Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (31 page)

Frederick shifts his papers again. “What words would you use?”

“Heinous, flagrant, egregious, despicable—but even better, he deserves none of
my
time pondering his actions or what he is. I’ve spent too much on him already.”

Frederick pauses. “You won. He’s in jail. You don’t lose just because you
feel
from the events, even after they’ve ended.”

Connor looks to me. “This is Rick’s way of telling me to
cope
with sentiments I can’t understand. He forgets that I’m not like everyone else.” He turns back to Frederick. “I’m not wounded. I’m
irritated
by the constant need to discuss what’s dead. It helps most people, like Daisy, but I’m not most people.”

I can’t tell who’s right. Maybe they both are. Maybe Connor struggles to reach the bottom of his emotions, ones he truly thinks don’t exist within him. Maybe it’s Frederick’s job to pull them out.

“You’re human,” Frederick tells him. “It’s human to be affected by trauma long after the trauma ends.”

Connor rubs his lips, his agitation more than apparent. “I willingly did what I did. I skewered a rat on my lawn and made him eat himself. I feel
justified
.
We should really be discussing last night’s events.” Before Frederick can speak, Connor asks me, “Did you sleep well?”

“The best I ever could.” I know he can catch the lie in my smile. I pick at a tear in the leather couch cushion.

“How many hours?” Connor asks again. “Were you frightened?”

I wonder if Rose’s concern sent Connor here, wanting more answers about my health. I don’t want to worry her or him, so I stray from seriousness, my eyes widening in mock horror. “Fifteen hours of sleep. It was
insanity.
You should’ve been there, total party in my bed.” I smile at that funny innuendo.

“Is she always like this?” Connor asks Frederick like my runaround antics would be exhausting after a while.

Frederick wears a kind-hearted smile. “Sometimes.”

I swing my legs from side to side, unable to rest my chin on my knee. “Why are you so interested in what happens beneath my sheets, Connor?”

He just stares blankly at me. “It’s like chasing a puppy that runs after its own tail.”

I smile again. “I’m the puppy?”

“Obviously.” He checks his phone like someone texts him.
Definitely Rose.
“You were crying?” he asks before setting his deep blue gaze on me again.

“I imagined a life without chocolate.”

“And unsurprisingly, I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe that a world without chocolate is absolutely, entirely
devastating
?”

Connor’s brows furrow like I’m a fool if I think I’m
fooling
him. “I believe that you like sprinting in pointless circles.” Another text lights up his phone. My sister’s concern suddenly yanks at my heart.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” I finally answer.

Connor contains his emotion. I can’t read him.

So I add, “But tell Rose that I plan on taking a nap when I get home, and that I already feel better.”

“I will.” He texts Rose in front of me, not shocked that I figured out why he’s here.

Frederick taps the armrest. “Let’s reroute to Scott Van Wright.”

Connor sets down his phone. “I’m beginning to think you have a fondness for rats and swine.”

Frederick actually smiles. “Daisy, do you have any questions for Connor about what happened? Anything you want to express?”

I think there is something. “You never told me if you saw any of the footage. You had to confirm the tapes were of me. You couldn’t just leave without knowing for certain. So…how?”

Connor’s gaze is cemented on Frederick, Frederick’s cemented on his. Whatever passes between them in the brief silence, I guess could only be described as
understanding.
An understanding that this topic would be broached sooner or later. That this moment would come to fruition.

“Tell her,” Frederick urges with a slow nod.

Connor doesn’t balk, not once. He slowly but surely rotates to face me. Calmly, he says, “Five seconds. I tried leaving sooner, but I did see you half-dressed.” He pauses. “I didn’t see you giving head, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s what I always thought, and I really,
really
appreciate it. What you did…”

“Don’t.” Connor’s deep blue eyes never dart away from mine. “Don’t appreciate me, Daisy. Because it wasn’t for you. I manipulated a man and used your evidence to further a ploy that benefited me and my family.”

He can paint the selfish portrait, but that picture is only half-complete.

“Maybe your intentions were never to help me, but you did. And it’s not the only thing you did.” It’s more than just interrupting Julian and me during
Princesses of Philly
. “How many photographs have you bought? The ones that photographers took of me backstage when I modeled?” I’m not sure if there’s more than just the one from Paris, but I remember that one like a deep, visceral scar in my body. Photographers captured pictures of me
naked
backstage at a Paris fashion show.

I never knew what happened to them.

They never leaked online. In time, I realized that Connor Cobalt is the
only
one who had the resources to buy them. To stop them.

To help me.

I believe he did it because he loves Rose, and Rose loves me. What power their love truly has.

Connor observes me for a second, his features harder to interpret. Then he turns to our therapist. “You see, I’m not as self-serving as you believe me to be.”

“As you believe yourself to be,” Frederick corrects.

I drop my feet to the floor and stand up again, hating to sit this long. I start wandering towards the bookshelf.

“Both of you know that Scott’s sentence will be ending soon, maybe even earlier if he gets out on good terms. How are you going to handle it?”

Connor calls out, “Daisy.” He wants me to go first?

I thumb through hardbacks on a middle shelf. “I wish he could rot away forever, but he did his time. Now he’ll be on the sex offender’s registry.” I look over my shoulder at them. “I think that has to be enough.” It has to. Because I can’t be worried Scott will appear again and hurt us. That fear has no room in my world.

“Her answer is mature,” Frederick tells Connor. “I’m guessing yours will be more verbose.”

Connor arches a brow. “Guessing? Aren’t you supposed to be a professional? I don’t pay you to
guess
.”

