Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) (91 page)

“Just aliens.” Luna taps Kinney’s nose. “
Beep, beep
.”

Kinney barely flinches. She says matter-of-factly, “Ghosts are better than aliens.”

Luna shrugs and flips a page in her journal. “Everyone likes different sorts of things.” She glances at me, and when she starts smiling, I realize that I’ve been
beaming
at my eight-year-old like she’s the empress of an intergalactic universe—and I’m just a little astronaut floating by, witnessing
this
beauty.

Luna Hale might not have any friends outside of relatives, but she has more confidence at eight-years-old than I did when I was
twenty
.

Never ashamed.

My daughter is
never
ashamed.

“You made Mommy cry,” Kinney says and starts drying my tears with her Darth Vader pajama shirt.

“Happy tears,” I tell them, wiping at my wet eyes, tears overflowing.

Luna touches her Hulk slipper to my Thor slipper and singsongs, “Fan
fiction
.” She makes a smooching noise, Hulk kissing Thor.

I laugh at the Hulk-Thor alternate universe. Kinney scoots higher, sitting up on my stomach. I hold her waist, bony like me. Like Luna, too.

I squint at Kinney. “So you’re not scared of any ghosts?”
I’m
scared of ghosts and all the horror movies Lo watches with Garrison. They act like they’re
comedies.

The only funny thing about horror movies is my petrified face in the black credit screen.

Kinney tells me, “I’m scared of nothin’ in the world.” For being three, she says this
very
seriously—to the point where I think I believe her. I try to recall any frightened Kinney moments, but most are just content Kinney moments.

“Uh-huh, not true,” Luna says, tapping Kinney’s nose.

Kinney swats her hand away. “Is too.”

“Then ask Eliot to tell you a ghost story and see what happens.”

“Let’s not,” I interject while Kinney says, “Okay.”

“Nonono,” I slur. “Not okay. We’re in the middle of a
fun
story about aliens.” I like these aliens. There are marshmallows and lots of chaste naps on the hovercraft. I almost think I could exist somewhere on Luna’s planet.

“Mommy’s scared,” Kinney says with a
devilish
smile.

Now I’m scared.

Luna annoys Kinney with another
beep beep
nose tap, and the devilish smile seems less
Children of the Corn
.

I convince them to return to the story by just pointing at Luna’s journal and asking, “What’s happening?”

Luna starts reading again, and Kinney listens as intently as me. Only one page left and the door flies open.

“Mommy!” Five-year-old Xander races into the bedroom, floppy-eared Gotham hot on his heels. Xander’s smile is more apparent at the lake house than anywhere else. It’s the one safe place void of media attention.

No cameras in his face. No one shouting his name. We like bringing him here, especially when he needs to mentally relax and recuperate.

Xander tugs down his green Power Ranger shirt that rides up. Maybe he forgot what he wanted because he just stands still, smiling, pieces of his brown hair falling over his forehead. Gotham pants beside him.

Before I ask, my oldest son jogs into the bedroom, not out of breath, but smiling
too.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi…?” I switch on
Lily investigation mode
.

Moffy lightly squeezes Xander’s shoulder in affection before tapping his sisters’ heads like bongos. “Luna, Kinney.” Then he pats mine. “Mom. Ready to go?”

“Wha…?”

Luna shuts her journal.

“Waitwaitwait, we have one page left.” I might have whined that. I’m just deeply invested in what happens to Zhola and Dash. It was a
devoted
whine, a whine that every person in every fandom may understand.

So there.

Luna says robotically, “Later.” She mimes a robot as she stands off the bed. Kinney slides off me and then the mattress before darting to Xander’s side.

I try to dust away the cobwebs of my brain, but confusion still crinkles my nose and brows. Moffy grabs both my hands and pulls me to my feet.

“What’s going on?” I ask my four kids. They’re
never
this sneaky. Luna has trouble keeping secrets from me; Kinney will rehash her entire day, including the driest details:
I walked down the hall. I turned the doorknob. And then I sat on my bed
; Xander lied once about doing his homework and two seconds later made a tearful confession; and Maximoff—he likes being treated like a grown-up, like if anyone is doing the
sneaking
,
it’d be all the other little kids. Not him.

“It’s about my bike,” Moffy tells me.

I frown. “What about your bike?”

Moffy jabs his finger towards the door. “I left it on the west bank of the lake.”

How’d he get his bike over there?
“Okay…” I trail off, my gaze drifting to the doorway where Loren Hale stands. I’m instantly distracted by
him.

Cheekbones that cut like ice. Eyes like liquid scotch. He’s much more than an alcoholic beverage, and he knows it.

Lo flashes his iconic half-smile, and he says, “Never trust a bunch of Hufflepuffs to do a Slytherin’s job.”

Our three youngest kids pipe up at once, shouting about how they haven’t been sorted yet.

“I’m not eleven!” Kinney decrees.

“I’m a Hufflynclawdor,” Luna says.

“We gotta wait, Daddy. It’s too early for that,” Xander exclaims.

Lo cups his ear. “What was that? I can’t hear any of you. I’m immune to huffle-talk.”

They all groan like he’s the corniest dad in the entire universe.

I smile from ear-to-ear, gliding towards my best friend with gangly arms that ache to fit around him. Lo accepts the invitation, pulling me into the warmest, tightest hug.

He feigns a wince at our four children. “Christ, what is that on their faces? They’re smiling, Lil. Make ‘em stop.”

I peek at our kids, all four smiling big, standing in an uneven line. Wearing superhero and pop culture paraphernalia. Lo squeezes me, no longer teasing. He sees each one, each kid, his nostalgia brimming with mine.

Between years of missteps, fuck-ups, and setbacks, something beautiful and pure happened, and we’re viewing every little bit.

