Connor called him ostentatious the other day. I called our son a smartass. We agreed that he’s equal parts of both.
Connor swishes his wine, his grin overtaking his whole face as our previous words consume him.
Conciseness.
My love towards you.
Very smoothly, he says, “Rose.”
“Richard,” I snap.
“I adore when you define a lie.”
I scoff. “I was defining brevity. Restrain your ego.”
“It can’t be restrained. If you haven’t learned that by now, then maybe you need a new tutor.”
“If you suggest yourself, I’ll carve out more than just your heart.”
“I suggest myself,” he challenges. “I am the best, and you deserve the best.”
I roll my eyes, but I never attempt to actually hurt him and enact my threat, so I’m not surprised he has a rebuttal for it.
“And thank you for defining a hyperbole.”
Ben, six-years-old, looks horrified. He stares up and down the table. “Stop,” he whines. “Stop it.”
I go rigid.
Connor is calm, but his grin fades. Before he explains to Ben that our words are layered with figures of speech, idioms, and hyperbolic prose, Jane leans forward again. She sits on the side with Eliot and Tom, all her other siblings are seated across.
“Pippy,” she says. “It’s all in good fun. They mean no harm.”
“I hate when they fight.”
Charlie cuts in, “You only hate it because you can’t understand.”
Ben gawks. “I understand. Mommy wants to cut out his heart! And Daddy thinks it’s funny. It’s not funny.” He rises from the table.
I meet my husband’s gaze, and in our eyes, we both tell each other, wait.
In the next second, Beckett wraps his arm around Ben’s shoulder. At the comforting touch, Ben sinks back in his chair. “They love one another, Ben. If you ever doubt their love, then look at all of us. Look at Wednesdays.”
My eyes burn, tears threatening to well.
“They could be working,” Eliot professes.
“They’re here,” Tom pipes in.
Wednesdays became their favorite, not for the goose or the grandeur, but because they saw Connor and me at each head of the table. This is the only day of the workweek where we’re home together, the only one where our children know for certain we won’t be stuck at our offices past a meal.
It’s the day where our wit and our words battle for hours on end, and as they’ve grown older, they’ve become more and more a part of it all.
Ben looks to me for affirmation.
I sigh, knowing I’ll have to compliment my husband. I loosen my jaw like it hasn’t uttered this phrase in years. “I love…” You can do this, Rose.
I am the fucking lioness in a den of little cubs.
I clear my throat, feeling the heat of my husband’s arrogant eyes, and I announce, “I love Connor Cobalt.”
There, I said it.
Connor raises his goblet to me, his grin more affectionate than conceited. His love stampedes his narcissism so much that my claws recede.
Charlie cocks his head to Ben. “Connor Cobalt is Dad, in case you’ve fallen further behind.”
“I know that’s Daddy.” Ben huffs.
I snap my fingers. “Moving along with opening remarks.” Five children still need to speak up, even if they only want to say no. That’s fine with us.
Charlie lifts his pointer finger in the air. “I invoke my right to pass.”
Audrey gasps. “Why, Charlie?”
Beckett smiles up towards the chandelier. “It’s like asking why the contrarian wears a suit and tie to a pool party.” He didn’t pick the example out of thin air. Charlie actually wore his most expensive suit to a neighborhood pool party.
Then he left after five minutes.
Audrey’s hand shoots into the air.
“Audrey,” Connor calls on our youngest with a broadening smile.
Our youngest child opens her mouth to speak, but with every eye on her, she forgets her words. “…I…”
We all wait patiently.
“You?” I try to help her without making her feel inadequate.
“I am…” Her cheeks suddenly flush, and she plops back to her bottom, clutching tight to her Victorian hat.
The three oldest children drum the table for Audrey.
“Such wise words. I am,” Jane tells Audrey.
Audrey perks up. “Thank you, Jane.”
I try to drink my wine to hide a smile, but Connor sees. Defeat thy husband. I can make him ache just as much as he can revel in my smile. I collect my hair on one shoulder and tilt my head, bare neck in his direct view. He rubs his lips and then drops his hand to his goblet.
You can’t have this. I channel through my eyes.
We’ll see, he replies back.
I take another sip of wine, just as Beckett raises his hand.
He confesses, “I Google-searched my name.”
I choke on my wine.
“Careful, darling,” Connor says.
I give him a look before planting my fiery eyes on Beckett. “In this entire ugly world, what compelled you to do such a thing?”
Connor and I have sat side-by-side in bed and Google-searched all of their names. If there are any particularly defaming articles that we think lawyers will squash, we unleash the hounds upon the unethical journalists. So for Beckett, I know what would’ve cropped up in his search.
All the stereotypes related to boys in ballet.
Beckett explains, “At school, Geoffrey Stanford showed me in computer class.”
Charlie shakes his head at his brother. “Geoffrey Google-searched your name. Not you.” It upsets Charlie when Beckett confesses to actions that aren’t his own.
My warrior side flares, just to protect them in whatever shape they need, piercing eyes darting to each of my boys.
“I still saw,” Beckett tells his twin brother.
