Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5)

by Krista Ritchie

  { 35 }

  December 2023

  Dalton Elementary

  Philadelphia

  LILY HALE

  “Moms and Dads, I think it’s about time. Let’s begin our December meeting.” Maggie Hollybaum clutches a wooden clipboard like it’s a second appendage. Hair in perfect blonde curls, pearl earrings clipped tight, a yellow monogrammed purse perched on the teacher’s desk—I wonder how she looks so clean and neat.

  I can’t even keep stains off my clothes. Right now, I think I have peanut butter on the collar of my shirt.

  At least…I hope it’s peanut butter. Please let it be peanut butter.

  I don’t check.

  We all quiet down while Maggie scans her clipboard.

  As the head of the PTA, I initially thought Maggie would be the most stuck-up, judgmental parent of them all. I was prepared for her disdain to rain down on me. Then she made a fart joke to Daisy and laughed when her own son picked his nose.

  I like Maggie, but it’s not to say the rest of the PTA like me.

  I currently sit in the back row of the elementary classroom. I feel like I’ve stepped into some fucked-up time machine.

  Maggie clicks her tongue in thought. “Okay, here we go. Annie and Summer have already agreed to head the annual ornament painting festival. We still need someone to organize the cookie fundraiser.” Her finger runs down the roster of parents.

  One desk over, Daisy whispers to me, “Don’t look her in the eyes.”

  Connor sits on my other side. He halfheartedly followed us to the back row of desks. Apparently his inner honor student withers away the longer he’s in the “apathetic” row. Personally, I love Apathetic Row.

  At least when it comes to school.

  I try to follow my little sister’s instructions and stare at the surface of my desk. I squint at a faint marker doodle. Did someone draw a dick and balls? Noooo. This is just my dirty mind. It could be a weirdly shaped hot dog?

  I whisper to Connor, “Is this a dick doodle?” I point at my desk. I’m glad he doesn’t question why I asked him. Ryke definitely would’ve, and I’d have to explain that since he has a penis, he’d be a better judge than me. Even though I’ve seen my fair share.

  Connor examines the doodle in about one second flat. “Yes but it’s crooked.”

  “Lily Hale.”

  I jump at my name, my neck roasting. They didn’t hear you talk about a dick doodle. For some reason, I rest my arm across my desk, covering up the crooked penis like I’m the one who drew it.

  “Yeah?” I look to Maggie.

  “You’re not signed up for anything.”

  “Really?” I stare at the ceiling. “I could’ve sworn I signed up for that…thing.” Lo and I made an agreement not to be swept up into too many activities. We already have enough on our plate that we don’t need to add ornament painting to it.

  “How about you head the holiday cookie fundraiser?” Maggie suggests nicely. It nearly sways me to say yes.

  Then Frank Kale, the only other man here besides Connor, interjects, “You shouldn’t give that much responsibility to someone like her.”

  He’s the second worst person in the PTA. Moffy tried Little League for one season (he likes swimming more), and we all saw Frank scream at the coach to make his son pitcher. The coach asked his son if he wanted to be pitcher. To which the boy said, not really. Frank dragged his son by the arm and took him off the team.

  Lo called him a helicopter dad.

  Ryke called him a fucking prick.

  Connor called him Frank Kale.

  His whole persona makes us all cringe. So Connor ended up being the most accurate. Like right now, I cringe at Frank and wish he’d turn his judgy eyes onto the whiteboard.

  Before I can respond, Maggie sticks up for me. “Lily helped with the Easter Egg hunt last year. There were no issues, Frank.”

  “Because Rose handled that event, not her.”

  “I helped.” I stick up for myself. Though the truth: the cookie fundraiser might be too much responsibility for just me. So the heart of what Frank said is correct. I hate that it is, but it is. I have a baby that’s about to turn one. A bouncy four-year-old. And an eight-year-old with a crazy swim practice schedule.

  I love cookies, but I don’t know where to squeeze in an entire cookie fundraiser between all of that and Superheroes & Scones.

  I suck at multitasking. I’d willingly give myself an F. So there.

  Then Justine whatever-her-last-name-is physically swivels in her seat to cast a snide comment my way. “Where are you even going to bake the cookies?”

