Before worry creeps in, I say, “It’s just a fucking picture of me. Lo keeps texting me the photos with heart emoticons.” I slip into the hallway, and register another smile that pulls my lips. I couldn’t care less about what Celebrity Crush prints, unless it hurts Daisy or any of the Calloway sisters.
This was fucking harmless.
Daisy must search the internet, her hand to her rising lips. When her eyes start glassing, I stop in the middle of the hall.
“Dais?”
She’s smiling. “You dressed up for her?”
My heart fucking radiates because of my wife. “I fucking tried.”
Daisy laughs, wiping tears that fall. “I know people always remind Lo of this, and for Connor, it’s just known, but Ryke…” Daisy smiles into another heartfelt laugh. “You’re an amazing dad.”
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hit me like a thousand tons. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be like Jonathan Hale, and I broke the mold faster than my brother could. I had no good father figure, nothing to emulate, but I knew what I never wanted to fucking be. What I’d never do to my daughter.
I’d be there every day, not just on Mondays.
I’d love her more than I loved money. More than I loved my reputation. More than I loved myself.
I’d dig for fucking happiness and hand it to Sulli.
Daisy’s smile is infectious. I end up laughing lightly and shaking my head—grateful for my wife, my daughter, and this fucking life.
“Daddy?” Sulli’s bedroom door begins to open.
Daisy swings faster, her excitement shining at the sound of our daughter.
Quietly, I tell Daisy, “I wasn’t the only one who really fucking missed you.”
Daisy mock gasps. “Is it the moon? Did the stars miss me? Or was it the sky?”
“It was this fucking tiny one.” I rotate the camera onto the bedroom door, just as Sulli emerges, half-dressed in the same fucking mermaid outfit.
I squat. “Want to say hi to Mommy?” I face the screen to our four-year-old.
Sulli gasps, but a real fucking gasp, and she races towards the phone. “Mommy!”
Daisy smiles. “The most beautiful mermaid in the whole wide sea.”
It’s 5:00 a.m.—and we’re all together again.
{ 28 }
December 2022
Hale Co. Elevator
Philadelphia
LILY HALE
I’m in a nightmare.
If I could rank a scenario as “nightmarish” this, right here, would be mounted at the top.
“Press the button again!” I yell at Ryke. I’ve already repeatedly pushed the elevator button, but maybe it’s operator-error. Maybe Ryke has the magic touch.
Not a sexual touch! Just a touch that makes a Hale Co. elevator go when it’s come to an abrupt, terrifying stop.
“I’ve pressed it fifteen fucking times already,” Ryke snaps. He listens to my demand anyway and pushes the red call help button. Nothing happens. No chimes, no beeps, no intercom system.
It’s broken.
Our only way out is broken. We’re trapped about ten floors beneath our destination: a Hale Co. Christmas party.
I pace in the small, confined space. No mirrors, just maroon wallpaper, dim lighting and soft Christmas music from the corner speakers. “Here Comes Santa Claus” is the current anthem to my nightmare.
I bite my nails while Ryke crouches by the maintenance box below all the buttons. He tries to pry it open with his fingertips. If those fingertips can scale rock, surely they can save us. Right?
My swollen ankles hurt. I lean against the wall for support, my hand splayed on my large baby bump. The extra weight drags my body down. Stay upright. I motivate myself. I’m due at any time. In fact, I almost stayed at home and ditched the party for pajamas and television with Moffy and Luna.
At the last minute, I decided to go and support Lo. And…the Christmas cookies. He enticed me with a photo of frosted sugar cookies, and I caved.
So, naturally, I hitched a ride with the Always-Late Ryke Meadows.
If I would’ve known that attending the party would result in being stuck in an elevator with the Always-Late Ryke Meadows while I’m Very Pregnant Lily Hale, I would’ve stayed in my PJs. And pretended I was eating sugar cookies.
I anxiously pick at the fuzz off my ugly Christmas sweater (the party theme). The red wool stops at my thighs, and white pompoms are hot glued over every inch. Ryke wears a green sweater with a reindeer pooping ornaments and glitter. Gold stitching says: Merry Fucking Christmas.