“Geoffrey is an idiot along with the rest of the world.” He pauses. “Except you.” He only tells this to Beckett.
“Beckett.” Connor’s even-tempered voice catches everyone’s attention. “We’re all labeled. Every day we step outside, we’re stereotyped. You let that affect you—”
“You let them win,” Charlie finishes.
My chin rises once more. Beckett sees me, and his intensified confidence permeates like a spritz of perfume. He nods, assured.
“Anything else?” I ask him.
“That’s all I needed.”
Lady Macbeth springs off Jane’s lap. “Would you prefer to go next or last, Pippy?” Jane asks Ben, both the only two left for opening remarks.
“Last.” Ben eyes the mashed potatoes. He breaks tradition and scoops them on his plate before opening remarks have concluded.
No one chastises him, but Charlie cocks his head again to his little brother. I point my knife at Charlie. “Holster this,” I say icily. By this, I mean any smartass remarks he thinks to fling at his little brother.
Charlie wears entertainment and pretentiousness like they exist in his marrow and bone. He nods like so I will, but only for you, Mom.
Jane raises her hand while standing. “Well then…” Her glittering blue eyes sweep her siblings and us. “I’ve chosen to pursue a love.”
Audrey gasps. “Jane is in love!”
“Yes, Audrey, I’m in so much indisputable love.”
I observe my husband, his fingers to his lips. Since we’re in the introduction of a battle, I’d hope he’d crumble at this new discussion, but he remains unperturbed.
Connor arches a brow at me.
I narrow my eyes, just as Eliot asks, “Have we met your love?”
“Because if we haven’t,” Tom says, “I believe we should.” Their loyalty to one another curves my mouth. Her brothers believe her love is a someone, but Jane has confided in me. I know her love is a thing. I also know that she’s searching for romance as hard
as someone searches for their own foot.
“You’ve met my love many times before.”
Beckett questions, “Is love a person?”
“No,” Charlie answers before Jane can. “Her love is common.” He’s being factual. I know what her love is just like Connor and Charlie, but she hasn’t shared her future plans with us until now.
“Very common,” Jane agrees. “We use it constantly without realizing.”
Ben and Audrey’s faces scrunch at the riddle.
“Are you terribly confused?” Jane asks them, and when they both nod, she explains, “Numbers are very common. We use numbers daily, sometimes subconsciously.”
“Sub…what?” Audrey frowns.
Connor clarifies, “Subconsciously. Unknowingly.”
“Unaware,” I add.
“Your mother’s love for me.” Connor grins into his swig of wine.
I snort at that inaccuracy. Connor is the one who never acknowledged love. That he could love, that he did love, that it was all inside of him. If anything, he was unaware.
I always knew.
“So your love is numbers?” Eliot asks.
“Her love is math,” Charlie is the one to answer fully.
“Precisely.” Jane smiles. “I’ve signed up for competitions next school year. I’m joining mathletes.”
Her siblings clank dishes, goblets, and Tom drums the table.
I have my hand to my chest like I can’t breathe. Obviously I’m breathing. I’m alive, but this is the first time Jane has professed a dream, a goal—a passion in life. Even if it lasts a year or only two, I plan to encourage her any way I can.
Even if her aspirations consist of things I love and hate.
Academically competitive worlds? I love. Not just because I met Connor there. I loved competing and learning long before him.
Math? I loathe.
I will be at every motherfucking competition. Come hell or high water.
Before she sits, Jane looks to her father and then to me, and we both express our pride through our eyes. We ask questions that she answers with delight.
Do you have to tryout? Yes.
How many people per team? Unsure at the moment.
When she takes a seat, smiling more than I do annually, everyone’s focus plants on the littlest boy, his mouth full of mashed potatoes.
“Your turn, Pippy.”
Ben swigs his water and then stands. “I think we should start planting trees for every tree a human touches.” We let him talk out his proposal, but Connor rubs his lips the longer Ben believes his fantasy is real. “We’ll put them all in our backyard, and we’ll invite people over to look. They can’t touch or else they’ll kill the trees. Trees help the planet, so it’s important.”
Charlie says first, “You believe a billion trees can be planted in our backyard.”
“Why not?” Ben shrugs.
His father explains, “It’s idealistic.”
I quickly add, “Which is not a failing.”
Connor swishes his wine. “In certain situations, idealism can be a failing.”
“So can narcissism.”
The children clank their dishware and pound the table at my rebuttal.
Connor raises his glass to me, as though conceding, but I know my husband. He never surrenders this easily. “The accuracy of your second statement doesn’t eliminate the inaccuracy of your first.”
Our children drum their feet with laughter.
I will burn you, Richard.
Eliot takes out his pipe. “Isn’t idealistic another word for naïve?”
“Yes.” Connor sips his wine.
Ben crosses his twiggy arms “I know trees and what they mean. It’s important.”
I catch his gaze. “What’s important to you is important to me, my gremlin.”
“We don’t doubt your love for trees,” Connor tells his son truthfully.
