Impassive again, Connor shrouds all emotion, but he’s not speaking either. He just stares at Lo. And Lo just glares at him. It kills me.
All of this fucking kills me.
Because my brother needs Connor, and whether he admits it or not, Connor needs Lo. I could go on and on. I could chart the reasons why Lo and Connor just work as friends. Why Lo loves Connor for who he is: the egotistical narcissist that drives me fucking nuts. Why Connor loves Lo: the alcoholic, the sober man, the sarcastic geek—all of which I proudly call my little brother.
I could go on and fucking on. I could, but I won’t. What they’ve shared throughout years’ worth of time is evidence enough.
I used to be pissed by the idea of being “bad cop” to Connor’s “good cop” routine, but this isn’t something I want to change anymore.
I cut in to protect their friendship. So it won’t turn into something else.
“Fucking A,” I groan. I’m doing something I’m not made to do: resolve lingering tension. “Can’t we talk about this without shitting on each other?”
“Depends on Loren,” Rose says. “He’s usually the one taking the shits.” She untwists her lipstick at this. Like she just told everyone the date and time.
I actually almost laugh. Daisy does.
Lo raises his hands, about to clap, but then he pauses. “No, you know what? That doesn’t deserve a clap. Tell your husband that he’s a dick.”
“He’s aware.” Rose reapplies her lipstick.
“I am many things,” Connor agrees. His attention and focus never leaves my brother. “But I’m not saying your decision makes you a bad father. I’ve never thought that, not behind your back, and if I planned to say it to your face, I’d be more direct.”
“Then be painfully direct with me right now,” Lo says. “No bullshit. I can take it.”
Connor licks his lips. “You and I couldn’t be more different, and that’s partly why I love you—but the way I raise my children will be vastly different to the way that you raise yours. It doesn’t make you less than me, and it doesn’t make your children inferior to mine.”
Lo is quiet as he ingests this.
Lily raises her hand again. “But you’re a genius and possibly a telepath. Maybe even psychic, but that’s still to be confirmed…” Her voice dies off as Connor’s antipathy fills his blue eyes, letting all of us see. She lifts her hands in defense. “I mean, you’re definitely not magical. Those things…don’t…exist?” Lily can barely utter that last fucking sentence.
“Hey,” I interject. This is fucking ridiculous. “He’s a genius on paper but that doesn’t mean his ideas are the right ones.” Connor and I spent nearly all last year agreeing on our differences, and as we raise our kids different ways, I never realized how hard this might be for Lo and Lily who idolize Connor and his wisdom like he shits gold.
They only want the best for their son. They’d do literally anything for Moffy.
“But Connor always makes the right choices,” Lily replies softly. Fuck.
“Not always,” Connor admits.
Rose’s expression travels from shock to a full-on fucking grin. We’re all probably documenting this moment as a historic one: the day Connor Cobalt admits he’s not always right.
“You’re admitting this?” I ask. “Fucking really?” Maybe he’s changed.
Unperturbed, Connor sips his coffee casually. As if the admission is commonplace. My smile fades at the sight of his grin—for fuck’s sake.
“I’m admitting that on rare occasions I’ve picked a choice with too much risk and not enough reward. I wouldn’t consider it the wrong one, just not the one with the highest benefit.”
I shake my head a few times. He’s still the same Connor Cobalt, but he’s more tolerable for me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve changed to fucking like him. Or if we’ve both just grown to meet in the middle.
Lo rubs the back of his neck, less on the offensive. “So you’re going to let your three-year-old, who can’t even choose matching clothes, decide her position in the media?”
Rose caps her lipstick like she’s sheathing a fucking sword. “Jane has style…” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “It might be unconventional but it’s hers.” Rose stuffs the lipstick in her purse. “And we’re not letting her make the choice until she’s at least six. Even then, if she says yes, she won’t be allowed to have speaking roles on the show. We’ll keep letting her choose as she grows older, and if she wants more involvement in the show, then she’ll get more involvement.”
