Lo rubs the back of his neck. “We’re not going to force her into something, but we’ll…introduce other stuff and see if she likes it.”
It’s not like we haven’t already. She tried soccer and huffed and puffed and then quit.
I sniff and nod at Lo. I know we have to keep trying, especially if it’ll make her school life easier.
Lo asks, “If things—if they get worse, what would happen if we switched her to Ms. Nalah’s class?”
“I don’t recommend it. Not this year. The entire kindergarten class shares a recess. They all know each other, and they’ll ask Luna why she was moved out of my class. Just wait, please. It’s still early, which was why I wanted to chat now instead of later in the year.”
We say our thanks and then finish up the conversation. When Lo and I climb into his Audi, we just sit there for a while, not able to start the car. Not able to drive home. Our bodyguards wait in the SUV behind us, probably questioning the hold-up.
Tears prick my eyes again. “We weren’t ever called weirdos…” I just see her future unless something changes, and it contains more heartache than we ever pictured. “You were an asshole. I was…shy.” Luna’s not shy. She’s outspoken and loud. Her opinions and imagination fill a room and don’t fit into a certain mold. She’s different, but why is that so bad?
“She’ll be okay.” Lo nods to himself like he has to believe this statement. He turns the key, the Audi blinking to life.
I repeat his words. Over and over.
{ 45 }
November 2025
Manhattan Medical Hospital
New York City
LOREN HALE
I run down the hospital hallway. Chest on fire. Legs numb. My body rages so far ahead of my brain. Ahead of my emotions.
Ahead of me.
I only slow when I reach the hospital door. Ajar, but no noise filters into the hallway. Go in there, Lo.
Walk the fuck in there, Lo.
Why did you stop, Lo?!
Fear chokes me by the throat. I tug the collar of my crew neck. Move your goddamn feet. I stop waiting around for this feeling to disappear.
I step carefully and slowly inside. It feels like I’m walking on glass, cutting deep in my soles. Slicing open my feet. As soon as the hospital bed comes into view, I stop walking.
Stop moving.
Stop looking at him. But I can’t tear my gaze away from the scene in front of me.
My father lies on the firm mattress, sheet-white, eyes sunken. He stares hauntingly at the ceiling, his lips the same pallid color of his skin.
He already looks dead.
I choke on a strangled noise, caught between grief and anger.
His head tilts limply towards me. I’m not comforted by the sight. He’s still alive but just barely. Jonathan Hale teeters between life and death.
I lick my dry lips. All I want to do is grab ahold of him, wrench him back to me, to this life, and to this world.
I still need you. I want to scream at myself for thinking this goddamn thing. I still need you, Dad. Did I ever really need him? Somewhere inside me, I truly believe I did, and I can’t let go of that.
My eyes cloud. In front of him, I instinctively shield my face with my hand. I wait for him to say it, “Stop fucking crying, Loren.”
I still hear it in my head. I always hear it. Even when he’s different. Even when I know I’m different.
I still hear it.
“Come here, Loren.” His coarse tone slices me up, but I hold onto the familiarity.
My throat is swollen closed. I swallow hard and manage to step forward. Pain radiates up my shins and legs and arms. Just at the single movement. My body screams for me to stop. So I stop.
I don’t go after the pain. I don’t ask for it. I don’t want it.
I don’t even believe I deserve it.
I point an accusatory finger at my dad. The man who’s dying right in front of me. “Why didn’t you tell me? You said you were on a fucking vacation—to Hawaii?” I nearly spit. Grief and anger rattles my bones. I’m his son. I’m the one that gives a shit whether he lives or dies.
And he didn’t tell me.
I should’ve known it was all bullshit. He gave me too many details about the resort, about his “lady friend” he planned to fuck all weekend. It seemed too elaborate to be the truth.
Maybe I just wanted to believe the story. He sounded happy. My dad on some getaway trip. To relax. To suntan. To have a goddamn fling.
