Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (69 page)

“She has friends,” I say the truth. “Her cousins. She hangs out with Eliot and Tom a lot. They’re in the same grade.”

“Eliot and Tom Cobalt.” Ms. Jacobs nods curtly, as though their names bring arthritis and back aches. Separately, they’re more manageable. Together, they’re definitely a handful. “The whole administration knows who they are, and they’re currently in Ms. Nalah’s class. But I think it’s better for Luna to make friends with girls her own age and kids that aren’t related to her.”

“It’s easier said than done,” Lo replies. “In order for our kids to even go to someone’s house, the parents have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Most parents don’t want to deal with that shit.”

Our children are too young to understand, and all we want is to protect them. To make sure other people don’t exploit them. The NDA’s are a formality, but it’s a giant safeguard that we can’t skip.

“I know your situation must be more difficult,” Ms. Jacob says, “but Luna doesn’t need to jump through any hoops to make friends at school.”

I wrack my brain. “I…I don’t know why they’re not including her. Is it because she’s on
We Are Calloway
?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I believe most parents won’t let their child watch the docu-series. It’s on a premium cable channel.”

Lo and I both nod. It’s like letting a child watch
Game of Thrones
but without the incest and sex and murders.
Bad example.

Ms. Jacobs suddenly stares at the table and then lets out a soft sigh. “This is really hard for me to say, but I want you both to know that kids this age, they can be judgmental.”

I’m not even breathing at this point.

“Some of the other girls…and boys have taken to calling Luna names behind her back. Whispering. That sort of—”

“What kind of names?” Lo cuts in, his eyes reddening, no longer blinking.

I teeter between anger and pain, both sentiments coiling around my lungs and yanking tight.

“Weirdo. Creep.”

Each word stabs my heart.

Lo swings his head towards the door, glaring and forcing down every brutal emotion that suddenly impales us both.

Creep
. It rings in my ears. I try to swallow a lump down, but it won’t budge. Lo and I haven’t let go of one another. I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm. I just never wanted her life to be harder. We both wanted
easy, painless,
and
happy
for our daughter.

“She’s just a little different than the other girls her age,” Ms. Jacob says, “which isn’t all bad. As far as I can tell, she understands social cues, but she’s not at an age where she fully grasps shame yet.”

I immediately start crying at the word
shame.
She’ll be ashamed of what she likes soon, is that it? Other kids will make her feel guilty for saying the wrong thing and in the wrong way. She’ll be pressured to be more like them and less like herself.

I wipe my tears fast with Lo’s shirt.

He tucks me closer to his chest.

“I’m so sorry.” Ms. Jacob slides over a box of tissues. I take about five—or ten. I rub my nose, and she continues, “I want to give you some examples, if that’s okay?”

Lo and I both nod again.

“Luna will talk in different voices sometimes, and the times she talks normally, she’ll discuss things like imaginary planets and someone called FinFarley Hunter.” FinFarley Hunter is a comic book for children, a line that Halway Comics published a couple years ago. It’s kind of like a spin on Nancy Drew, and so far it’s stayed very niche.

“That’s just the kind of stuff she’s into,” Lo says, his face twisted. “I’m not going to tell her to abandon the shit she likes because other people don’t get it. It’s not her fault. It’s
theirs
.”

“I understand, but maybe try to get her involved in a mainstream activity or interest that’ll make it easier for her to connect with other girls.”

It seems like the right thing to do, but a tiny voice in the back of my head whispers,
why does she have to like what other kids like just to make friends?
Why?

Lo rubs the back of his neck. “We’re not going to force her into something, but we’ll…introduce other stuff and see if she likes it.”

It’s not like we haven’t already. She tried soccer and huffed and puffed and then quit.

I sniff and nod at Lo. I know we have to keep trying, especially if it’ll make her school life easier.

Lo asks, “If things—if they get worse, what would happen if we switched her to Ms. Nalah’s class?”

“I don’t recommend it. Not this year. The entire kindergarten class shares a recess. They all know each other, and they’ll ask Luna why she was moved out of my class. Just wait, please. It’s still early, which was why I wanted to chat now instead of later in the year.”

We say our thanks and then finish up the conversation. When Lo and I climb into his Audi, we just sit there for a while, not able to start the car. Not able to drive home. Our bodyguards wait in the SUV behind us, probably questioning the hold-up.

Tears prick my eyes again. “We weren’t ever called weirdos…” I just see her future unless something changes, and it contains more heartache than we ever pictured. “You were an asshole. I was…shy.” Luna’s not shy. She’s outspoken and loud. Her opinions and imagination fill a room and don’t fit into a certain mold. She’s different, but why is that so bad?

“She’ll be okay.” Lo nods to himself like he has to believe this statement. He turns the key, the Audi blinking to life.

I repeat his words. Over and over.

{
45 }

November 2025

Manhattan Medical Hospital

New York City

LOREN HALE

I
run
down the hospital hallway. Chest on fire. Legs numb. My body rages so far ahead of my brain. Ahead of my emotions.

Ahead of me.

I only slow when I reach the hospital door. Ajar, but no noise filters into the hallway.
Go in there, Lo.

Walk the fuck in there, Lo.

Why did you stop, Lo?!

Fear chokes me by the throat. I tug the collar of my crew neck.
Move your goddamn feet.
I stop waiting around for this
feeling
to disappear.