Daisy bought it for him.
I pull out my phone. “Check your service again.” I raise my phone to the ceiling. No bars. No signal.
“Lily,” Ryke growls my name. “Sit the fuck down.” His magic fingers fail at opening the screwed-in maintenance box. Magic fingers? I start picturing his fingers in not-so-wholesome places.
Then I start picturing his fingers on my sister.
Cringing, I cover my face with a hand. I didn’t mean to think it, I swear.
I take a breath and focus on my cellphone. “If I sit down then that’s me giving into the idea that we’ll be here for longer than five minutes.” I raise my phone. “Maybe if you boost me up, we’ll find signal.”
“No,” Ryke argues. “You’re nine-months fucking pregnant. I’m not boosting you anywhere.”
“Shhhh!” I whisper-hiss and stretch out my arms. “Did you hear that?”
Ryke goes quiet but returns to a phone box that he’s already checked out four times.
I listen and hear soft chatter. “HELP!” I scream. “HELP!! WE’RE STUCK!!” Please every wizard in every land, please get me out of here.
Ryke puts the phone to his ear and presses another button. His features significantly darken. “What’s the fucking point of having this if it doesn’t fucking work?”
I blow out a steady breath, sliding down the wall. I can’t hold myself up any longer. This is me, literally sinking in defeat.
Ryke doesn’t see me halfway to the floor as he says, “Sit the fuck down, Calloway. We’re not going anywhere.”
Shit.
* * *
Two hours.
We’ve been stuck in this elevator for two brutal hours and counting. I slouch against the wall and struggle to unlace my boots. My ankles need to breathe.
Ryke scoots in front of me and starts untying them.
I think I mutter out a thanks, hot and exhausted from doing nothing but sitting in fear. Every so often, we’ll start shouting for help, but no one has heard us. I’ve forbidden him from crawling into the elevator shaft. The first time he proposed the idea, I played out the brutal scenario where he’s crushed to death.
He told me that I was being fucking overdramatic, but he relented for a while. Then he tried again and again and on the fourth try, he succeeded in opening the ceiling hatch.
Then I screamed so horrifically that he stopped.
He hasn’t tried after that.
Ryke dying hurts to think about. I felt it once, and I don’t care to relive that day in Peru. There’d be a bottomless void that can’t be filled by just anyone.
I blow out controlled breaths, and he yanks off my left boot and works on the right. I wiggle my toes. All intact. Ryke stares at my belly for a long moment.
I’m so pregnant—it’s not good.
I’ve been tightlipped about the pain that started about an hour back, which feels a whole lot like contractions. Denial is a natural mode for me, but then I start thinking about losing this baby. Sweat gathers on my neck.
I can’t lose him.
As he unties my right boot, I ask, “Hypothetically, if we’re stuck here for eternity, do you think you could help deliver Xander?”
Ryke glares. “We’re not going to be here for eternity.”
“But if we are.”
“We aren’t.”
“But if we are,” I say like I’ve trumped him—and then I blow out another breath.
/> He yanks off my second boot. “If we are, then we need to think about other fucking things too. Like food. Water.”
“Sex,” I blurt out and cringe with him. “Nononono! Not with you. I just mean.” What did I mean? I waft some air onto my face with my hands. “Whenever anyone starts listing off necessary things to survive, sex always comes to mind. Not with you, just to be clear. Just in…general.” I wave around the elevator as though it contains all the generalness of the world.
He rubs his face with his hands as if trying to wake up. Then he groans like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation at all. “Fucking A.”
Pain shoots up, and I grit down and shift some. “But seriously…” I’m afraid. “If we’re here for the next twenty-four-hours, could you…help or…”
He raises his head from his hand-fort, and concern engulfs his face beyond anything I imagined. “Are you having fucking contractions right now?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Maybe.”
Ryke rakes his hands through his hair. “What’s maybe? Like really fucking intense or…?”
“I don’t know,” I repeat.
