My scowling brother-in-law lowers his massive burger and then wipes his calloused hands on the tablecloth of all things.
I bite my tongue but not for long. “A napkin is next to you,” I snap.
His brows knot. He didn’t even realize he spread beef grease on decorative linen. Also, he doesn’t care. “Do you want me to read the fucking magazine or wash my hands?”
I huff. “Read.”
Ryke flips through the tabloid, his scowl never changing shape.
I grow impatient. “The headline alone is ridiculous. Calling me baby crazy is like calling the sun a flaming ball of shit.”
Ryke ignores me as he reads.
This is the last time I invite him out to lunch. At least not without one of my sisters or Connor or Loren present. When we’re alone together, I feel like I’m arguing with myself. Or a caveman. Or both.
I tug at the hem of my blue dress, the chair creaking. The lighting in the café is more suited for dinnertime: too dim, the blinds nearly shut closed. It creates a mood that I’d rather share with no one. Not even Connor.
Okay, maybe Connor.
Maybe even more than maybe. But I’d never tell him so.
“It’s fucking stupid,” Ryke states after a prolonged minute of silence. He shuts the tabloid and tosses it aside.
My eyes narrow. “It took you that long to come to that assessment. What were you doing? Fact-checking them?”
He glares, but it’s minor in comparison to the ones his little brother doles out. “For fuck’s sake, Rose, I was actually reading what they wrote. And if you did too, you’d know that they just mostly talk about how you’re pregnant…which you are.”
I’m only fifteen weeks along, but it was far enough that we discussed it on our latest episode of We Are Calloway. I wanted to leak the information before a tabloid did, and I succeeded on that front. I realize these tabloids are expected, but I never really prepared myself for the “baby crazy” moniker.
Especially since I still very much dislike babies that aren’t my own.
Though the criticism is nothing new. I have warring voices from tabloids, fans, and random people that’d just like to comment on my life.
How can she have so many children and still go to work? That’s so selfish.
How can she be considered career-driven and independent with that many children? She’s a sell-out.
My values haven’t changed with motherhood. I still work because I’m passionate about fashion. I still have children because I love my little gremlins, and I have the resources to have more while juggling my career and family, so I do.
Independence has nothing to do with whether or not someone chooses to be single or to be married, to have children or to not have children. Independence by definition is about self-governing. About choosing for yourself. About making your own decisions.
All of my decisions belong to me.
I chose this life. I love this life, and fuck everyone who wants to choose for me.
I swirl my straw in my water, annoyed by the white rose centerpiece. It’s wilted, for one. For another, it’s intimate, and I actually believe the hostess is a fan of Ryke and me…together. I grimace, almost losing brain cells at the thought of his name attached to mine.
What’d Lily call our ungodly ship name? RoRy?
I recoil.
We should’ve also paid the restaurant to leave the surrounding tables vacant, but since it’s so early in the afternoon, on a weekday no less, neither of us bothered.
Two teenage girls occupy the adjacent table: a redhead with excellent cat-eye eyeliner and a blonde with a gorgeous deep blue statement necklace. The redhead tries to stealthily snap a photo of us, but it’s extremely obvious.
Ryke dunks his fry into mustard. He’d never say you’re quiet, Rose. I doubt he even realizes we’ve been sitting in utter silence.
I lower my voice, very hushed. “I’ve tried talking to Daisy.”
Ryke rests his forearms on the table, his attention successfully mine. I see the question in his dark gaze: About what?
I scoot my chair closer to the table, so I can speak even lower. “About trying surrogacy after my baby arrives.” The talk didn’t go as planned. “Daisy brushed me off.” I sigh heavily. “She said we should wait to even have the discussion until after I give birth.” My gaze descends to my half-eaten avocado on rye.
If she’s interested—and my intuition says she is—I want to fulfill my promise. The doctor was able to extract her remaining eggs during her surgery. We can go this route, but I worry she’ll reject my offer out of guilt. Like she’d be restraining me from growing my own family. I’ve told her it’s not like that, but I’m not sure she truly believes me.
