Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)

by Krista Ritchie

I touch the ballerina figurine again. “I’m glad it’s over.” He’s gone. We’re all safe, and as we deal with the leftover emotions, we can move forward and forge stronger paths. I walk much lighter towards the couch again.

  This might be one of the best sessions I’ve had.

  “It shouldn’t surprise you that it’s over,” Connor says, his grin growing. “I always win in the end.”

  I laugh into a bright smile.

  It might be conceited but it’s very, very true.

  Sweet Disposition by the Temper Trap starts playing, the ringtone set for Ryke. He’s usually really careful about not interrupting my sessions. One time, he spent a whole hour searching for our motorcycle helmets, which I stuffed in a suitcase. My idea of cleaning is to just wedge things in other things until more space appears.

  Ryke could’ve texted or called me, but he actually waited until I arrived home. He considers very few events more important than my therapy sessions, so my stomach tangles as I dig in my jean shorts for my phone. In seconds, I place it to my ear. “Is everything okay?”

  Connor and Frederick are eerily quiet, not even pretending not to listen into my call. I face the bookshelf and wait for the tormenting pause to pass.

  I can sense Ryke hesitating on the line, his breath cut short. Then he says, “Yeah, it’s fucking fine. Call me when you get home.”

  “You’re not home?” I frown and then make a fast choice. On a chair by the door, I grab my backpack and my helmet. For Christmas, Ryke gifted me a lime-green Kawasaki Ninja supersport motorcycle, which can reach nearly a hundred-and-ninety miles an hour. It’s even faster than my old Ducati, the bike that I gave to the EMT who basically saved my life.

  That was almost two years ago now.

  Ryke growls at himself like he really, really didn’t want to interrupt me—hating that he did.

  “Ryke, it’s okay. I was done.” I sling my backpack straps on, and in my peripheral, I see Connor stand up. I shift my phone to my other ear. “Is it Sulli?” Fear spikes my voice.

  “It’s not fucking serious, but…fuck.” Just by the tone of his voice, I can tell that he’s upset. It’s Sulli. It has to be about our daughter, who’ll turn two next month.

  “Just tell me where I need to go.” I have my hand on the doorknob.

  Another long pause before he says, “The ER.”

  Color drains from my face. “As in emergency room?” My hand slips, and my helmet clatters to the floor.

  “What the fuck was that?” he asks as I pick it up.

  “My helmet.” I have no time to ask what happened—he speaks again, as though remembering I rode my bike to New York City.

  “Don’t fucking ride upset. Last thing I fucking want is my wife and my daughter in the hospital.” He suggests calling my father’s private driver as an alternative, but he doesn’t realize that Connor Cobalt is ten feet behind me.

  I rotate my helmet in my hands, restless, my lungs in my throat. I’d rather ride my bike, not just to reach the hospital faster but because my body screams to move. To lunge. To speed ahead.

  “Daisy?”

  I listen to my husband’s wish, and before I even ask Connor, he says, “I already called my driver. He’s waiting.”

  “Thank you.” I focus on my phone call and tell Ryke that Connor is here to see Frederick. “He’ll bring me to the hospital,” I finish.

  Ryke lets out an audible breath like thank fucking God. In the background, I suddenly hear Sulli crying. No more lingering, I run out the door.

  * * *

  With my backpack on and helmet in hand, I say goodbye to Connor and rush into the waiting room of the ER.

  “Is that Daisy Calloway?” I overhear a flurry of whispers, the waiting room crammed and loud with crying babies, sniffing patients, and a television playing GBA News.

  I bypass most of the people to reach a chair, tucked in the corner between a magazine stand and potted plant. Ryke tries to calm Sullivan by combing his fingers through her dark brown hair, her cheeks tear-streaked and splotchy. Sitting on her dad’s lap, she hugs her white stuffed starfish, her chin quaking either from pain or the new hospital surroundings.

  Ryke sees me halfway across the room, relief loosening his shoulders, and he whispers to Sullivan, “Who’s that?”

  She follows his finger to find me, and she tearfully shouts, “Mommy!”

  Before she tries to spring off his lap, I’m here. I kneel, my hand on Ryke’s knee in comfort, and I gasp at Sulli. “I hear you’ve been on a big adventure.” I try to hide away all my worry and fear. A piece of toilet paper is stuffed up her nostril and soaked with blood.