“How could you not know?!” Ryke yells, mostly out of panic. “This is your third kid.”
I touch my hand to my chest. “I’m still not an expert like Rose.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Ryke motions to me. “You’re just as smart as her. Three babies or six or none. It’s all just fucking…” he trails off as he watches fright invade me. “Are you crying?”
“No.” I wipe beneath my eyes, a tear on my finger. “Rose wouldn’t cry.”
“You’re not Rose,” he says harshly. “And you don’t have to fucking be her. She wouldn’t want you to be anyone other than you.”
I nod. He’s right. I just thought having a little extra Rose strength wouldn’t hurt, but maybe all Xander needs is my strength.
I wince at another sharp pain, and I tighten my eyes shut.
Ryke slides even closer and starts asking a thousand questions. Where does it fucking hurt? What can I do to fucking help? Do you need to lie down? Do you want my fucking sweater as a pillow?
I wave my hand at him to stop. He quiets, and I whisper, “Just…talk about something else. Distract me?” My anxiety and fear could be to blame. Relax, relax, relax, I chant.
I open one eye.
Ryke flips his phone in his palm. “If you hate his fucking name, you can always pick another one.”
My other eye pops open. “What? No.” I didn’t think he’d bring up this. “Lo and I love the name Xander.” After we learned we were having a boy, we began brainstorming names from our favorite comic book characters. Months passed with too many options and more indecision. It wasn’t as easy as Maximoff and Luna.
So we gave our long list of potential baby names to Ryke and told him to pick one.
He handed back the list, and he circled a name but crossed off a portion of the letters.
Alexander Summers
Also known as Havok from X-Men and the brother to Scott Summers. His choice made Lo choke up, especially when Ryke said that he researched every name before he picked this one.
He only needed to choose a first name since we haven’t given our children middle ones—out of the pure fact that we want them to go by their first name. And not a second one.
“Good, I’m…” Ryke starts. “…Lily? Fuck.”
I must be pale because he puts his hand to my forehead. I speak quickly, “I can’t have this baby today. It’s Christmas Eve.” This tacky Christmas sweater party is a late-night adult-only event. All the children are in bed and together at the Cobalt estate. It’s like a giant slumber party for them, and Poppy opted out of joining the adults, so she’s there in case anyone wakes up and needs a parent.
I ramble on, “Tomorrow is Christmas, and I’m supposed to watch Maximoff and Luna open presents. Daisy will film everyone and narrate—I’ll miss the narration! I can’t miss it.” I blow out a shaky breath.
“Hey, you can replay the video at any fucking time.”
My hands on my abdomen, I say to Xander, “Don’t come out yet. Please.” I swear he just nosedives down, down, down. I grab hold of something to squeeze, which happens to be Ryke’s wrist. “I just wanted a sugar cookie!”
I doubt Lo would’ve brought me home any extra, and if he did, there would’ve been a great possibility that he would’ve eaten it in front of me. He’s a cookie tease too.
Ryke tries opening his internet again, but nothing will load. Out of service. Everything is out of service except my body, which keeps trucking along. I bite down and scream through my teeth, the next sharp pain comes quick and severe.
His jaw hardens, and so do his eyes, his panic bottled unlike mine. “Hey, Lily.” He takes off his sweater, balls up the soft wool, and stuffs the makeshift pillow behind my lower back while I slouch against the wall. “Whatever happens here, it doesn’t fucking change us. You’re my friend, and I love you. Alright?”
Tears well, and I nod over and over. I know what this means.
Ryke has to look between my legs.
I don’t recoil or balk or turn red. I’m not flooded with embarrassment. Just overcome with pain and determination. This isn’t just about me. It’s about Xander, and I need help.
I squeeze Ryke’s wrist at the next contraction, and he slides my hand into his calloused palm. I try to focus on the roughness and hardness of his hand—a rock climber hand. The thought nearly drifts me away from the pain. I breathe out measured breaths.
Just as I start to shimmy my leggings down my thighs, not wearing underwear today. Ryke helps me a little, and I stop halfway at an incoming contraction—and then something else.