Before I even had Jane, Connor professed (multiple times) that he wanted eight children, and this fact might be stuck in my sister’s head as some sort of “Coballoway” finish line.
“I think she’s right,” Ryke suddenly says.
“Why?” Anger laces my voice. I point my black-matte nail at him. “Aren’t you the one who tells her to scream off rooftops? To voice her opinions until she’s blue in the face?”
“Yeah, and she’s telling you her fucking opinion. She wants to wait to have the discussion until after your baby is born. The end.” Ryke pops another fry in his mouth like the situation is as easy as that.
My gaze pierces his ratty hair and then his unconcerned eyeballs. “Where were you born?”
He expels an aggravated breath. “If this is bait to an insult—”
“Simple Town?” I cross my arms. “With simple answers to problems?”
He slouches back in his chair, on the verge of a partial eye roll. “You’ve been spending too much fucking time with my little brother.” He waves in my general direction. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve been body-fucking-snatched by him.”
I gag. “Please. I have an automatic destroy and castrate function if anyone named Loren Hale tries to get inside of me.” I pause at the string of words I just used. God. “This is why I don’t do lunch with you. I say things like that.”
Ryke hardly cares that I talked about his brother inside of me—Stop, Rose.
I’m stopping. My own mind is trying to vacuum itself.
“You invited me,” Ryke reminds me.
This is completely true. I prefer sharing people’s company during lunch and staying a part of their lives somehow. I wouldn’t let this change when Lily went to a different college than me, when she retreated into her addiction, and I won’t let this change when we’re all building families of our own.
I take a large sip of water. When I set my glass down, I ask, “Why can’t we have the discussion now?”
“Because it’s fucking pointless.” He uses the napkin to wipe his hands this time. “If you have a boy, then you’ll want to try for a girl again.” But if I have a girl, then they’re more likely to go along with the idea of surrogacy.
My lungs tighten at the realization. Why didn’t she tell me this? Why didn’t I guess it? She must’ve avoided the details to spare my feelings. Even though Daisy has come a long way from tiptoeing around everyone, she’s still one of the kindest people I know.
I’m sure she’s even framed my response. I say it to Ryke anyway. “If she’s ready, I want to be her surrogate, even if my baby is a boy.”
“It’s not that fucking simple.”
And so the issue circles back to the beginning. They both refuse to stop us from growing our family. “Okay,” I concede. “We’ll wait to discuss this until after my sixth child is born.”
“Thank you.” His eyes drift to my cell. “Did you put your fucking phone on silent?”
“What?” My phone screen is lit up with a caller, but it’s not buzzing or ringing. It’s possible Beckett or Eliot unknowingly messed with the settings. As soon as I read the caller ID, my pulse quickens.
Dalton Elementary
Jane.
She started kindergarten with Maximoff last month. Dropping my da
ughter off at pre-K was difficult, but leaving her at the doors of Dalton Elementary left my stomach viciously twisted. I sent my child into a savage land where her wit, smarts, and social skills will be forged and tested. I’m one-hundred percent certain that I gave her all the tools she’d need to outlast, but it’s not like with my sisters. I’m not in school with her. I can’t ask her if she’s okay at her cubby or locker.
I can’t carry her books if she doesn’t feel well. I can’t give her enemy a scathing glare in the hallway. I can’t be there.
This is new for me.
I feel like I’m in the audience of a play that could go horribly wrong. And my daughter is the lead.
She skipped towards the building, Rose. She didn’t even hesitate.
She’s a lion for God’s sake.
She’s fine.
I put the phone to my ear. “This is Rose Cobalt. Is everything okay?”
Ryke immediately straightens, brows furrowed in concern. He flags down one of our bodyguards across the café.
“Hello, Mrs. Cobalt.” A sweet (nauseating) voice echoes through the receiver. “This is vice-principal Morgan-Stuart. I need you and your husband to come to the school.”