“Huh?” Kinney cocks her head at us. “This isn’t part of the—”

Moffy covers her mouth with his hands, crouching behind her.

“Ha!” I point at my kids. “Something
is
up.”

“I swear, Mom, it’s about my bike,” Moffy
lies
.

“Lying liar,” I start, but Lo swivels me around.

“Did you call our son a lying liar, Lily Hale?” Lo gives me a look while he guides me into the hallway. Lo is a good and bad distraction. Good: he’s
Loren Hale
. Bad: I’ve left our kids behind, and I only realize when we’re halfway down the stairs.

“Lo,” I complain, about to turn back.

His hands plant firmly on my shoulders, leading me forward. “This way, love.”

Cobalt boys zip past us to the living room. Most of the lake house chatter originates from the kitchen, everyone probably gearing up for lunch. Kinney and I always eat Pop-Tarts in the
late
morning as a snack.

“What’d you put them up to?” I question.

He opens the backdoor. “We have to get Moffy’s bike off the west bank.”

My brows scrunch. “That’s a real thing?” I thought for sure he made up a story.

Lo never answers, bending slightly and lifting me on his back. I hook my arms around his collar, legs around his waist. He carries me past the red chairs on the grassy hill, and we head towards the…dock?

“Wait—we’re
rowing
?” One of our wooden canoes sways in the water.

“
I’m
paddling, love. You’re sitting and searching for the bicycle.”

My hazy mind only slightly clears when he drops my feet on the dock. “Waitwaitwait,” I say quickly, hands up. The canoe is bound to tip over with me inside of it—I know because I went canoeing with Daisy, and we were in the water in two seconds flat. “This isn’t a Lily and Lo thing. This is a Ryke and Daisy thing.”

Lo glares. “It’s
our
kid’s bike. That makes it a Lo and Lily thing.”

“Lily and Lo,” I correct.

“If you’re such a smarty-pants, then you should know my older brother doesn’t have a monopoly on recreational activities. We can do them too, Lil.”

“But we usually avoid these types of things, don’t we?”

He pauses for a second,
cagey
. Knowing I’m right. “What I think? Today is a new goddamn day, and I’m not doing this without you, Lily Hale, so don’t make me.”

I succumb to Loren Hale’s pouty, pleading gaze. “Okay.” It takes me a wobbly few minutes, but we’re in the canoe. It hasn’t tipped over, sunk, or flooded.

Successes.

It’s not so bad. The light breeze on the lake cools the tiring summer heat, and the further Lo paddles from the dock, the quieter our surroundings become. Lush green mountains landscape the vast, rippling water. Calm and slow compared to the hectic bustle of Philly.

Lo sidetracks me more than the rolling mountains. His muscles carve beneath his charcoal crew-neck shirt, his arrowhead necklace flat on his chest. It’s not just his body, though that’s definitely nice—it’s this cutting but loving look in his eyes.

Like he could wipe out a species of ants if they nipped at me. Lo would also be the first to tell you that he’s more bark than bite.

“We could’ve brought another oar,” I realize. “I could’ve helped.”

He reaches out and squeezes my puny bicep. “Huh, I could’ve sworn this is where muscles are supposed to be.”

I slug his arm.

He feigns a wince. “Ouch.”

“My upper-body strength has vastly improved these past few years,” I defend while he resumes paddling.

“That Spider-Man weight is five-pounds, Lil. You haven’t upgraded in the past few years.”

“Because it’s Spider-Man,” I say, “and it’s cool.”

His smile dimples his cheeks.

Before I’m lost to those dimples, a wasp buzzes around us, and I freak out—sliding to the far right of my canoe bench. “Lo! Wasp!” I duck, careful not to swat. I swatted at a bee once, and it fought back and stung my hand.

Lo stands up, the canoe swaying.

We’re going to tip over.
“OhmyGod.” I duck again.

Lo sits beside me, and then he stretches out his shirt. “In you go.”

I know what to do. Seeking safety from the wasp, I stick my head beneath the bottom of his shirt, sharing the fabric with him. Right up against his bare chest. I sense Lo swatting the wasp with his oar.

“Is it gone?!” I shout like he can’t hear me.
You’re pressed up against him. Of course he can hear.
It’s hard to forget where I am. My arms are tight around his waist, the warmth of his bare skin like home.

The canoe steadies as Lo goes still. He peeks down at me, through the collar of his shirt. His genuine smile begins to swell my heart.

“What…?” I breathe, slowly slipping out from beneath the fabric. I glance around, the wasp gone. We drift lazily towards the west bank.

Lo holds me to his chest, our limbs tangled up together. His face is sharp like steel blades built upon years and years of battles lost and won.

“These years…” he starts, and I know this is much more than a wasp. This is more than a bicycle. Whatever this is, it exists in our decades together. “These years have been epic, and not because it was easy—because it wasn’t always—but because you and me, we flew.”

My tears brim, and I see
us
fly beyond our lowest expectations for ourselves, all the hard parts where our addictions tried to weigh us down.

We flew.

“You made that possible, you have to know that,” Lo says, his voice lowering. “Without you, I just don’t know, Lil.” When his dad died, it’d been his lowest point in years.

“You’ve made it just as possible, Lo. I wouldn’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here,” I repeat the same sentiment. He helps me every day in ways that no one else could. No one else knows. It’s not just sex. It’s every emotion that’s tied to a low, to a really bad day.

I always turn to him like he turns to me, and we’re not enablers. No one says that we shouldn’t be together. No one tells us to split apart. Our souls are still wound together, still wound tight.

“You know what I tell your brother?” I take a deep breath, remembering the conversations I’ve had with Ryke. “I tell him, ‘Lo’s ice in the winter now. He won’t melt.’”