  She is the absolute worst. To my face, Justine said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but you probably shouldn’t have children.” It hurt, and it hurts worse when she tries to spread lies to her gaggle of friends. They don’t keep a clean household.

  Kids shouldn’t hear sex. Or see it.

  She’s disgusting. We should have her children kicked out of the school.

  They’ve tried and failed. I have a secret weapon called Rose Calloway Cobalt and Connor Cobalt. No one can defeat nerd stars.

  Connor speaks before I find words to reply. “Bake implies kitchen, which most commonly implies house. It’s simple language skills.”

  Justine purses her lips, brown hair in perfect waves from a curling iron no doubt.

  “I haven’t signed up for anything either,” Daisy says to the PTA-filled classroom. She tries to spin the spotlight on herself and off me. Rose and Connor never signed up for an event this year too, but they haven’t been called out. I’m just an easy target sometimes.

  Frank tightens his silver-plated Rolex watch in front of Connor. “Then you should do the fundraiser instead of her.”

  “I have a name,” I mention softly. My shyness escalates to eighty-percent functionality. I’m just happy I’m not hiding beneath my desk.

  “I can do it with Lily,” Daisy says.

  “The three of us can,” Connor notes.

  I relax at the sound of teamwork. I truly love the concept, especially when the guys are better bakers than us (especially Ryke), and it’s likely they’ll just take over. That’s my idea of excellent teamwork.

  “But at which house?” Justine asks.

  “Mine?” Is this a trick question?

  Justine bristles. I failed the mommy mind game. She whips towards me. “I don’t think any cookies should be touching your counters.”

  “Justine,” Daisy says, beating everyone to speak. “We’re doing the cookies at my sister’s house. And you can go to hell.”

  My eyes pop out. Whaaa…?

  Daisy crosses her arms and acts like the protective older sister, the role reversal something that happens between us. But never has she come to my defense by telling a mom to go to hell. It’s so unlike Daisy.

  Even Justine gapes in shock, unsure of how to respond. Whispers float around the room.

  I smile at Daisy.

  She smiles back.

  Hushed, I tell her, “I feel like I could throw out some middle fingers in a weird champion-like dance.” I feel it, but executing it takes a different kind of courage.

  Daisy wags her brows. “Let’s totally do that outside.”

  We smile more.

  2024

  “I never understood how much I had lost my voice until I started using it.”

  - Daisy Meadows, We Are Calloway (Season 6 Episode 07 – Motorcycles & Crosswords)

  { 36 }

  January 2024

  The Hale House

  Philadelphia

  LILY HALE

  I carry a sleeping four-year-old Luna up the flight of stairs. Proud of my arm strength. Good job, arms. Green glitter is tangled in Luna’s brown hair. I’m sure she’ll fuss when we both try to pick it out in the morning. She still wears a pair of 2024 sunglasses and New Year’s Eve stickers all over her alien-printed PJs.

  When I reach her room, I gently rest Luna on the mattress and slide off the sunglasses. I pull up her white
comforter and tuck her into bed.

  Luna’s room is an explosion of personality: alien-stuffed plushies, plastic blowup chairs (green, of course), multi-colored carpet, and a lava lamp. Sometimes I just catch her watching the colors and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

  “Night, Luna,” I whisper and kiss her head before tiptoeing to the hall. I shut the door closed.

  I yawn when I enter my dimly-lit bedroom. “Luna’s passed out.” I plop on the bed with my arms and legs splayed.

  This is what a pancake must feel like.

  Lo sheds his shirt. “Moffy too. He’ll be upset he didn’t make it to midnight this year.”

  “We can tell him he didn’t miss anything exciting.” I roll on my stomach and reach for the baby monitor by the clock. Xander is fast asleep in his crib. He turned one on Christmas. It was the start of us trying to make his birthday memorable, despite having to share it with a holiday.

  Lo pulls off his socks. “So my sister told me the name of her baby tonight.”

  I perk up and set the monitor back. “What’s her name?” The Abbey baby isn’t due yet, but we all know she’s having a girl. “Is it based on a video game character? Is it Zelda?” I kneel on the mattress, my thoughts wild at all the possibilities. They’re into pop culture like us, so the options are endless. My eyes grow big. “Are they naming her Hermione?! I might die.”