“What for?” I’m already gathering my Chanel purse and a tube of lipstick I left on the table. Ryke fishes out bills from his wallet. I’ll pay him back for my share.
The vice-principal says, “We’re sending Jane home for the day. I’d rather we discuss the issue in person.”
I hold back a curse, and I put a palm over the receiver to tell Ryke, “It’s Jane.”
I barely get her name out before he pushes ahead of me, clearing a path while our bodyguards follow. My heels clap on the tile, walking briskly through the dim café. People stare. Two cameras flash—no, four.
I ignore them.
“Is she okay?” My voice drips with ice, wishing Morgan-Stuart just began with Jane is fine.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Nothing like what?” I’m picturing Jane with a broken arm, bloodied nose—
“She’s fine,” she clarifies, but it hardly tames my temper.
“Then what?”
“Like I said, I’d rather talk in person. She’ll be waiting in the office until you arrive.” She hangs up on me.
She hangs up on me.
“That fucking—”
We step outside, and my voice dies at the sudden cacophony by the curb: honking traffic, paparazzi screaming our names.
“RYKE! ROSE!”
I’m swarmed by cameras. Ryke checks on me with a glance over his shoulder. I motion for him to leave me be. My bodyguard is already flanking my side. Ryke nods and sprints to his Land Cruiser straight ahead.
“WHERE’S DAISY AND CONNOR?”
“HOW’S THE BABY?”
“WHAT DID YOU EAT IN THE CAFÉ?”
So predictable. They always ask about our meals.
By the time I climb into the passenger seat, Ryke slams the driver’s door closed. He twists the key in the ignition, and his car rumbles to life.
“Let’s go.” I physically snap my finger, as though willing him to miraculously send me there. “Dalton Elementary.”
“I’m fucking trying.” He cranes his neck over the seat, paparazzi blocking the Land Cruiser and caging us in. “Unless you’d like me to run one of these motherfuckers over.”
“That will do.”
Ryke rolls down the window, about to yell at the cameramen, but a gaggle of young fans rush to him and stick their hands into the car. I stiffen as they grab at his arm and squeal like they touched some form of royalty.
Personally, I’d crown Connor before Ryke—and I can already picture his smugness. You think of me as a king, Rose.
I want to put my hand over his face, and he’s not even here.
“Rose! Rose!” they begin to shriek and reach for me.
I stay still and wear a curt smile. I’m not the warm one or the nice one—I’m just me, and I almost feel sorry that these girls aren’t graced with a Lily or Daisy or Poppy type.
“Hey, girls,” Ryke says, and a girl with a blue streak in her hair starts crying, overwhelmed by him. “We’re in a fucking rush, and the last thing I want to do is hurt any of you by pulling out.”
“You can pull out of me!” a brazen girl blurts.
“You can pull out of me too!” another one pipes in.
“Fuck,” Ryke grumbles under his breath.
I could laugh, but I’d rather coach Ryke through this moment out of solidarity. Before I can direct the girls to the sidewalk, Ryke is clarifying himself.
“Pulling out onto the fucking street.” He tenses. “Please back up.”
“Okay, we will.”
“I love you so much!”
“Have my babies!!”
All these exclamations blend together as the girls retreat to a safe place on the sidewalk. The paparazzi continue to bombard our car.
“Hey!” Ryke yells at the nearest cameraman, the lens directed at Ryke. His exchange with the girls will most likely be on GBA Entertainment News tonight. “Move the fuck out of my way! Unless you want a tire on your motherfucking foot!”
They shrink backwards, probably just thankful Ryke gave them more “newsworthy” footage. He drives into a line of traffic, deserting the paparazzi and café.
While he rolls up his window, I ask, “When you’re alone with my sister, do fans grab Daisy like they grab you?”
“No.” Ryke runs a hand through his thick hair. “At least not since she described what her friends and paparazzi did to her on We Are Calloway.”