“A lie,” he says, as though it’s nothing. He points to the stiff chair by his stiff bed. “Sit.”
I grimace. “Jesus Christ, Dad. Don’t say it like it’s fucking nothing. You lied. Okay? You lied to me.” I jab my finger towards the floor. “The nurses said you’ve been here for a whole week.” Rage pushes me forward. “Why didn’t you call me?!”
I breathe heavily, already knowing the answer before the question escapes. He’s Jonathan Hale. He protected me from the knowledge of being a bastard. He protected me from an ugly rumor about him molesting me. And he protected me again.
From the torment of watching him slowly die.
“Sit.” He points to the chair again, the gesture tugging his IV cords and shifting the metal stand.
I make it to the chair. I collapse on the seat. I just might sink all the way to the ground through the floorboards and down, down, down to the dirt in the fucking Earth.
I have to hunch forward, forearms on my thighs. It hurts to look at him. Hurts to be here. But I stay and I try to look.
I’m scared if I don’t, he’ll disappear. My chest caves at the sight of him. I blink, and tears fall. “Dammit,” I curse, glaring at the ceiling.
Why is this happening?
“Loren.” He says my name with frailty I’ve never heard. “Will you call your brother and sister? I want them here.”
I knew he would. “They’re on their way.” My leg jostles and my shoulders sway from side to side, pent up with so much…
My amber eyes rise to him again.
He never reaches for my hand. Never pulls me closer. He’s never been that kind of father. But his presence is so large it fills the room. His spirit is bigger than his body.
I don’t have to ask what happened. I spoke to the doctors over the phone. At his request, they called me first. For the past couple of years, he’s been suffering from chronic liver rejection. It’s common for liver transplant recipients to have some type of rejection, but chronic—it means this has been happening for a long period of time.
He was only admitted to the hospital when his liver started shutting down.
He’s too low on the transplant list. No donors in sight. Ryke already donated once, and he can’t again.
What the hell has he been going through for two years? He knew he’d die. He knew that all hope was shot. I’m so goddamn angry he never said a thing. He went through this alone.
I can’t wash the malice out of my harsh eyes. “You should’ve told me.” I’m your son.
He laughs briefly like I’m just a kid.
I’m thirty-five. I’m not just a kid.
But I am his.
“I should’ve told you…” He lets out another weak laugh and shakes his head. “And have you tiptoe around me? You want to put me out to pasture like cattle—fine. You have the chance now.” He extends one of his arms. “Bury me.”
I cringe. “Jesus Christ. Stop it.” My eyes flood. “You’re going to be okay.”
His dry smile fades. “You’ve never been a dreamer, Loren. Don’t start now.”
His words should piss me off. I should be enraged, but they remind me that he knows who I am. He raised me. He was there for me. For a really long time, it had been just me and him. I can’t forget the fact that he chose me. I was the bastard, but he never flung me out like trash.
There is love so deeply rooted between us. Beneath all the dark and the black and the tar that bleeds our souls. There is love. It exists, and I realize I’m about to lose it f
orever.
Don’t go, I want to tell him.
I hear his reply in my head, you think I want to?
“There must be some way to get you another transplant.” I fight for him.
His sharp, withering glare tries to destroy me. I don’t let it. My own cutting look rivals his, and I think, I learned from the best.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You saw the list. Even if I could find one, it’d be unlikely my body would accept it. Say goodbye. It’s why you’re here.” His lip twitches. “Do what everyone does when confronted by someone on their deathbed.”
“What’s that?” My words sour in my mouth. My other leg starts jostling. Stopstopstop. I can’t.
My dad rolls his eyes, annoyed that I haven’t caught on. “Shower me with praises. Tell me how great a father I was. Yada, yada, yada.”
I open my mouth to speak, but my throat closes again. It hurts. Being here. Sitting here. My brain is a thousand tons of get-me-out-of-here. My gaze lowers to the sheets of his bed.
Dammit.
Dammit.