This appeases Ben for the moment, but he sinks to his chair, deep in thought. Connor studies him for an extra moment or two. Ben is our only child who believes he can soar to the moon via a tomato soup can. The only child who mentions freeing dolphins by parachute and plane.
In a household full of critical thinkers, he’s an outlier—a little lamb in our den of lion cubs. We protect him and nurture him and never wish to change him, but sometimes lions bite harder than they intend.
I rise with my goblet—Connor step-for-fucking-step. My growl scratches my throat but never escapes my lips.
I read his amused gaze: are you ready to be defeated, darling?
Prepare yourself, Richard.
I speak. “This concludes opening remarks. Now the game truly begins.” I clink the crystal with my knife. Our children dig into cranberries and green beans, plating food, but besides Ben, they hardly eat more than a bite or two.
We sit.
Eliot beats everyone to ask the first question, “What is Mozart’s opera called, ‘The Magic … what?’”
“Flute,” Connor says, just as the answer lands on the tip of my tongue.
“One point to Dad.” Jane always keeps score with a notebook. We play a variation of the same game we created at Model UN.
The day we met each other for the first time.
This nostalgic fact passes between Connor and me, intimate and warm amid cold thoughts of defeat and losses.
“What is the Roman numeral for one-hundred-and-fifteen?” Jane asks.
I know these letters, in the very least. “CXV,” I say, right as Connor begins. I stake a slice of goose and scrape it on my plate. The screech of metal knife on knife sounds violent. I eye him the whole time, aiming the noise towards Connor.
He replenishes his wine.
We could throw out questions, but it’d mean that we’d lose the chance to gain a point. We’re too competitive, even amid our children. The rules of the game: anyone can ask a question, from any category, but they must provide it without reference material.
First to answer receives a point.
We never sit out. We never let our children win because they’re children. Maybe one day they will beat us, but for now, the battle is Connor versus me. They like to see if they can stump both of us with questions they’ve memorized before dinner.
Which is why the next set of questions comes in a quick flurry, and I clip the start of Connor’s answers as fast as he clips the start of mine.
“Mom and Dad are tied,” Jane announces thirty minutes through dinner. “Twenty-two points to you both. Charlie has three points.”
“Who was the captain of the Titanic?” Beckett asks, feeding me a question he knows that I know.
Connor senses this, but I’ve already answered, “Edward John Smith.”
“Using your resources, darling?” Connor asks me. “Or are you cheating?”
I flame at that fighting word. “I never cheat.” I didn’t ask Beckett to join my team, but clearly he prefers Team Rose in this instance—and I would never kick a little gremlin off my side. I have enough room on my bench for them all.
There’s even enough room for Connor.
We play for another ten minutes, our children asking questions in the subjects they enjoy: math, science, dance, drama, music, the world and love. Once again, we’re tied.
Connor stands, as though expecting the incoming end. I follow suit, tall in my heels, our table full of lively children that may physically separate us, but our minds touch and intertwine, as close as can be. Closer than if we threw the table aside.
I have everything I’ve desired. I have him. I have them. This dining room breathes life the way that I only imagined.
What else left is there to say and do?
I’m already triumphant. I’m already proud of him, of them and of me.
Connor stares intently, longingly, seeing and hearing every victorious thought that roars inside of me. His deep blues thunder with unyielding promises and affections and that conceited, burgeoning grin.
And deeply, he says, “Here’s a secret
, darling.”
I listen, poised for anything with him.
“I’ve always loved winning, but I would lengthen the time it takes us to reach the end, just to spend one more second with you.”
[ farewell ]
April 2028
The Cobalt Estate
Philadelphia
CONNOR COBALT
There are many truths in life, but as I stand opposite Rose across a table with our many beautiful children, I wield one that I condemned for years on end.
I’m in love.
With so much more than just myself.
This truth will never fracture.
Not even when our youngest son stands from the table. Our children believe Ben is about to ask a question. I don’t subscribe to this belief. Neither does Rose, her pierced, sentimental eyes leaving me and rooting on our six-year-old.
Ben has been distant the last twenty minutes, his gaze continuously traveling to the door. I’m not surprised that he’s about to digress, but I am truly surprised by his statement.
“I’m running away.”
Rose inhales, her collarbones jutting, and questions wring her gaze. Similar ones try to cross my gaze.
I let them. I let Ben see. “Why?” I ask.
“I don’t want to say why.”
Rose and I desert our places at the head of the table, a rarity. We near our son as he pushes in his empty chair and tugs down his aquamarine shirt that says Plants are Cool.
I sidle beside Rose. My hand slips into hers, and I thread our fingers. My tranquil, languid water next to her raging, ardent fire. We don’t block his exit. Whether it’s illusion or reality, he has the ability to leave if he wants to leave.
He has feet. He has a brain. He can walk out the door and leave us behind—and no, I would not want my son to run away. At the mere thought, I have a heart that might be breaking.
I have a mind that might be splitting.
Before we handle this situation, Charlie interjects, “He’s not serious.”
Ben’s face grows red with hurt, ire, and frustrations, and I know—immediately I understand my son.
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 60