Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (87 page)

I clear my throat, feeling the heat of my husband’s arrogant eyes, and I announce, “I love Connor Cobalt.”

There, I said it.

Connor raises his goblet to me, his grin more affectionate than conceited. His love stampedes his narcissism so much that my claws recede.

Charlie cocks his head to Ben. “
Connor Cobalt
is Dad, in case you’ve fallen further behind.”

“I know that’s Daddy.” Ben huffs.

I snap my fingers. “Moving along with opening remarks.” Five children still need to speak up, even if they only want to say
no
. That’s fine with us.

Charlie lifts his pointer finger in the air. “I invoke my right to pass.”

Audrey gasps. “Why, Charlie?”

Beckett smiles up towards the chandelier. “It’s like asking why the contrarian wears a suit and tie to a pool party.” He didn’t pick the example out of thin air. Charlie
actually
wore his most expensive suit to a neighborhood pool party.

Then he left after five minutes.

Audrey’s hand shoots into the air.

“Audrey,” Connor calls on our youngest with a broadening smile.

Our youngest child opens her mouth to speak, but with every eye on her, she forgets her words. “…I…”

We all wait patiently.

“You?” I try to help her without making her feel inadequate.

“I am…” Her cheeks suddenly flush, and she plops back to her bottom, clutching tight to her Victorian hat.

The three oldest children drum the table for Audrey.

“Such wise words.
I am
,” Jane tells Audrey.

Audrey perks up. “Thank you, Jane.”

I try to drink my wine to hide a smile, but Connor sees.
Defeat thy husband.
I can make him
ache
just as much as he can revel in my smile. I collect my hair on one shoulder and tilt my head, bare neck in his direct view. He rubs his lips and then drops his hand to his goblet.

You can’t have this
. I channel through my eyes.

We’ll see,
he replies back.

I take another sip of wine, just as Beckett raises his hand.

He confesses, “I Google-searched my name.”

I choke on my wine.

“Careful, darling,” Connor says.

I give him a look before planting my fiery eyes on Beckett. “In this entire ugly world, what compelled you to do such a thing?”

Connor and I have sat side-by-side in bed and Google-searched
all
of their names. If there are any particularly defaming articles that we think lawyers will squash, we unleash the hounds upon the unethical journalists. So for Beckett, I know what would’ve cropped up in his search.

All the stereotypes related to boys in ballet.

Beckett explains, “At school, Geoffrey Stanford showed me in computer class.”

Charlie shakes his head at his brother. “Geoffrey
Google-searched your name. Not
you
.” It upsets Charlie when Beckett confesses to actions that aren’t his own.

My warrior side flares, just to protect them in whatever shape they need, piercing eyes darting to each of my boys.

“I still saw,” Beckett tells his twin brother.

“Geoffrey is an idiot along with the rest of the world.” He pauses. “Except you.” He
only
tells this to Beckett.

“Beckett.” Connor’s even-tempered voice catches everyone’s attention. “We’re all labeled. Every day we step outside, we’re stereotyped. You let that affect you—”

“You let them win,” Charlie finishes.

My chin rises once more. Beckett sees me, and his intensified confidence permeates like a spritz of perfume. He nods, assured.

“Anything else?” I ask him.

“That’s all I needed.”

Lady Macbeth springs off Jane’s lap. “Would you prefer to go next or last, Pippy?” Jane asks Ben, both the only two left for opening remarks.

“Last.” Ben eyes the mashed potatoes. He breaks tradition and scoops them on his plate before opening remarks have concluded.

No one chastises him, but Charlie cocks his head again to his little brother. I point my knife at Charlie. “Holster
this
,” I say icily. By
this
, I mean any smartass remarks he thinks to fling at his little brother.

Charlie wears entertainment and pretentiousness like they exist in his marrow and bone. He nods like
so I will, but only for you, Mom.

Jane raises her hand while standing. “Well then…” Her glittering blue eyes sweep her siblings and us. “I’ve chosen to pursue a love.”

Audrey gasps. “Jane is in love!”

“Yes, Audrey, I’m in
so much
indisputable
love.”

I observe my husband, his fingers to his lips.
Since we’re in the introduction of a battle, I’d hope he’d crumble at this new discussion, but he remains unperturbed.

Connor arches a brow at me.

I narrow my eyes, just as Eliot asks, “Have we met your love?”

“Because if we haven’t,” Tom says, “I believe we should.” Their loyalty to one another curves my mouth. Her brothers believe her love is a
someone
, but Jane has confided in me. I know her love is a
thing
. I also know that she’s searching for romance as hard as someone searches for their own foot.

“You’ve met my love many times before.”

Beckett questions, “Is love a person?”

“No,” Charlie answers before Jane can. “Her love is common.” He’s being factual. I know
what
her love is just like Connor and Charlie, but she hasn’t shared her future plans with us until now.

“Very common,” Jane agrees. “We use it constantly without realizing.”

Ben and Audrey’s faces scrunch at the riddle.

“Are you terribly confused?” Jane asks them, and when they both nod, she explains, “
Numbers
are very common. We use
numbers
daily, sometimes subconsciously.”

“Sub…what?” Audrey frowns.

Connor clarifies, “
Subconsciously.
Unknowingly.”