  “Don’t die, love.” Lo drops his pants, the bulge in his boxer-briefs calling out to me.

  “…it’d be a happy death,” I say dazedly. His cock. In me. “…I’d die out of…love.”

  Lo crawls onto the bed, and I try to shimmy down towards him, so he can crawl on top of me. I even wiggle out of my pants, now down to my panties and muscle shirt. He sees the needy suggestion in my eyes, but he’s not taking the bait yet.

  Focus off his cock.

  It’s so hard.

  I flush at the double meaning.

  “Are you going to give me any hints?” I wonder.

  “Vada Lauren Abbey,” he tells me the name. “Vada for—”

  “My Girl,” I finish. The lead character of that 90s film is named Vada. Garrison reblogs a lot of My Girl gifs and makes them for Willow, but both Lo and I first saw that movie when we were about eight or nine. It fits them better than all of my suggestions, even Hermione. “And Lauren, as in—”

  “Me,” he finishes this time.

  My eyes well. “Lo.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He nods. “It’s a horrible middle name.” His sarcasm is so apparent, especially as his smile grows, overwhelmed by being a namesake.

  I wipe a fallen tear. “Is it spelled the same?”

  “She asked me if she should do the L-O-R-E-N version, and I told her to go traditional. I figure I have thirty-three years of bad karma stored up in that name. Best way to dodge it is by going L-A-U-R-E-N.”

  I nod. “Smart thinking.” As the topic of conversation fades, my mind reroutes to what’s knelt in front of me.

  Loren Hale in black boxer-briefs. Loren Hale with cheekbones that cut like ice. Loren Hale with a six-pack and muscular thighs. Why his thighs turn me on, my nefarious brain cannot compute. It just sees them and his biceps and those cheekbones and chants, closer, closer, closer.

  Lo leans forward, finally, and his hands fall onto either side of my head. He hovers above me. I try to tug him down so his weight adds pressure against my body.

  He never lowers.

  So I ask, “Lo, are we going to have New Year’s Day sex?” I’m honed in on his rising lips and the dimples in his cheeks. I sense him studying my body for a second, but I can tell he’s horny (maybe not as much as me) by his hardness and the flex of his muscles.

  Then his lips dip down to mine but veer off to the base of my neck. “Yes,” he says into a kiss. Yes!

  My pulse hammers, skin tingling by my neck. I lie flat on our bed but I’ve already split my legs around his body. I’ve already grabbed onto his shoulders. If I could do a pull-up, I’d already be against him.

  Reasons to work out.

  It’s so enticing, but not as enticing as not working out.

  “The first sex in 2024,” I muse. “This is a big deal. Give me a second. I have to think how we’re going to do this.” I squeeze my eyes shut because his body, his face, his eyebrows and hair are all distracting. “Anal? Or maybe on top? OhmyGod, maybe we should do it standing up? No, on the floor! No, in the bathtub!”

  My mind actually races between positions, so fast that I bite my thumb nail. I’ve opened my eyes, but I stare off into a faraway sex land called Lily Hale’s Dirty Mind.

  “Lil, calm down.”

  “Huh.”

  He pinches my cheek.

  “Hey!” I rub my cheek. So mean.

  “Calm down,” he repeats, his face blanketed with seriousness.

  “I am calm. Calm but excited.” I try a pull-up on his body. Nope, not happening. I wait for the thud on the mattress, but I quickly realize that I never lifted myself off the bed to begin with. Weakling, that’s me.

  “If it’s a big deal for you, then I’ll make it the best sex of the goddamn year, but I want you to enjoy it without being compulsive, yeah?”

  I’m about to wholeheartedly agree, but his movements distract me. His left hand has left the mattress, and his fingers lightly skim the sliver of skin above my cotton panties. I follow his carnal gaze, and my travel leads me to my white muscle shirt, the fabric askew. My boob is exposed, nipple hardened.

  I spend so much time ogling him that I forget what I even look like. And how much he’s attracted to me. Which I can see is a whole lot.

  My hand drops off his shoulder and onto my hipbone. I stop myself from inching lower. Don’t be compulsive. I think about his previous declaration.