“Good.” I pause. “But if you need to talk to someone about being touched without permission—”
“I have a fucking therapist and his name isn’t Rose Calloway.”
My eyes flash hot. “That’s assuming I would’ve offered myself, which I wouldn’t have. I’m not a professional.” I twist my hair on my shoulder, remembering that Ryke started seeing a therapist after Adam Sully died.
I lean over to check his speedometer. “Can you not drive faster?”
“Yeah, let me play bumper cars with the line of fucking traffic.”
“Let’s.”
“No,” he says like I’m “fucking” crazy.
His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Is Janie okay?” Worry darkens his features.
“The vice-principal said she was fine, but she wouldn’t offer me anymore details.” I hold my purse close to my chest and cast a heated glare out the windshield. “If she’s doing this to trick Connor and me into taking photographs in her office, I’m going to raise hell.”
“I will lose my fucking shit before you.”
Unlikely.
I raise my phone to my lips. “Call Richard,” I say into the speaker. If I put my cell to my ear, I may just throw it out the window—for no good reason other than the enjoyment of throwing something.
When the line clicks, I start speaking before he can. “Jane’s school called. We need to go in and have a conversation with the vice-principal. I don’t know why. All they said was that she’s okay, but the administration would rather ‘talk in person’—as if seeing my face will be better. The only thing they’ll be seeing is literal fire coming out of my eyes and burning them to ash.”
“Are you driving?” he asks.
I gape. “That’s the first thing you’re asking, Richard?” My voice escalates. “Our daughter’s second month in kindergarten and she’s being called to the office—an office that’s withholding information from us—and you’re asking if I’m driving?”
“Yes because I’d prefer to have my wife in one piece.”
I hear the sound of shuffling papers like he’s preparing to leave our house. “You can’t leave the other kids alone.”
“Clearly I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m calling Diana and Adalene.” Our nannies. After an extensive interview process and background check, we hired these two women, both with a great deal of previous infant care experience
. We only call them when we need them.
He’ll most likely leave once the nannies arrive to our house.
“Are you driving?” Connor asks again.
Ryke says, “I am.”
“Wonderful.” His dry tone is noted. “Don’t speed. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Rose. Try not to overreact. It shouldn’t be too serious or else they’d let us know.” His even-tempered voice does soothe part of my worry, but I don’t like how he’s more focused on me than on Jane.
“Where are your loyalties, Richard?” I test.
“With my family.”
I see what he did there. “Fine.” Before I hang up, I snap, “And I’m hardly overreacting.” I hit the end call button before he rebuts.
“Why did I have children with him?” I slip my phone into my purse. “He’s insufferable.”
Ryke rakes his hand through his hair again.
I glare. “What are you doing? Keep both hands on the wheel.”
“Fucking A.” He grabs the steering wheel. “It pains me to say this, but he’s right. You need to calm down.”
I scoff. “He never told me to calm down. He said not to overreact.”
“Same fucking thing.”
I flip him off.
He shoots me the finger in reply.
Maybe his presence is frustrating me more—or maybe I’m just naturally overwhelmed with the unknown. I want answers. I like answers. I pride myself on finding them, but the vice-principal has given me a worksheet with censored and redacted questions. How am I supposed to fill this thing out without information?
Patience, I hear Connor.
I roll my eyes. Patience. It’s clearly not my forte.
Now I’m relying on Ryke Meadows to take me from point A to point B. He turns on the stereo and switches on a song. I can’t name the artist, but the string instruments sound like an indie or folk band.
We bump along the road, and I count the dreadful seconds that pass agonizingly slow.
The city landscape morphs into a more pastoral setting: robust trees, greenery, and lush land. Dalton Elementary comes into view, with its historic, steeple clock tower jutting from the shingled roof. The faded red brick building has two white columns by the entrance and a flagpole in the green turf.
I hastily jump out of the car before Ryke slows into the parking spot.
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 27