“Unaware,” I add.

“Your mother’s love for me.” Connor grins into his swig of wine.

I snort at that
inaccuracy
. Connor is the one who never acknowledged love. That he could love, that he did love, that it was
all
inside of him. If anything,
he
was unaware.

I always knew.

“So your love is numbers?” Eliot asks.

“Her love is
math
,” Charlie is the one to answer fully.

“Precisely.” Jane smiles. “I’ve signed up for competitions next school year. I’m joining
mathletes.
”

Her siblings clank dishes, goblets, and Tom drums the table.

I have my hand to my chest like I can’t breathe. Obviously I’m breathing. I’m alive, but this is the first time Jane has professed a dream, a goal—a passion in life. Even if it lasts a year or only two, I plan to encourage her any way I can.

Even if her aspirations consist of things I love and hate.

Academically competitive worlds?
I love.
Not just because I met Connor there. I loved competing and learning long before him.

Math?
I loathe.

I will be at every motherfucking competition. Come hell or high water.

Before she sits, Jane looks to her father and then to me, and we both express our pride through our eyes. We ask questions that she answers with delight.

Do you have to tryout?
Yes.

How many people per team?
Unsure at the moment.

When she takes a seat, smiling more than I do annually, everyone’s focus plants on the littlest boy, his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“Your turn, Pippy.”

Ben swigs his water and then stands. “I think we should start planting trees for every
tree
a human touches.” We let him talk out his proposal, but Connor rubs his lips the longer Ben believes his fantasy is real. “We’ll put them all in our backyard, and we’ll invite people over to look. They can’t touch or else they’ll
kill
the trees. Trees help the planet, so it’s important.”

Charlie says first, “You believe a billion trees can be planted in our backyard.”

“Why not?” Ben shrugs.

His father explains, “It’s idealistic.”

I quickly add, “Which is
not
a failing.”

Connor swishes his wine. “In certain situations, idealism can be a failing.”

“So can
narcissism
.”

The children clank their dishware and pound the table at my rebuttal.

Connor raises his glass to me, as though conceding, but I know my husband. He never surrenders this easily. “The accuracy of your second statement doesn’t eliminate the inaccuracy of your first.”

Our children drum their feet with laughter.

I will burn you, Richard.

Eliot takes out his pipe. “Isn’t idealistic another word for naïve?”

“Yes.” Connor sips his wine.

Ben crosses his twiggy arms “I know trees and what they mean. It’s important.”

I catch his gaze. “What’s important to you is important to me, my gremlin.”

“We don’t doubt your love for trees,” Connor tells his son truthfully.

This appeases Ben for the moment, but he sinks to his chair, deep in thought. Connor studies him for an extra moment or two. Ben is our only child who believes he can soar to the moon via a tomato soup can. The only child who mentions freeing dolphins by parachute and plane.

In a household full of critical thinkers, he’s an outlier—a little lamb in our den of lion cubs. We protect him and nurture him and
never
wish to change him, but sometimes lions bite harder than they intend.

I rise with my goblet—Connor step-for-fucking-step. My growl scratches my throat but never escapes my lips.

I read his amused gaze:
are you ready to be defeated, darling?

Prepare yourself, Richard.

I speak. “This concludes opening remarks. Now the game truly begins.” I clink the crystal with my knife. Our children dig into cranberries and green beans, plating food, but besides Ben, they hardly eat more than a bite or two.

We sit.

Eliot beats everyone to ask the first question, “What is Mozart’s opera called, ‘The Magic … what?’”

“Flute,” Connor says, just as the answer lands on the tip of my tongue.

“One point to Dad.” Jane always keeps score with a notebook. We play a variation of the same game we created at Model UN.

The day we met each other for the first time.

This nostalgic fact passes between Connor and me, intimate and warm amid cold thoughts of defeat and losses.

“What is the Roman numeral for one-hundred-and-fifteen?” Jane asks.

I know these letters, in the very least. “CXV,” I say, right as Connor begins. I stake a slice of goose and scrape it on my plate. The
screech
of metal knife on knife sounds
violent. I eye him the whole time, aiming the noise towards Connor.

He replenishes his wine.

We could throw out questions, but it’d mean that we’d lose the chance to gain a point. We’re too competitive, even amid our children. The rules of the game: anyone can ask a question, from any category, but they must provide it without reference material.

First to answer receives a point.

We never sit out. We never let our children win because they’re children. Maybe one day they will beat us, but for now, the battle is Connor versus me. They like to see if they can stump
both
of us with questions they’ve memorized before dinner.

Which is why the next set of questions comes in a quick flurry, and I clip the start of Connor’s answers as fast as he clips the start of mine.

“Mom and Dad are tied,” Jane announces thirty minutes through dinner. “Twenty-two points to you both. Charlie has three points.”

“Who was the captain of the Titanic?” Beckett asks, feeding me a question he knows that I know.

Connor senses this, but I’ve already answered, “Edward John Smith.”

“Using your resources, darling?” Connor asks me. “Or are you cheating?”

I flame at that
fighting
word. “I never cheat.” I didn’t ask Beckett to join my team, but clearly he prefers Team Rose in this instance—and I would
never
kick a little gremlin off my side. I have enough room on my bench for them all.