I step carefully and slowly inside. It feels like I’m walking on glass, cutting deep in my soles. Slicing open my feet. As soon as the hospital bed comes into view, I stop walking.

Stop moving.

Stop looking at him.
But I can’t tear my gaze away from the scene in front of me.

My father lies on the firm mattress, sheet-white, eyes sunken. He stares hauntingly at the ceiling, his lips the same pallid color of his skin.

He already looks dead.

I choke on a strangled noise, caught between grief and anger.

His head tilts limply towards me. I’m not comforted by the sight. He’s still alive but just barely
.
Jonathan Hale teeters between life and death.

I lick my dry lips. All I want to do is grab ahold of him, wrench him back to me, to this life, and to this world.

I still need you
. I want to scream at myself for thinking this goddamn thing.
I still need you, Dad.
Did I ever really need him? Somewhere inside me, I truly believe I did, and I can’t let go of that.

My eyes cloud. In front of him, I instinctively shield my face with my hand. I wait for him to say it,
“Stop fucking crying, Loren.”

I still hear it in my head. I always
hear it
. Even when he’s different. Even when I know I’m different.

I still hear it.

“Come here, Loren.” His coarse tone slices me up, but I hold onto the familiarity.

My throat is swollen closed. I swallow hard and manage to step forward. Pain radiates up my shins and legs and arms. Just at the single movement. My body screams for me to stop. So I stop.

I don’t go after the pain. I don’t ask for it. I don’t
want
it.

I don’t even believe I deserve it.

I point an accusatory finger at my dad. The man who’s dying right in front of me. “Why didn’t you tell
me?
You said you were on a fucking vacation—to Hawaii?” I nearly spit. Grief and anger rattles my bones. I’m his son.
I’m the
one
that gives a shit whether he lives or dies.

And he didn’t tell me.

I should’ve known it was all bullshit. He gave me too many details about the resort, about his “lady friend” he planned to fuck all weekend. It seemed too elaborate to be the truth.

Maybe I just wanted to believe the story. He sounded happy. My dad on some getaway trip. To relax. To suntan. To have a goddamn fling.

“A lie,” he says, as though it’s nothing. He points to the stiff chair by his stiff bed. “Sit.”

I grimace. “Jesus Christ, Dad. Don’t say it like it’s fucking nothing. You lied. Okay? You
lied
to me.” I jab my finger towards the floor. “The nurses said you’ve been here for a whole week.” Rage pushes me forward. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

I breathe heavily, already knowing the answer before the question escapes. He’s Jonathan Hale. He protected me from the knowledge of being a bastard. He protected me from an ugly rumor about him molesting me. And he protected me again.

From the torment of watching him slowly die.

“Sit.” He points to the chair again, the gesture tugging his IV cords and shifting the metal stand.

I make it to the chair. I collapse on the seat. I just might sink all the way to the ground through the floorboards and down, down,
down
to the dirt in the fucking Earth.

I have to hunch forward, forearms on my thighs. It hurts to look at him. Hurts to be here. But I stay and I try to look.

I’m scared if I don’t, he’ll disappear. My chest caves at the sight of him. I blink, and tears fall. “Dammit,” I curse, glaring at the ceiling.

Why is this happening?

“Loren.” He says my name with frailty I’ve never heard. “Will you call your brother and sister? I want them here.”

I knew he would. “They’re on their way.” My leg jostles and my shoulders sway from side to side, pent up with
so much
…

My amber eyes rise to him again.

He never reaches for my hand. Never pulls me closer. He’s never been that kind of father. But his presence is so large it fills the room. His spirit is bigger than his body.

I don’t have to ask what happened. I spoke to the doctors over the phone. At his request, they called me first. For the past couple of years, he’s been suffering from chronic liver rejection. It’s common for liver transplant recipients to have some type of rejection, but
chronic
—it means this has been happening for a long period of time.

He was only admitted to the hospital when his liver started shutting down.

He’s too low on the transplant list. No donors in sight. Ryke already donated once, and he can’t again.

What the hell has he been going through for two years? He knew he’d die. He knew that all hope was shot. I’m so goddamn angry he never said a thing. He went through this alone.

I can’t wash the malice out of my harsh eyes. “You should’ve told me.”
I’m your son.

He laughs briefly like I’m just a kid.

I’m thirty-five. I’m not just
a kid.

But I am his.

“I should’ve told you…” He lets out another weak laugh and shakes his head. “And have you tiptoe around me? You want to put me out to pasture like cattle—fine. You have the chance now.” He extends one of his arms. “Bury me.”

I cringe. “Jesus
Christ
. Stop it.” My eyes flood. “You’re going to be okay.”

His dry smile fades. “You’ve never been a dreamer, Loren. Don’t start now.”

His words should piss me off. I should be enraged, but they remind me that he knows who I am. He raised me. He was there for me. For a really long time, it had been just me and him. I can’t forget the fact that he chose
me.
I was the bastard, but he never flung me out like trash.

There is love so deeply rooted between us. Beneath all the dark and the black and the tar that bleeds our souls. There is love. It exists, and I realize I’m about to lose it forever.

Don’t go
, I want to tell him.

I hear his reply in my head,
you think I want to?

“There must be some way to get you another transplant.” I fight for him.

His sharp, withering glare tries to destroy me. I don’t let it. My own cutting look rivals his, and I think,
I learned from the best.