Lily thuds her forehead to the table and groans with Daisy.
“What’s the fucking problem?” I look between them. I also notice the expression in my brother’s eyes. The one that says: I’m two seconds from sharing Lily’s chair. Just so he can hold her.
“I’m confused,” Lily mumbles into the table, adjusting the ice so her face is smashed against it. She’s so fucking weird.
Then again, so is Connor. So is Rose.
Everyone is a little bit fucking weird.
Daisy presses a kiss to Sulli’s nose. “I’m scared we’ll make the wrong choice.”
We won’t.
I grew up with a father I saw only on Mondays. I grew up with a mom who cared about me, but not enough and not in the way that I fucking needed. The fact that we love our daughter to put her before our reputations—that’s a better start than I had. That’s right.
I don’t have to say this though.
Rose snaps her fingers, gaining her sisters’ attention.
Lily peels her face off the ice and table.
“I need you two to know something. The six of us”—Rose draws a circle in the air—“we’re all perceived differently in the media. We’re all different people. I never thought you two would follow me. Admirable, yes. Loyal, of course. I love you both. I’d die for you,” Rose emphasizes like a promise. “But don’t choose my path because you think I’m smarter. No one knows your lives better than you do. You don’t need Connor or me to tell you which direction to move, but I’ll always help you stand.”
Lily ponders this with more hope in her eyes. “We’re followed by paparazzi more than you and Connor.” Lily and Lo are the most famous, and while Connor and Rose can give their kids more of a choice, Moffy is going to be in every fucking tabloid, probably every week.
Connor chimes in, “It makes sense that you’d want Maximoff to be comfortable with the media, and if it’s any consolation, I think Jane will want to be on camera with him.”
Lo makes an effort to relax his gaze towards Connor. It’s still daggered as fuck, but if I can see Lo trying, then so can Connor Cobalt.
Connor smiles into his next sip of coffee. “If you all didn’t catch that, I agree with Rose. Just in case you needed another genius to weigh in.”
Lo smirks.
“Yeah, we fucking didn’t, Cobalt,” I snap.
Connor raises his mug to me.
I flip him off.
Rose clears her throat at Daisy, my wife staring far past the table, almost in a trance. As Rose snaps her fingers at her sister, Daisy shakes out of the stupor. “What…?”
“What are you thinking?” Rose wonders.
Daisy slowly lifts her gaze to mine. “What if they objectify her like they objectified me, just because she’s my daughter?”
My muscles tighten, jaw hardening. I was there. I was there when she tried to reclaim her body. So she could feel like her arms and her legs and her fucking hips belonged to her first, not second.
It tears me apart imagining Sullivan losing this piece of innocence. I wished, every fucking day, that I could’ve changed that for Daisy. That I could’ve done something more instead of just being there. Even if that might’ve been enough at the time.
“I was the model,” Daisy says to me. “I gave them permission to photograph me, and maybe they’ll think the same about her, just because she’s our…” She lets out a strained breath, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll give her the answe
r she wants.
“Hey, sweetheart.” I raise my brows at her. “We can fucking protect her from that. You know how we start?”
She thinks. She’s quiet. And then she nods more assuredly. “Yeah, I do. We don’t let her be photographed. We don’t let her be in the docu-series. It’s her body, her image, and I’m not letting them latch onto her like she’s a thing and not a person. I can’t.”
“We can’t,” I say. “I’m with you on this, Calloway.” I’m always fucking with you. Right now, I can’t imagine someone sexualizing Sulli. She’s just a baby. And I’m going to have an even harder time imagining that nightmare as she gets older. As a pre-teen—no. It’s fucking sick. It’s all fucking sick.
And I don’t think Janie will have the same issue. The Cobalts have filled the role of American royalty. Elegant. Classy. Janie has mostly been photographed for articles about fashion, not anything about will she model?
Since Scott Van Wright went to jail, Rose and Connor’s sex tapes have also been synonymous with breach of consent. People fixate on Calloway Couture and Cobalt Inc. events and what Rose is wearing on Instagram. Not sex.