“You tell me,” Frederick says, a smile playing at his lips. He picks up his coffee like this is normal. I smile too, realizing it’s normal for Connor to insult everyone.

Even his own therapist.

“He might be set free in time because of our judicial system, but he’ll be imprisoned emotionally and mentally. I will always see him as what he fucking is. Swine, a rat-snake, someone not worth my time. I’m mostly annoyed by ignorance, by people who think it’s acceptable to directly send me messages about events that did not and will not ever happen. People who believe he’s virtuous.” Connor shakes his head. “I won’t scream and open their eyes and make them hear and see. If they can’t understand reality, then so be it. They’re
gnats
to me.”

The air is thick.

Connor sits forward to add one more statement, “He will
never
come within eyesight of my family or Daisy’s family or Lily’s. I’d stomp him down before he reached within fifty miles of us. It’s not an illusion. It’s a fact.”

I realize that Connor may never ascribe the word “violated” to himself, but I think Scott Van Wright definitely violated him at one point in time. His hostility, that I never see, makes me believe that Scott crossed a boundary with Connor that others never do.

I touch the ballerina figurine again. “I’m glad it’s over.” He’s gone. We’re all safe, and as we deal with the leftover emotions, we can move forward and forge stronger paths. I walk much lighter towards the couch again.

This might be one of the best sessions I’ve had.

“It shouldn’t surprise you that it’s over,” Connor says, his grin growing. “I always win in the end.”

I laugh into a bright smile.

It might be conceited but it’s very,
very
true.

Sweet Disposition
by the Temper Trap
starts playing, the ringtone set for Ryke. He’s usually really careful about not interrupting my sessions. One time, he spent a whole hour searching for our motorcycle helmets, which I stuffed in a suitcase. My idea of cleaning is to just wedge things in other things until more space appears.

Ryke could’ve texted or called me, but he actually waited until I arrived home. He considers very few events more important than my therapy sessions, so my stomach tangles as I dig in my jean shorts for my phone. In seconds, I place it to my ear. “Is everything okay?”

Connor and Frederick are eerily quiet, not even pretending not to listen into my call. I face the bookshelf and wait for the tormenting pause to pass.

I can sense Ryke hesitating on the line, his breath cut short. Then he says, “Yeah, it’s fucking fine. Call me when you get home.”

“You’re not home?” I frown and then make a fast choice. On a chair by the door, I grab my backpack and my helmet. For Christmas, Ryke gifted me a lime-green Kawasaki Ninja supersport motorcycle, which can reach nearly a hundred-and-ninety miles an hour. It’s even faster than my old Ducati, the bike that I gave to the EMT who basically saved my life.

That was almost two years ago now.

Ryke growls at himself like he really,
really
didn’t want to interrupt me—hating that he did.

“Ryke, it’s okay. I was done.” I sling my backpack straps on, and in my peripheral, I see Connor stand up. I shift my phone to my other ear. “Is it Sulli?” Fear spikes my voice.

“It’s not fucking serious, but…
fuck
.” Just by the tone of his voice, I can tell that he’s upset.
It’s Sulli.
It has to be about our daughter, who’ll turn two next month.

“Just tell me where I need to go.” I have my hand on the doorknob.

Another long pause before he says, “The ER.”

Color drains from my face. “As in
emergency room
?” My hand slips, and my helmet clatters to the floor.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks as I pick it up.

“My helmet.” I have no time to ask what happened—he speaks again, as though remembering I rode my bike to New York City.

“Don’t fucking ride upset. Last thing I fucking want is my wife and my daughter in the hospital.” He suggests calling my father’s private driver as an alternative, but he doesn’t realize that Connor Cobalt is ten feet behind me.

I rotate my helmet in my hands, restless, my lungs in my throat. I’d rather ride my bike, not just to reach the hospital faster but because my body screams to
move.
To lunge. To speed ahead.

“Daisy?”

I listen to my husband’s wish, and before I even ask Connor, he says, “I already called my driver. He’s waiting.”

“Thank you.” I focus on my phone call and tell Ryke that Connor is here to see Frederick. “He’ll bring me to the hospital,” I finish.

Ryke lets out an audible breath like
thank fucking God.
In the background, I suddenly hear Sulli crying. No more lingering, I
run
out the door.

* * *

With my backpack on and helmet in hand, I say goodbye to Connor and rush into the waiting room of the ER.

“Is that Daisy Calloway?” I overhear a flurry of whispers, the waiting room crammed and loud with crying babies, sniffing patients, and a television playing GBA News.

I bypass most of the people to reach a chair, tucked in the corner between a magazine stand and potted plant. Ryke tries to calm Sullivan by combing his fingers through her dark brown hair, her cheeks tear-streaked and splotchy. Sitting on her dad’s lap, she hugs her white stuffed starfish, her chin quaking either from pain or the new hospital surroundings.

Ryke sees me halfway across the room, relief loosening his shoulders, and he whispers to Sullivan, “Who’s that?”

She follows his finger to find me, and she tearfully shouts, “Mommy!”

Before she tries to spring off his lap, I’m here. I kneel, my hand on Ryke’s
knee in comfort, and I gasp at Sulli. “I hear you’ve been on a
big
adventure.” I try to hide away all my worry and fear. A piece of toilet paper is stuffed up her nostril and soaked with blood.

“It…it hurts…” Sulli tries to sniff, and she starts
wailing
at the discomfort in her nose. Ryke told me what happened over the phone.
It’s not life-threatening,
I remind myself throughout her piercing cries. It still sucks watching my daughter in pain. It still sucks being stuck in the crowded emergency room, unable to know
when
a doctor will see us.