Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (78 page)

Maria smiles in her mug like she’s witnessed this back-and-forth before. Rose and I challenge our children to think about their actions, and I’d much rather broaden their minds than send them stomping to their rooms.

“With the purpose of…” Deviousness twinkles in Jane’s eyes, and she says, “
Love
.”

I’m not entirely surprised, but the word tenses my shoulders by just a fraction, which is
far
more than usual. “Love,” I repeat, letting her response sink in. I feel my jaw clench.

Maria cups her mug. “Do you have an eye on a boy, Jane? Or maybe a girl?”

“I’m not attracted to girls in that way, but I appreciate the inclusion, Maria.” Jane picks up her mug and they clink theirs together.

Ryke always talks about not being ready to watch his daughters grow up, and like most aspects between us, we differ on certain levels. I
want
to see who my children will grow to become. I just can’t fathom the idea of my sons or daughters being manipulated by another person or being hurt by their own choices—when I can’t and won’t choose for them.

It’s a possibility that Jane will date a boy that I find inferior to her. It might even be inevitable, especially if she’s choosing to wear a dress just to attract
someone else.
In this regard, I’d rather all my children stay young forever. I’d rather dream up an impossibility than meet a worse reality. One that I can’t control. One that I can’t truly change. I just have to wait and watch.

Remember love.

I love my children like extensions of myself, so seeing them fumble is like seeing myself fumble. But there is also power in love.

Every day, I remember.

“So you intend to look your best for the purpose of love.” I lean against the armrest of the couch. “Is love a specific person?”

Jane sets her mug back on the mantel. “Oui.”
Yes.

Maria guesses, “Is it Ian Eastwick?” The boy who drew a penis
on the back of Jane’s math notebook.

My muscles start to strain. My eyes start to reflexively narrow. I arch another brow when Jane catches sight of my displeasure.

“No, it’s not Ian Eastwick,” Jane says and then she smiles at me. As though she’s constructed a riddle that I can’t solve.

In less than a second, I know. “Love is you.”

Jane grins and claps quickly. “Well done.” To Maria, she says, “I wish to dress my best because of the love I have for myself. Not for a boy, but for me.” She fans out the draped fabric on her sleeves. “If I never fall in love, I wouldn’t bat an eye.”

I’m most surprised by this conclusion.

“And why is that?” I ask.

“Because I’m full of the love I have for my siblings, the love that I have for you, for Mom, for myself and the love you all give me in return. I won’t spend my life agonizing over the idea of falling in love. I don’t need it any more than I need an appendix.”

I had no siblings to love and no parents who supplied love. Her upbringing vastly contrasts mine. Love surrounds her, and I see that she embraces it fully. Except for the idea of love from a significant other, as if love is quantifiable and she has hit her maximum threshold.

In one breath, I am proud of her independence and the fact that her mode of thinking will save her from immense heartache. In another, I can only hope that she’s open to love if it comes. When it appeared in my life, it was a struggle to accept it, to hold it, to return it.

Jane is not me, and I see that she could be someone far better.

My grin is nothing but earnest. “Mon cœur,” I murmur.
My heart.

Jane touches her heart, expressing the same sentiment. “Did I surprise you?” she wonders.

“Marginally.”

She brightens, knowing that’s more surprised than I usually am.

“Speaking of surprises.” I straighten up as I hear Rose’s heels against the hardwood. She passes beneath the archway with a garment on a hanger, jewelry box also in hand. Inside, I know, are Cobalt Diamonds in the form of two glittering bracelets.

Jane’s mouth falls at the hung garment. “What is that?” Then tears fill her eyes. “Mom?” Her hands fly to her lips.

Rose holds a pastel blue tulle skirt and a sweater with
thousands
of hand-stitched sequins that create a cheetah-print. In her other hand, she has chunky cheetah-sequined heels with pastel pink buckles.

Rose made everything for Jane.

“Did you know?” Jane asks Maria.

Maria smiles. “What can I say? I’m the best secret-keeper.”

Not better than me.

Jane reaches for the tulle skirt, and Rose brushes away our daughter’s tears with an affectionate hand. Very quietly, Rose tells both girls, “
Never
sacrifice your personal style. Don’t be anyone but you.”

Jane sniffs and hugs the heels that Rose gives her. “I won’t.” She whispers a few tender endearments in French.

Rose swings her head to me. I read the accomplishment in her gaze:
it worked.

I knew it would.

Last night, Rose talked about what would happen if Jane wore the red gown. I believed the event would never come to pass. Jane would always wear something else. So in bed, not even five minutes after Rose came down from an orgasm, her mind rerouted to
this
, “I’ll bring sheers with me on the red carpet. I will
stab
the motherfucking people who start sexualizing her.”

She’s eleven, and we both know the concept of women in media is much different than men in media. We’re all living, breathing proof.

“She won’t wear that dress,” I reminded Rose for the tenth time. “I’ll also schedule you an appointment with an otolaryngologist.”

Rose glared. “I can
hear
you. I just don’t think the same as you.”

“You don’t think that I’d convince her to wear something else? Or in the very least, that
you’d
convince her?”

Rose bristled at my tone, about to roll on her side away from me.

I clasped her arm, still hovered over her body. “Rose.”

She froze and then rose on her elbows as though to say,
I’m just as
everything
as you are.
“Would you bathe in pig’s blood for me?”

“Yes.”

“For them?”

“Yes.” I never hesitated.

Her doubt towards herself and me flitted away.

