further
beneath the champagne comforter, burrowing like a frightened animal. I reach down for her, but she scoots towards the foot of the bed.
Lil.

Moffy doesn’t notice the giant lump. He wobbly stands on the mattress and starts bouncing higher and higher.

I tug his pajama shirt, and he falls to his butt.

Sitting up, I position my deep red pillow against the headboard, the red top-sheet missing. Lily must’ve grabbed it.

I yawn into my bicep. “Moffy, what’d we say about knocking?”

“Umm…” His brows furrow in contemplation. His dark brown hair sticks up on the side, but my bed-head is probably worse. I watch him gawk at the ceiling, searching for some words. His baby-soft face reminds me of Lily, but she put my toddler picture beside our son’s as “evidence” of how much he resembles me. It was an eerie match, despite our different hair and eye colors.

“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.