Lo spins around in his chair, his spirits higher. “And that’s why I’m glad I don’t have a girl.”
Will she be a future sex addict? I hear the fucking condemnation.
Lily’s nose crinkles. “You were the one who wanted a girl!”
“Not anymore, love. People can change their minds. I just changed mine.”
I slow clap.
Connor joins in.
Lo claps for himself and flashes his usual half-smile.
Rose stands, palms on the table. “So it’s set then?” she asks. That’s when I notice the hoard of lawyers outside the office, waiting by the copy machine with manila folders in hand.
We all begin to nod, falling into silent agreement. Our children will be raised differently, and that’s alright. I sense our strength together, our support for each other’s choices.
Today, I’ve fallen in deeper love with these people.
No matter which direction we fucking move, we’ll all still be there.
[ 4 ]
July 2018
The Cobalt Estate
Philadelphia
CONNOR COBALT
I wait outside Jane’s bedroom door with my arm propped against the wall. From inside, dishware clinks. Gently, I push the door further open, granting me a better view.
Velveteen pale pink chairs surround a tiny round table, teacups and saucers spread over floral placemats. My three-year-old daughter nimbly skips around her guests, most of which are inanimate. Her favorite: a stuffed lion. Seated in the most robust and ornate chair of all six.
I never played pretend like this.
Not as a child.
Never as an adult.
Yet, I feel my lips rise.
Jane pours what looks like milk in a teacup. On the other side, her squirmy eleven-month-old twin brothers babble inarticulately, but they seem to play along. Inspecting their saucers and placemats with curious yellow-green eyes.
Hair in a sleek pony, Rose bends between both boys and fills a sugar bowl with Cheerios. Fire never extinguishes from her gaze.
My grin expands tenfold.
Beckett tugs on his mother’s black dress, one that just barely hides her collarbone, one that hugs her frame perfectly, like a dust jacket fit on a newly printed hardback.
Beckett asks her a question that neither of us would be able to piece apart, but Rose regards him with understanding.
“Of course. I’ll take up your requests with the hostess.” She kisses the top of his head, his brown hair much darker and curlier than Charlie’s.
Then Rose brushes her hands together and places them on her hips, eyeing the state of the table. Every place setting is symmetrical and identical to the next.
Her gaze suddenly lifts to mine.
I don’t move. I don’t cower. As her glare fastens onto mine, I only grin wider. Hello, Rose.
Go to hell, Richard, her eyes say.
Shoulders strict and chin raised, she marches around our child’s table. Even with her heels soundless on the carpet, I can still feel the hostility with each purposeful step.
She stops, grips the door like a weapon, and drills the hottest and coldest glare into me. Rose Calloway Cobalt has always been a series of contradictions.
I adore this one just as much as every other. “Rose,” I say smoothly.
She bypasses the perfunctory Richard and snaps, “You were given one direction and you failed.” She growls at the sight of my burgeoning grin. “I said you failed, Richard. Be angry.”
“I’m amused,” I say in a hushed voice so Jane can’t hear. “And a smile usually accompanies amusement, not anger.”
She huffs, her shoulders falling and eyes roaming my white button-down and composure. “Then you’re amused at your daughter’s loss. She wanted to surprise you with the tea party, but you’ve decided to go rogue and spy on us.” Rose lets go of the door, just to cross her arms. “I’d punish you for this.”
“You’d punish me?” I arch a brow. “Have you been reading Coballoway fan fiction?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. Lily sent us links to fan fiction based off of Princesses of Philly. Willow first sent them to Daisy, then Daisy sent them to Lily, and Lily sent them to everyone.
I skimmed some, and I completely stopped reading when I crossed the title Royal Love: Scott Van Wright & Rose Van Wright. In the writer’s defense, this was published online long before Scott publically went to jail.
Regardless, anytime you attach “Van Wright” to my wife, it instantly becomes my least favorite fiction.