  “It…it hurts…” Sulli tries to sniff, and she starts wailing at the discomfort in her nose. Ryke told me what happened over the phone. It’s not life-threatening, I remind myself throughout her piercing cries. It still sucks watching my daughter in pain. It still sucks being stuck in the crowded emergency room, unable to know when a doctor will see us.

  It still sucks catching people snapping our pictures during a moment I’d rather not document.

  I playfully use the corner of her starfish to dry Sulli’s chubby cheeks. “Hug Starfish with all your might, and she’ll make you feel better.”

  Sulli squeezes the stuffed creature like it’s her life force, her wails dying and muffled in the soft animal. Ryke picks out a seashell clip that has fallen down a strand of hair, his hard eyes meeting mine. I never take my hand off his kneecap.

  “You should fucking sit.” He’s about to stand up and give me the seat. Such a Ryke Meadows thing to do, but I shake my head, so he stops. Sulli is comfortable on his lap, nestled in the crook of his arm and his chest.

  “I’m good here.” I set my helmet aside and take off my backpack, staying knelt.

  While Sulli calms, Ryke reaches out and massages the top of my head in a hello. I smile at him, but his lips never upturn. Guilt hardens his jaw and darkens his features, and not long after, he rakes both of his hands through his thick hair.

  “It could’ve been worse,” I say quietly. Ryke and I don’t always sit still, and the times where we do go hiking, camping, snowboarding, surfing, and even off-roading, we bring our baby with us. Two years with Sulli, and we try to tone down the risk in our choices, but it’s difficult to cut out everything. Admittedly, we both struggle with what’s too dangerous because we love bringing her along on our experiences.

  We like having a third companion, and it seems more selfish to leave her home and bar her from sharing these moments with us.

  So I add softly to Ryke, “I think most people expected Sulli to break an arm rock climbing.” The mini rock wall in her room is so much safer than it looks.

  The truth of the matter: a random bead from a broken keychain caused Sulli more harm than any of our daring adventures. She stuffed the thing up her nose when Ryke wasn’t looking. He said he tried plucking it out with a tweezers, but it’s lodged in there.

  Ryke takes a deep breath, pinching his eyes. “A fucking bead.”

  “A fucking bead indeed,” I say so lightly that his lips tic up, and he drops his hand. He soaks in my green eyes, my mouth, my blonde hair and long, long legs. My white tank top says: Feed Me with a giant flower graphic.

  “How do you fucking feel?” he questions, even though he already asked this morning. I answered earlier, I’m seeing Frederick today.

  Now I say, “Better.”

  Ryke holds Sulli even closer to his chest, our daughter relaxing into her starfish. With his free hand, he ruffles my hair and pushes my cheek. My face brightens tenfold, and I clasp his wrist before he drifts away.

  “I need practice,” I say, layering on as much seriousness as I can.

  He lets me have his hand. “For what?”

  I lower my voice. “Kissing.”

  His brows rise at me. “Someone tell you you’re a bad fucking kisser, Calloway?”

  “I just know that I’m definitely not up to par with my husband. He’s so good with his tongue.”
Ryke’s dark expression never alters, and my smile only grows. “I can kiss you to see if you’re as good as him, but I need to practice first.”

  “Ask your husband if you need fucking practice.”

  “Do I need practice?” I ask Ryke.

  “No.”

  I mock gasp. “Yes?” I pretend to hear him wrong and then make out sloppily with his palm.

  When I lick his skin, he starts laughing and then reclaims his hand, just to push my forehead, but then he clasps my shoulder, so I don’t sway far from him.

  I laugh at the sight of his laughter, and then Sullivan, our two-year-old sad baby, starts giggling up at us, sharing in our merriment. Bloody nose and all.

  Ryke and I exchange an identical expression that just screams I fucking love you.

  Five whole hours pass by.

  Ryke is no longer seated, his leg too cramped in one position. I’m not seated, too restless. We’re standing around the same area, still waiting for a doctor to call us, and Sullivan sits on her dad’s shoulders, hands on his head.

  We distract Sulli from her constant nosebleed by interviewing the “mermaid under the sea” for Shell Time TV, a game I concocted on the fly a few months ago. It’s helped Sulli grow comfortable at the mere sight of cameramen, especially the crew for We Are Calloway. She thinks they work for Shell Time.