I wince. Oh my God.
Wetness trickles between my legs, soaking part of my leggings.
“Fuck,” he curses. Reality just smacked both of us in the face.
My water broke.
I’m going into labor.
In this elevator. Without Lo. Without a hospital. No doctors, no pain medication, or anyone to ensure that Xander is healthy and alive at the end.
“Nonono,” I repeat, knocking my head back against the wall. I stare at the ceiling. “Lo,” I cry. “I need Lo.” I scream towards the elevator hatch. “LO!!” I can’t do this without Lo. I don’t know how to do this without him. “LO!!!” My wail breaks in half.
Ryke clasps my face. “Lily, Lily, shhh, it’s going to be alright.”
“I need Lo. I can’t do this without Lo.” Hot tears cascade down my cheeks. “Lo,” I croak. Lo please find me.
He always finds me.
“Lily fucking focus.” Ryke grips my cheeks harder, and my eyes fall to him. “You got through three fucking months without him. I was there with you. Remember that?”
I nod tearfully. When Lo went to rehab. We were all so much younger. I rub at my eyes but then I clutch my chest. My heart is rupturing into a thousand shards. “I don’t want to do this without him.”
“But you’re going to fucking need to.”
The emotional turmoil trumps every ounce of pain. The contractions descend beneath agony that burns through me.
My knees are already bent, my legs already spread. Ryke pulls the leggings off my ankles. Star Wars calf-high holiday socks and my ugly sweater still on. Ten floors above us, people are laughing, clinking eggnog, and rosy-cheeked with Christmas cheer.
Ryke peeks between my legs. I don’t watch.
“You have to start timing your fucking contractions.” He messes with his stopwatch on his wrist. “Tell me when the next one comes.”
I shake my head dazedly and then nod. Tears slick on my cheeks. I mumble out responses, sickness rising in my throat. My love for Lo overwhelms me in ways most would chastise. It’s too much. It’s too toxic. Stop it.
He’s a part of me.
He’s in my soul.
It’s always been this way.
His absence tears and tears my insides. Any other moment. I’d give up
three months with him again, just to have him here right now for this birth. I’d cash in all Christmas miracles. I tell that to Ryke, I think, because I hear something about a fucking Christmas miracle—but I lose track of the details.
I try to reroute my head. Baby. Being born.
It’ll be okay.
It’ll be okay.
Even if he’s not here?
It’ll be okay.
I want him here.
It’ll be okay.
I cry. I wipe my nose. I’ve lost sight of my contractions, and I try to tell Ryke that, but he says not to worry.
Maybe I’m truly delusional—but I swear the ceiling hatch opens. Some blonde man I’ve never seen sticks his head in, assessing the area.
“LO!” I scream. It’s all I think to say.
Then the blonde man disappears.
And then. “LILY!!”
It’s Lo, his voice near. I listen to rustling up above, and then his sharp features come into view, his head in the hatch opening. His longer hair on top falls towards his eyes.
I burst into more tears, overcome at the sight of him. He’s here. He’s here.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it all. Is this a fantasy where I make-believe he’s in my arms? It wouldn’t be the first time I confused pretend with reality. My heart aches.
I watch him disappear.
No. “No,” I choke. Come back.
I hear urgent chatter, and then he drops down the ceiling hatch. His feet land on the floor, his black ugly sweater rising on his waist, red and green threads stitched like a DJ elf spinning records.
He wastes no time, his knees beside me, his hands on my cheeks. “I’m here. I’m here, Lil,” he repeats. I hone in on his amber eyes that contain a million I love yous and a thousand more concerns.
“Is this real?” I blink and my tears slip along his hands.
Lo nods. “This is real, love.”
He kisses me, a desperate irresistible kiss that soothes my emotions. When he breaks apart, I wince, the pain below slamming towards me like a car crash. As much as it hurts, I’d take it over the other pain. I would. Any day.
“When did her water break?” Lo asks, sliding over towards my legs.
Ryke checks his watch and shifts towards my side by the wall. “About an hour ago.”
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 34