I’d do anything to ensure the safety and well-being of my family. Including, at the very last effort, physically barring my daughter from leaving the house in that dress.

The reason why I’m so much better than everyone else:

To win, I only ever need words.

[ 54 ]

March 2027

The Cobalt Estate

Philadelphia

ROSE COBALT

I zip around Ben’s bedroom that’s decorated with finger-paint artwork: handprints directly
on
the walls. We gave him the ColorPalace paint, but we didn’t give him the idea to forgo paper and canvas. That is all Ben.

We told him if he ever wants to change his walls in the future, he’ll have to paint over the sloppy artwork he created. I made sure to use words like
daunting
and
long hours
and
aching work.

Ben smiled and said, “Cool.”

Now I hurry around his bedroom in search of a fucking
bird
. “Pip-Squeak,” I say seriously, “do
not
do this to me, not during his birthday party.” I find myself cleaning up as I move, fluffing his blue pillows and organizing the crayons on his desk.

I reconvene by standing in the center of the bedroom and raise my finger. “We’re on the same team Pip-Squeak.
Come
.”

Nothing.

I growl. “Lady Macbeth, if you ate this bird during his birthday party, I will kill you.”
Don’t think about it, Rose.

The gray cockatiel, bright orange patches on his cheeks, has been in our family for over two years. In that time, he’s learned to sing the
The Adams Family
theme song from Eliot and Tom, survived a playful black cat named Lady Macbeth, and bonded with his owner who’s turning five on Monday.

Since Winona turned three on Wednesday, Ben offered to do a joint pirate-themed party for Saturday. Growing up, I balked at the idea of sharing my birthday with
anyone
. It was the one day that I never had to share.

Ben was adamant about a joint party.

Today is Saturday.

Children have already invaded my backyard and the street like locusts. He invited his whole grade. Endless chatter and commotion travel into the empty house. We don’t let anyone inside, not even to pee.

There are port-a-potties on the street.

I’m not risking anything missing from my children’s bedrooms and put on eBay. Or pictures taken of their closets, just to be sold to
Celebrity Crush.
Their school friends can piss in a high-quality rented toilet. Some are wearing diapers, so they can shit in those.

“Mom, did you find him…?” Beckett trails off, noticing my finger raised without a bird perched on the tip. I’ve already tried waving around bird treats. Pip-Squeak can’t be bribed. I respect his loyalty.

But where the fuck is he?

I lower my arm. “We’ll find him.” I’m an iron fortress, and my nine-year-old son will
not
see my uncertainty. “Let’s check your room.” I go to the doorway.

“I already did.” Beckett and Ben have similar hair, wavy with a few curlier strands, and people believe they look more alike than Beckett does to his own twin.

It’s not their
hair that unites them. Beckett is the only brother searching for the bird because Pip-Squeak grew fond of him. Unless he’s defending Charlie, he’s the most even-tempered and the calmest of
all
my children. He can move his arms like billowing silk. He dances so gracefully that at nine he’s begun classes for twelve-year-olds.

Your hands are too tight. Softer, Rose
, the ballet instructor would chastise me as a little girl. I was stiff. Unbending.

Beckett is the surface of a rippling lake. Water. Just like his father.

“We’ll look in your room again.” I have a hunch that the bird flew over there. Either that or Pip-Squeak is very much dead.

Beckett trails after me, “He’ll cry. Tom stepped on a caterpillar yesterday, and Ben wept by the oak tree.” My heartstrings tug.

“I’m
finding
this bird if it’s the last thing I do,” I say with so much conviction.

Beckett nods, his doubt receding. We both slip into his bedroom. Gray and white bedding, dark wooden furniture. Much,
much
neater than every room down this hallway (except mine). Though the way he positioned his books at a slight tilt on the fourth and fifth shelf looks off.

I cluck my tongue, my eyes flaming. “Pip-Squeak, reveal your feathery ass or we’ll serve you to Lady Macbeth.”

Beckett whistles and peeks beneath his bed. “I taught you
happy birthday
to sing to Ben, not to hide. Where’d you go?”

I keep my finger raised in case Pip-Squeak decides to join the party, and I fix some of Beckett’s books, pushing them upright. Also I put two of his pencils into a holder.

Beckett whistles again as he stands. The sound dies midway and he shouts, “Mom!”

I freeze in the middle of the room. Beckett rarely raises his voice. He rushes to his bookshelf and meticulously angles the novels I pushed up. Then he scans the room, sees the pencils out of place, and sets two side-by-side in the center of the desk.

My blazing eyes simmer a little.

He can’t look at me as he says, “Why do you need to touch my things
every time
you enter my room?” Beckett clutches the frame of his desk chair.

For years we’ve known that he has OCD. He knows that he has it. Charlie knows.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
I’m sorry you have to experience this. I’m sorry my OCD tries to trump yours.
“I won’t touch.”

“That’s what you said before.”

“I’m trying, Beckett.” My chest is tight. Sometimes it’s harder with so many children. Jane’s room is
always
messy. I might as well be living with Daisy again. I just have to shut her door and block out the disaster.

I like things arranged a certain way. Orderly and in their proper places. When I was younger, I had nightly bathroom rituals that would take two-hours to complete. I manage to
not
obsess about the way I brush my teeth and how many times I wash my hands.

Now I just worry that his OCD will become a much greater enemy like mine did. First slow, then fast, and before he knows it, he’ll waste
hours
obsessing.