  And until very, very recently, she’s been mostly hidden from paparazzi. I remember everything Frederick told me today. The wedgie photos aren’t a prelude to a horrible future.

  She’ll be okay.

  I call up to Sulli, “What’s your favorite thing to do?” I needed something to do with my hands, so I’m currently crafting an intricate tree out of green scrapbook paper. I always bring the paper to my therapy sessions, so luckily I had some with me.

  “Wuhaa…” She takes a few breaths as she discovers the right word. “Whaa..water!”

  “Water,” I say with surprise. “You like to swim?”

  She nods vigorously, tugging at her dad’s thick hair.

  Ryke watches me most of all, his hands on our daughter’s ankles. I sway back and forth while he’s as still as a mountain. He asks her, “Sing us a song, Sul?”

  “Hubba bubba boooo…” she sings so horribly, but it’s somehow cuter. “Doody doooo…starfishy and meeeee…”

  My smile fades when I notice Ryke staring threateningly at someone to the right. I follow his gaze. Between an old lady in a wheelchair and a teenager doubled-over in pain sits a familiar pot-bellied man in jeans and a plain tee. He raises his phone at us, recording. At his feet lies a camera bag with probably a Canon inside.

  Paparazzi.

  We can’t really shield Sulli in the hospital. I’ve succumbed to the fact that there will be photographs of our daughter out in the world. She’s not alone. Moffy and Jane share these same experiences with Sulli. My unease starts to wane, remembering she’ll have others to confide in.

  Sulli quiets while Ryke and I acknowledge the cameraman’s existence, and before she hones in on her nose, I say, “Keep singing, peanut butter cupcake.”

  She mumbles out lyrics that she creates on the spot.

  I edge closer to Ryke, and his hand slides to my waist. I whisper, “When I told Connor what happened to Sulli, he actually proposed something on the ride here. I totally forgot about it, but…I think we should all consider it.”

  “What the fuck is it?”

  I crease my green paper, appearing more tree-like. “A concierge physician.”

  Realization hits his eyes. If we had a trusted doctor who made house calls, we wouldn’t need to wait in the emergency room for hours on end. We wouldn’t fear people and cameramen invading our privacy.

  Ryke nods. “It’s a good fucking idea.”

  I smile. “I said that to Connor, but without the fuck and he told me, I know. I only give out good ideas. The bad ones come from all of you.”

  Ryke rolls his eyes. “Typical fucking Cobalt.”

  “Poopy poo,” Sulli singsongs up above. “Fucky fuck…”

  I can’t help but laugh, and Ryke sighs like he’s tried really hard to sway her away from fucks but it’s an impossible task. I actually love that it was her first word—because she’s so a part of Ryke. When he told me that I missed that first-word milestone, I wasn’t upset. I was happy to hear that she started speaking, and hey, I was able to hear her second word.

  Coconut.

  Ryke suddenly lifts Sulli off his shoulders and mimes tossing her in the air. Normally, he actually would, but she still has that bead up her nose.

  Sullivan stretches out her arms and legs to take flight.

  “Meadows!” a nurse calls.

  “That’s me!” Sulli shouts.

  I gasp. “You don’t say.”

  Ryke tucks her protectively against his side, and he combs her flyaway hair out of her eyes. Sulli tries to rub noses with me, forgetting that hers hurts. I kiss her soft cheek and then gather all of our things: backpack, helmet, and a couple water bottles. Three minutes later, we’ve been ushered into a hospital room, and now we wait for the doctor.

  Ryke sets Sulli on the crinkled paper, and she stretches her arms for one of us, frightened of this new room. I hop up beside her, and she crawls onto my lap. I hug her against my chest, and Ryke stands stiffly close by us.

  Sulli plays with the tree I crafted, and I yawn into my arm. “What’s the time?” I ask Ryke.

  “Almost eight p.m.” He studies my state of being, concern bunching his brows.

  “So after this, Poppy said she could bring me back to New York.”

  He shakes his head once like I don’t fucking follow.

  “I need to pick up my bike,” I explain. “I can’t just leave it in a parking garage overnight.” It’s expensive, and Ryke knows this since he bought it.