I wipe at the tears that roll down. “You were…” I struggle. I’m struggling. More than I can even express—I’m drowning right now. I shift in my chair. I clench the armrests, my knuckles whitening.
Slowly, I lift my head and meet his sunken eyes.
In a single look, we share a thousand truths. He wasn’t a good father, but he was the only one I had.
“You were alright.”
The corner of his lip rises. “Just alright.” It’s not a question. He knows his faults. I don’t wait for an apology. Not for all the harm he caused me, for the verbal abuse that paved the way for harsher, crueler things in my future. I don’t wait for one because like he said—I’ve never been a dreamer.
Did I ever imagine Jonathan Hale apologizing as he dies on a hospital bed? No. Never. Not once.
I don’t expect it.
I don’t even care for it.
I don’t even want one the way my brother did. The way my brother asked. The way my brother got his.
I’d rather have this man in front of me. The one so painfully flawed. The one filled with endless amounts of love. I’d rather face the end with him.
“Honestly, Loren.” His voice slices me up again. How many more times will I hear him say my name? I glare at the ceiling, tears flowing backwards, dripping out of the corners of my eyes. He finishes with, “You’re better than I was. I want you to know that.”
My body runs cold. “Everyone at Hale Co. still loves you—”
“I wasn’t talking about the goddamn company,” he cuts me off, and the quiet abruptly cloaks us. I have to sit here and repeat his words over and over in my head for them to make sense.
You’re better than I was.
You’re better than I was.
You’re better than I was.
No matter how many times they play out, I still can’t believe that’s what he chooses to tell me. My father never admits defeat, rarely puts others above himself. He only ever wanted me to embrace my potential, but he never saw my potential as anything more than a flickering ember, ready to die out at the slightest gust of wind.
“Loren,” he says my name again. Is this the last time I’ll hear it? I keep my glare on the ceiling, tears still dripping out the corners.
“You’re a better father,” he tells me. Stop crying. “A better husband.” Stop fucking crying. “A better man.”
I drop my gaze, not covering my face. I cry in front of the man who always told me to goddamn stop. I’m hunched like if I try, I might be able to hug myself. Pain obliterates me from top to bottom, engulfing all that I was. All that I am.
“Loren.”
“Stop,” I choke. “Just stop.” I set a glare on him.
He sets one on me. “I won’t stop because you can’t control your tears.” There it is. In my fucked up reality, I’m almost glad to hear it. One last time. My older brother would think it was sick, but I can’t help it.
I rub my eyes with the back of my sleeve. When I look at him, he canvasses me like he’s remembering me for the final time.
“I’ve always loved you, son.” I know. He never let me forget it. “It was a decent ride. The whiskey could’ve been better towards the end.”
I can’t laugh at the joke.
He stayed sober. My dad stayed sober for a long time. For me. For Ryke. For Willow. For himself.
“Will you remember?” he asks, fear creasing his eyes for the first time.
“Remember what?”
“That I loved you.”
I realize he’s worried about his legacy. That maybe in time Jonathan Hale won’t be remembered as the man who fought to bring his three children together—but rather as the old drunk who shouted slurs and spiteful things.
I’m not sure what’ll happen in the future. How I’ll describe him to my children as they get older, but I know I won’t leave out the fact that he loved us. And he tried. God, he tried.
I nod a few times. “I’ll remember.” I rub the back of my neck. “You know…” It’s inside of me. I’ve said it before. It hurts. “You know…I love you too.”
He stares at the wall this time, away from me, as though repeating those words in his head. I wonder if he thinks that he doesn’t deserve my love. I know my brother feels that way.
If so, my dad never tells me.
We’re silent the rest of the time, and my tears dry.
“Dad?” Ryke emerges in the doorway, Willow beside him. He’s stoic, his gaze locking on me longer than our father.
I wrench my body up from the chair. I step back, giving Ryke and Willow time with him. Ryke stays put, letting Willow go first.
I’m a million pounds.
I’m sinking.
