Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (49 page)

My relationship with Dais was never founded on words, so when dead-silence arrives over a call, it’s not tense or strained. It’s fucking peaceful.

I’d rather share the quiet with Daisy than sit in silence alone.

Her swing creaks, and she faces the camera again. Very softly, she says, “I miss you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” She picks at the rope. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, always fucking moving. “Every mountain reminds me of you.”

My lips almost lift. “You’re speaking to fucking mountains now, sweetheart?”

She laughs, which instantly makes me fucking smile. “Only the mountains you’ve touched. Those are my favorites.”

I watch Daisy peruse my features, and the
I miss you
she spoke about suddenly translates to her eyes. “Anything new? Is Sulli okay?”

“I’ll see if she’s still sleeping. She’ll want to fucking see you.” I stand at this, and I recall yesterday. The gym. The fucking paparazzi. “Have you been online?”

Daisy chucks another stick. “No. Spirit Days are always jam-packed, so I haven’t even been on the internet.” She pauses. “Why did something happen?”

Before worry creeps in, I say, “It’s just a fucking picture of me. Lo keeps texting me the photos with heart emoticons.” I slip into the hallway, and register
another
smile that pulls my lips. I couldn’t care less about what
Celebrity Crush
prints, unless it hurts Daisy or any of the Calloway sisters.

This was fucking harmless.

Daisy must search the internet, her hand to her rising lips. When her eyes start glassing, I stop in the middle of the hall.

“Dais?”

She’s smiling. “You dressed up for her?”

My heart fucking radiates because of my wife. “I fucking tried.”

Daisy laughs, wiping tears that fall. “I know people always remind Lo of this, and for Connor, it’s just known, but Ryke…” Daisy smiles into another heartfelt laugh. “You’re an
amazing
dad.”

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t
hit
me like a thousand tons. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be like Jonathan Hale, and I broke the mold faster than my brother could. I had no
good
father figure, nothing to emulate, but I knew what I never wanted to fucking be. What I’d never do to my daughter.

I’d be there
every day
, not just on Mondays.

I’d love her more than I loved money. More than I loved my reputation. More than I loved myself.

I’d dig for fucking happiness and hand it to Sulli.

Daisy’s smile is infectious. I end up laughing lightly and shaking my head—grateful for my wife, my daughter, and this fucking life.

“Daddy?” Sulli’s bedroom door begins to open.

Daisy swings faster, her excitement shining at the sound of our daughter.

Quietly, I tell Daisy, “I wasn’t the only one who really fucking missed you.”

Daisy mock gasps. “Is it the moon? Did the stars miss me? Or was it the sky?”

“It was this fucking tiny one.” I rotate the camera onto the bedroom door, just as Sulli emerges, half-dressed in the same fucking mermaid outfit.

I squat. “Want to say hi to Mommy?” I face the screen to our four-year-old.

Sulli gasps, but a real fucking gasp, and she races towards the phone. “Mommy!”

Daisy smiles. “The most beautiful mermaid in the whole wide sea.”

It’s 5:00 a.m.—and we’re all together again.

{
28 }

December 2022

Hale Co. Elevator

Philadelphia

LILY HALE

I’m in a nightmare.

If I could rank a scenario as “nightmarish” this,
right here
, would be mounted at the top.

“Press the button again!” I yell at Ryke. I’ve already repeatedly pushed the elevator button, but maybe it’s operator-error. Maybe
Ryke
has the magic touch.

Not a sexual touch! Just a touch that makes a Hale Co. elevator
go
when it’s come to an abrupt, terrifying
stop.

“I’ve pressed it fifteen fucking times already,” Ryke snaps. He listens to my demand anyway and pushes the red
call help
button. Nothing happens. No chimes, no beeps, no intercom system.

It’s broken.

Our only way out is broken. We’re trapped about ten floors beneath our destination: a Hale Co. Christmas party.

I pace in the small, confined space. No mirrors, just maroon wallpaper, dim lighting and soft Christmas music from the corner speakers. “Here Comes Santa Claus” is the current anthem to my nightmare.

I bite my nails while Ryke crouches by the maintenance box below all the buttons. He tries to pry it open with his fingertips. If those fingertips can scale rock, surely they can save us. Right?

My swollen ankles hurt. I lean against the wall for support, my hand splayed on my large baby bump. The extra weight drags my body down.
Stay upright.
I motivate myself. I’m due at any time. In fact, I almost stayed at home and ditched the party for pajamas and television with Moffy and Luna.

At the last minute, I decided to go and support Lo. And…the Christmas cookies. He enticed me with a photo of frosted sugar cookies, and I caved.

So, naturally, I hitched a ride with the Always-Late Ryke Meadows.

If I would’ve known that attending the party would result in being stuck in an elevator with the Always-Late Ryke Meadows while I’m Very Pregnant Lily Hale, I would’ve stayed in my PJs. And pretended I was eating sugar cookies.

I anxiously pick at the fuzz off my ugly Christmas sweater (the party theme). The red wool stops at my thighs, and white pompoms are hot glued over every inch. Ryke wears a green sweater with a reindeer pooping ornaments and glitter. Gold stitching says:
Merry Fucking Christmas.

Daisy bought it for him.

I pull out my phone. “Check your service again.” I raise my phone to the ceiling. No bars. No signal.

“Lily,” Ryke growls my name. “Sit the fuck down.” His magic fingers fail at opening the screwed-in maintenance box.
Magic fingers?
I start picturing his fingers in not-so-wholesome places.