“You don’t think I can punish you?” Rose burns hot and leans close, just to say with a great deal of seriousness, “I’d cut off your tongue with a dull serrated knife, and I’d finish you off in a rusty guillotine.” She lifts her manicured nail at my eye. “Don’t fuck with me or my babies—”
“Our babies,” I correct her.
She skims me head-to-toe, her disdain only present to mask her love. I feel it in every glare. “I can’t believe I allowed my DNA to mix with yours and create multiple little monsters. What was I thinking?”
Standing tall above her, I reach out, my hand curving around the crook of her waist. She relaxes at my touch, and her chest collapses. I draw Rose closer, until her legs brush my legs. In a whisper, I say, “You were thinking ‘I’m undeniably, indisputably in love with the most brilliant and the most handsome man on Ear—”
Rose puts her palm over my lips. “I hate you.” She feels my grin grow beneath her hand and she growls, dropping it.
“You love me.” I study her full lips but mostly the blaze in her eyes. I’m about to express just how much I reciprocate those feelings, but then a toddler abruptly cuts off our exchange.
“Daddy? Is that you?” Jane asks. I have a major height advantage over Rose, but I angle myself out of Jane’s view. In a quick second, I catch sight of her teal tutu behind Rose’s slender legs, and then Rose slams the door in my face.
“He’s still waiting for you,” Rose tells our daughter, her voice clear through the wood. “You can introduce him. Or you can exile him from the tea party.”
My lips curve up again. You would love that option; wouldn’t you, Rose?
Jane gasps. “I can’t exile, Daddy.”
Did you hear that, Rose? I picture her torrid glare and the roll of her eyes.
“What about temporary banishment?” she asks Jane.
“No banishment.” At three, her words are incredibly easier to understand compared to Jane at two or one, but it’s not as though she enunciates “banishment” perfectly. It’s partially garbled, and she only knows the word because we’ve used it before, just like exile.
Jane also adds, “Daddy’s never been to a tea party.”
Never one with toys as the guests, but Rose doesn’t correct her and neither would I.
“Then you better hurry and i
ntroduce him. Even if Daddy says he’ll wait forever for you, no one has the ability to stand in a hallway for eternity.” Her voice is frost, but every syllable heats my body.
“Introdoozing Daddy!” she announces. “Come in, Daddy!”
I open the door with the raise of my brows, mortaring on surprise like a mask I’ve worn before. I sweep her pale pink room, her toddler bed, armoire and regal chandelier before landing on the tea party arrangement and her eager blue eyes.
“Tu es de toute beauté, mon cœur.” Such beauty, my heart.
Jane’s face lights, and she touches her black cat-ear headband, ensuring that it hasn’t fallen. Then without pause, she grabs hold of my hand and leads me further inside. With a partial smile peeking, Rose walks to her chair beside Beckett.
She catches me staring and reverts to a glare. Rose mouths, rusty guillotine and mimes slashing my neck. Then she triumphantly takes a seat, crossing her ankles.
I say hushed to Rose, “I’d believe your hyperboles more if they didn’t involve eighteenth-century machinery.”
Rose unties her hair and combs her fingers through the strands. “Guillotines were still used long after the French Revolution.”
She’s not wrong.
Jane stops me by two empty chairs and looks up with bold blue eyes. “What’s a googoniny?”
Rose tries hard not to laugh, hand pressed to her mouth, but she ends up snorting.
I can’t hide my smile. “Googoniny isn’t a word.” What I’m about to say next would make some parents balk or flame red. “It’s guillotine, and it’s a device used for executions.”
She has no clue what “execution” means, and before she asks, I take a seat in one of the free chairs.
“No!” she yells and grips my arm so I stand.
Rose is smitten at my misstep.
Matter-of-factly, Jane says, “That’s Sadie’s chair.”
I look to Rose. “You knew this seat was taken?”
“Yes.” She collects her hair on one shoulder, and I eye the base of her neck. Rose reaches over and spoons Cheerios onto Charlie and Beckett’s saucers.
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 4