I go to leave, but Ryke catches my shoulder. Then he shuts the door, locking my escape. I barely hear him mention that he talked to the doctors. They said our dad wouldn’t make it through the night. I blink and look for an out. I tug my collar.
Leave, my brain screams.
Bottle. Booze.
Leave.
“Hey,” Ryke grits in my ear, shaking me by the shoulders.
I swat his hands away and glower like he’s the enemy. I’m the villain. I hate myself more right now than I have in goddamn years.
Stop.
Fight.
“Lily,” Ryke tells me, reminding me. I let out a deeper breath. As I calm down some, Ryke releases his grip on my shoulders. “I’m going to stay. I think we both fucking should.”
Despite the past, Ryke made more peace with Jonathan than I ever thought he would. And now he wants to stay.
And watch him die.
I shake my head, my eyes cast down to the floor. My dad knew I couldn’t handle it. It’s why he waited until the last minute, and even now, I choke.
“I can’t…” The air is too thin. The walls too tight. I’m uncomfortable in my clothes. In my body. I could fucking puke.
How did I live with this feeling for so long back then? I feel like I’m dying.
I was dying. Every goddamn day.
I need a drink.
Stop.
Fight.
Lily.
“Hey.” Ryke cups my face, my eyes returning to his. “I can’t even fucking imagine what it’s like for you, but if you leave, you’ll regret it.”
My many regrets are layered beneath my skin. Imprinted in my bones. Regrets that will never leave me. That will always haunt me, but ones that I have to face and accept.
Most deal with drinking and every shit decision that hurt Lily. Even though we’re together now, every day that goes by I regret not being the man she needed. Not being able to help my best friend. Days and nights fogged by booze. Drinking.
Drinking.
Dying.
I regret how long it took for me to wake up.
I’m awake now. I can’t forget how the haze is gone.
I’m awake. I’m alive.
Slowly, painfully, I walk back towards h
is hospital bed. I pull out another chair. I sit there.
And I watch my father die.
< 46 >
November 2025
Eden Cross Cemetery
Philadelphia
RYKE MEADOWS
My father’s funeral ended about ten minutes ago.
I stayed behind, alone. Facing a pile of fucking dirt. The headstone he picked out towers above all the others. It’s fucking huge. I roll my eyes at it—and at the empty plots surrounding it. The ones he bought for his children, for our families.
I shake my head over and over. I spent so much time suppressing my feelings that I haven’t come to terms with his death like I should’ve days ago. Connor told me he’d look out for Lo, and then he bluntly added, “You can cry.”
I glowered, but I never had to tell him why I couldn’t cry. He knows. It’s not just overwhelming concern for my little brother. It’s that I hated my father for so long, even when we’d been at peace towards the end. I just keep thinking, why should he get my fucking tears?
I’ll remember the last words I said to my father for the rest of my life. “Thank you for fucking pushing me to meet Lo.” My brother and my sister—they’re the only good things he ever gave me.
The last thing he said to me, “You’ve always been stubborn.”
I rake my two hands through my thick hair. I skim the new dirt, the engraved headstone—rich, every way I turn.
What I say next, I have to say to my father six-feet-under. Because I never would’ve said it to his fucking face. I rub my jaw. Then I go still.
My pulse slows. The wind howls around me.
Quietly, I say, “I loved you in the fucking end.”
I don’t cry for him. I don’t fucking need to, but I needed to say this.
* * *
I hike up a mountain, leaves orange and yellow. All around me.
All around my family.
While the world goes fucking insane with my father’s death—camera crews positioned outside of the neighborhood gates twenty-four-fucking-seven like royalty passed—I just leave that circus and find better solace.
Daisy, Sulli, and I hike in the Smoky Mountains, planning to camp at a remote site that we’ve been to a few times before. I carry Winona in a backpack baby-carrier, built for long treks. When Sullivan was a baby, she’d sit patiently and ooh and awe at every fucking tree.
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 48