Then I start picturing his fingers on my
sister.

Cringing, I cover my face with a hand. I didn’t mean to think it, I swear.

I take a breath and focus on my cellphone. “If I sit down then that’s me giving into the idea that we’ll be here for longer than five minutes.” I raise my phone. “Maybe if you boost me up, we’ll find signal.”

“
No
,” Ryke argues. “You’re nine-months fucking pregnant. I’m not boosting you anywhere.”

“Shhhh!” I whisper-hiss and stretch out my arms. “Did you hear that?”

Ryke goes quiet but returns to a phone box that he’s already checked out four times.

I listen and hear soft chatter. “HELP!” I scream. “HELP!! WE’RE STUCK!!”
Please every wizard in every land, please get me out of here.

Ryke puts the phone to his ear and presses another button. His features significantly darken. “What’s the fucking point of having this if it doesn’t fucking work?”

I blow out a steady breath, sliding down the wall. I can’t hold myself up any longer. This is me, literally sinking in defeat.

Ryke doesn’t see me halfway to the floor as he says, “Sit the fuck down, Calloway. We’re not going anywhere.”

Shit.

* * *

Two hours.

We’ve been stuck in this elevator for two brutal hours and counting. I slouch against the wall and struggle to unlace my boots. My ankles need to breathe.

Ryke scoots in front of me and starts untying them.

I think I mutter out a thanks, hot and exhausted from doing nothing but sitting in fear. Every so often, we’ll start shouting for help, but no one has heard us. I’ve forbidden him from crawling into the elevator shaft. The first time he proposed the idea, I played out the brutal scenario where he’s crushed to death.

He told me that I was being fucking
overdramatic, but he relented for a while. Then he tried again and again and on the fourth try, he succeeded in opening the ceiling hatch.

Then I screamed so horrifically that he stopped.

He hasn’t tried after that.

Ryke dying hurts to think about. I felt it once, and I don’t care to relive that day in Peru. There’d be a bottomless void that can’t be filled by just anyone.

I blow out controlled breaths, and he yanks off my left boot and works on the right. I wiggle my toes. All intact. Ryke stares at my belly for a long moment.

I’m so pregnant—it’s not good.

I’ve been tightlipped about the pain that started about an hour back, which feels a whole lot like contractions. Denial is a natural mode for me, but then I start thinking about losing this baby. Sweat gathers on my neck.

I can’t lose him.

As he unties my right boot, I ask, “Hypothetically, if we’re stuck here for eternity, do you think you could help deliver Xander?”

Ryke glares. “We’re not going to be here for eternity.”

“But if we are.”

“We aren’t.”

“But
if we are
,” I say like I’ve trumped him—and then I blow out another breath.

He yanks off my second boot. “If we are, then we need to think about other fucking things too. Like food. Water.”

“Sex,” I blurt out and cringe with him. “Nononono! Not with
you
. I just mean.” What did I mean? I waft some air onto my face with my hands. “Whenever anyone starts listing off necessary things to survive, sex always comes to mind. Not with you, just to be clear. Just in…general.” I wave around the elevator as though it contains all the generalness of the world.

He rubs his face with his hands as if trying to wake up. Then he groans like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation at all. “Fucking A.”

Pain shoots up, and I grit down and shift some. “But seriously…”
I’m afraid.
“If we’re here for the next twenty-four-hours, could you…help or…”

He raises his head from his hand-fort, and concern engulfs his face beyond anything I imagined. “Are you having fucking contractions right now?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Maybe.”

Ryke rakes his hands through his hair. “What’s
maybe
? Like really fucking intense or…?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

“How could you not know?!” Ryke yells, mostly out of panic. “This is your third kid.”

I touch my hand to my chest. “I’m still not an expert like Rose.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Ryke motions to me. “You’re just as smart as her. Three babies or six or
none.
It’s all just fucking…” he trails off as he watches fright invade me. “Are you crying?”

“No.” I wipe beneath my eyes, a tear on my finger. “Rose wouldn’t cry.”

“You’re not Rose,” he says harshly. “And you don’t have to fucking be her. She wouldn’t want you to be anyone other than you.”

I nod. He’s right.
I just thought having a little extra Rose strength wouldn’t hurt, but maybe all Xander needs is my strength.

I wince at another sharp pain, and I tighten my eyes shut.

Ryke slides even closer and starts asking a thousand questions.
Where does it fucking hurt? What can I do to fucking help? Do you need to lie down? Do you want my fucking sweater as a pillow?

I wave my hand at him to stop. He quiets, and I whisper, “Just…talk about something else. Distract me?” My anxiety and fear could be to blame.
Relax, relax, relax,
I chant.

I open one eye.

Ryke flips his phone in his palm. “If you hate his fucking name, you can always pick another one.”

My other eye pops open. “What? No.” I didn’t think he’d bring up
this
. “Lo and I love the name Xander.” After we learned we were having a boy, we began brainstorming names from our favorite comic book characters. Months passed with too many options and more indecision. It wasn’t as easy as Maximoff and Luna.

So we gave our long list of potential baby names to Ryke and told him to pick one.

He handed back the list, and he circled a name but crossed off a portion of the letters.

Ale
xander Summers

Also known as Havok from
X-Men
and the brother to Scott Summers. His choice made Lo choke up, especially when Ryke said that he researched every name before he picked this one.

He only needed to choose a first name since we haven’t given our children middle ones—out of the pure fact that we want them to go by their first name. And not a second one.