  “Can we scratch the best sex of the year?” I ask. “Because if that’s true then all the rest of the sex this year will be not-the-best, and I won’t have anything to look forward to.”

  His amber eyes abruptly tear off my nipple and set daggered onto my face. “Lily Hale, are you telling me you wouldn’t look forward to fucking me?”

  Now that he phrases it like that…

  “Absolutely not. Scratch everything I just said. I’m not picky. Best sex. Okay sex. Awesome sex. Any kind of sex is what I look forward to—as long as it’s with you.” I try to nod resolutely, but it’s harder lying down.

  “Okay sex?” He frowns and nearly sits up. No, come back! I tug at the band of his boxer-briefs, and he lowers to his previous position. Yes! “When have we had okay sex?”

  “When something interrupts us and I don’t come.”

  His jaw tightens, but then he nods like he gets it. “Tonight, I promise not to let anything interrupt your orgasm.” He holds out his pinky finger. Loren Hale initiating a pinky-promise.

  My heart sputters, and without pause, I hook my pinky with his.

  Lo kisses me urgently, deeply. My lips swell beneath his, a moan tickling my throat. His hand slides beneath my muscle shirt, kneading the soft flesh of my breast.

  I run my hands over his arms, his abs. His cut muscles are the product of many workouts that help him combat stress better than a bottle of bourbon. I kiss him just as vehemently, my legs tightening around his waist. He’s still too far away.

  Lo disconnects from my mouth. “Lil.” His voice is low and hoarse. “You. Naked. Now.” He lifts my muscle shirt over my head while my dazed mind has already imagined him inside of me.

  “You…aren’t naked?” I try to tug at his boxer-briefs.

  He groans as he attempts to pull my panties off my legs. I won’t disentangle from his waist. We’re a hot mess, but my mission is his cock, not undressing myself.

  Lo pries my gangly legs off his waist.

  I make a noise that may be a whine, but it’s an I want you whine and come back to me! plea.

  Lo handles my body like someone nurturing and stimulating an animal in heat. His narrowed eyes flit to the ceiling, very briefly, to contain his own arous
al. I could pounce on him and fuck him, and as I squirm for Lo and only Lo, the muscle in his jaw tenses.

  He quickly pulls my panties off my ankles, and I clutch his lean build. I want to be a koala clung onto the Loren Hale tree, but so much space still separates his body from mine.

  He’s knelt between my legs.

  My breath hitches, my skin hot and beginning to glisten with just my thoughts. I unsuccessfully removed his boxer-briefs. He pulls up the black fabric, air and that article of clothing separating us. Without panties, I’m exposed and empty. I need his hardness, the pressure right up against me.

  “Lo,” I moan in desperation.

  Sex might be more complicated for him than me. I’m on reach orgasm mode while he’s on focus on Lily’s health, don’t come before Lily, nurture and protect and then fuck her good mode.

  Anyone else could easily take advantage of my addiction, but he doesn’t. Lo would never propel me to a bad place just because I’m willing to do anything in bed. I need restrictions. I need slow.

  I need him.

  Lo seizes my hips that rock upwards. “Easy, love.” He pushes my abdomen down, and then his hand drifts between my legs. I tingle and clench, even before he slips two fingers inside.

  I shudder so fast, and he deserts me just as quickly. “Lo,” I whimper. I don’t realize my hands are sliding down my thighs until he grips my wrists.

  He kisses the edge of my lips and whispers, “Take a breath.”

  Fuck. Fuck. I want to fuck. I inhale a short breath, my head slightly leveling. In the middle of the bed, he stays on his knees.

  I sit up. “Please,” I beg. I just need his skin on my skin. I wrap my arms around his frame, tucking my body against Lo.

  He does something out of the ordinary.

  Lo slowly lies backwards, his shoulders meeting the champagne comforter.

  I splay my palms on his chest, lifting myself up just a little in realization. I’m on top of Loren Hale. I’m straddling his waist.

  I rarely ever end up on top or in control because I take it too far.

  My lips part while my whole body shakes. Lo watches me. His amber eyes bore through my soul. He also lies here for my pleasure, but my brain only sees this body that can offer me the best orgasm of my life.