  “Fuck that. You haven’t slept in forty hours, Dais. You should be passed out by now…” His voice dies down as Sullivan looks up at him.

  I don’t fact-check him about the forty-hours thing. It could be ten hours less than that, and he’d still repeat that declaration. Ryke wanted me to go home and take a nap, but I wanted to be here when Sulli saw the doctor. She missed one of her naps too, so she’ll crash sooner or later.

  “Let me get your fucking bike.”

  I cover Sulli’s ears for this next part. “I know you want me to sleep, but I’m…” My tired eyes well. I’m afraid.

  “Dais…” Ryke holds my cheek, the one with the long, old scar.

  “What if I sleepwalk and you’re not there?” Sleep deprivation has triggered sleepwalking for me in the past, and the more hours I collect wide-awake, the more likely a strange symptom will follow. I’d rather go to sleep with Ryke next to me, just in case something happens.

  Ryke’s large hand cocoons my face, warming my skin. “Then I’ll go where you go.”

  An exhausted tear rolls down my cheek and his hand. I’ve been blocking most out with false energy, grasping to lingering adrenaline.

  “Price,” Ryke suddenly tells me. “He has a motorcycle license. He’s ridden your fucking bike before. He’ll get it from the parking garage.” My bodyguard, the one my dad hired. This isn’t the first time I’m thankful for him.

  The doctor raps lightly on the door and then slips inside. “This little one have something in her nose?” he says kindly.

  Sullivan nods. “A fucking bead.”

  I laugh, and Ryke is nearly smiling. The doctor looks more amused than horrified. He holds out his hand to us. “I’m Dr. Clarke.”

  We shake, and he explains the procedure: look up her nose, see what’s there, try to use a bulb to suction it out. If that doesn’t work, sedation and a forceps to pluck it out.

  Ryke is even more rigid at the word sedation. “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes but it shouldn’t come to that.” As Dr. Clarke tells Sulli about the procedure, he uses a gentle baby-voice and lets her stay on my lap. He removes the bloodied tissue and peers up her nostril with a medical i
nstrument.

  I tell her how amazing she is, and not even ten minutes later, Dr. Clarke suctions out the bead with a rubber bulb. Sulli is crying all over again.

  “It’s out! Ta-da!” I tell Sulli jubilantly. “All done.”

  She rubs her eyes, uncertain.

  “Sweetie.” Ryke waves a lemon sucker at our daughter, and her green eyes grow to orbs. She clutches the sucker and mumbles a thank you, Daddy.

  “What’s this?” Dr. Clarke checks out Sulli’s yellow-stained fingers. I asked the same thing to Ryke, but he wouldn’t tell me. When I asked Sulli, she said, “It’s a secret!”

  I think it’s marker.

  Dr. Clarke believes the same. “Marker?”

  Ryke nods once and leaves it at that.

  On our way out, Ryke carries Sulli, and I undergo a yawning fit. All the way to his car. By the time we finish buckling Sulli in her car seat, and I’ve settled in the passenger seat, shutting the door to the Land Cruiser, I’m on my millionth yawn.

  Ryke turns the ignition, his dark concern all over me, even as he drives onto the highway.

  “I have this theory,” I yawn again, “that yawning is really your body’s way of exercising your jaw. It’s basically shouting, exercise time…” I yawn. “…Daisy.” My jaw hurts.

  Ryke is quiet, and I glance over my shoulder, Sulli totally conked out, drooling on her car seat.

  I yawn. Stoooop yawning. I rub my aching jaw. “Maybe my body is preparing me for a blow job.”

  He glowers. “That’s not fucking funny.”

  “It is because I wouldn’t give you one.” I bring my feet onto the leather seat, and he relaxes at my words, knowing I won’t try to convince him just for the hell of it. For one, I’ve never been able to take all of Ryke in my mouth. He’s just way too big. For another, I’ve never liked giving blow jobs, and Ryke is anti-anything-Daisy-Meadows-hates.

  Ryke glances between the road and me. “Lean back and fucking sleep. You don’t have to stay awake right now.”

  “I’d rather wait until we’re at home.” My feet drop to the floor.

  His hard eyes glued to the street, he reaches for one of my legs, stretching it over his lap. I turn, my back against the door, and I stretch the other one across Ryke.