AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Well, I am going somewhere, love.” I can practically feel his half-smile behind me.
“Speaking of death,” Daisy segues fucking awfully, spinning in her seat to look at her sister and brother-in-law. “You both know that if Ryke and I suddenly or tragically die somehow, you’ll be the proud new parents of this little one.” She rubs her round stomach, hidden beneath a burgundy tribal sweater.
I can’t see their reactions.
And then Lo says abruptly, “No one’s dying in this car, so you can turn around and continue thinking about bunnies and unicorns and contemplate the meaning of sprinkled donuts.”
“What is the meaning of a sprinkled donut? Do they have feelings? Do they think about us?” Daisy says like she’s auditioning for a Shakespearean play.
My lips begin to pull upward, and I reach out to hold her hand, finding hers in a second.
Lily sniffs.
“Are you crying, Lily?” I can’t look.
“No,” she lies. “I just…I know you said we could look after Coconut, but I didn’t think you’d trust us with your baby. Lo and I are the fuck ups of the group, you know? We allow take-backs, so if you need to do a take-back—”
“No take-backs,” Daisy interjects.
“Hey,” I tell Lily. “We believe in you and Lo, and you’re both amazing fucking parents.”
“I’d die happily,” Daisy proclaims.
My gaze darkens and muscles constrict. “Not anytime fucking soon.” I put an end to this conversation. I can’t lose you too, Calloway.
She just stretches her arm and runs her fingers through the back of my hair. Circles lie beneath her eyes from not feeling well the last few days. “Just uncomfortable,” she’s told me, averaging about three to four hours of sleep.
Yesterday I think she was mentally ready to have the baby. She’s been upbeat about the whole experience, taking pictures of her growing belly every week. She even put headphones on her stomach a few times. Playing Modest Mouse, one of my favorite bands, through the speakers. She looked insanely fucking happy when using her stomach as a tray table. Eating popcorn and double fudge ice cream that way.
I can list off a million other moments where she smiled. Where she laughed and paused to intake the second, the minute—our lives.
So when she’s uncomfortable enough to want this to end—that’s when I fucking know she’s in some kind of serious pain.
“Rose is turning right,” Daisy tells me, the Escalade’s blinker flashing.
The courthouse comes into view about the same time Rose turns. I follow close behind and then park between her and a black Mustang.
“Great,” Lo mutters.
I see what he does as I turn off the ignition and unsnap my seatbelt. Two local news vans are here, camera equipment already set up on the courthouse stairs. I expected a lot fucking worse, but the rain probably deterred most people.
Lily grabs her purple umbrella and already squeezes outside behind Lo. I look at Dais while she rummages in her brown purse for her umbrella. Her blonde hair frizzes from the humidity, tangled around her cheeks.
She’s never been scared to run in the fucking rain without a jacket or umbrella. “Hey.” I angle towards her. “What’s wrong, Dais?”
She takes her time fitting everything back inside her purse and then leans against the seat. “When I stand up, the baby feels like its head is already coming out of me. There’s so much pressure down there, and I guess I’m just preparing for that feeling.” She gives me a weak smile. “What if we have a courthouse baby?”
I mess her hair. “Not fucking happening.” I wish I could do something more, and she must see that because she tries to put on a happy face. I shake my head at her. “If you feel like shit, you can look it.” I tap her cheek a couple times, but instead of looking how she feels, she actually smiles, a genuine smile.
Maybe that is how she feels in this moment.
She taps my cheek in return, harder than I tapped her, stirring something bright inside of me. “You look handsome every day, all day. Is that how you feel, Ryke Meadows?”
Just when I look into your eyes. I raise my brows at her and then she taps my cheek again, three times with a giddy fucking smile. I hear her voice in my head: the danger of it all.
She pinches my nose, trying to crack my stone-cold expression. Her smile stretches her scar so fucking far. Then she rakes her nails down my jaw, and I can’t hold out anymore.
I kiss her, so abruptly that a surprised gasp escapes her lips. Right against mine. I feel her smile expand before she kisses eagerly back. As I part her lips with my tongue, her fingers run through my hair. Her body producing a strong, full inhale and exhale. Breathing life into me.
When we break, she presses her fingers to her cheeks. She possesses this overwhelming, tangible radiance, and I hope, right now, she feels just how powerful she truly is.
“Has anyone told you,” she says, “that you’re an amazing kisser? I think I’d almost trade a piece of chocolate cake just to kiss you.”
“Almost?” I toss a strand of her hair at her mouth. I could fucking kiss her for a thousand more years and live peacefully, happily—in love.
She blows the hair off her lip, trying to act serious but her smile hasn’t waned yet. I live for this, with her. We’re not moving fast. We’re not loud.
But the air between us rumbles with a wild fucking roar.
She leans over the middle console as much as she can with her baby bump. “I don’t ever have to make that trade. You know why?”
“Why?”
“You’re the kind of guy who would do anything to give me both the cake and the kiss.”
I think about how she’s supported everything that I’ve ever done. Free-soloing is nothing short of death-defying, life-threatening. She never told me not to. I’d never tell her to stop either. And I know what she just said applies to herself. We want happiness so fucking badly for each other that we’d follow the other in dangerous, dark places.
She jumps. I jump right after.
She hikes her purse on her shoulder and glances in my direction, more color in her cheeks, as she opens the door. “Can he catch me?” I hear her voice taper off in the heavy rain.
She lets it soak her hair, and I quickly remove my black coat. Then I open my door, rain pelting my shoulders and head. I set my left foot on the pavement. Then my right foot.
I bear equal weight between the two.
And I walk.
Almost seven months since I shattered my thigh and broke my leg, I can sense the growth from then and now, my muscles strengthened, more durability, flexibility, mobility. Able to support pressure and resistance without giving way. I walk with an assured stride, like nothing happened, but I still feel slightly off-kilter in a way that no one can fucking see.
My ankle throbs, and at night, my leg stiffens and aches if I don’t stretch. I can’t go as far as I used to. Or as long. For someone who loves endurance sports, the mental challenge is as steep as the fucking physical.
I just have to be the one to push through.
I have to want it. Lo might’ve been right—a part of me died seven months ago—but I still have my legs.
And I’m going to run.
Maybe it’ll fill the void inside of me.
In the downpour, Daisy outpaces me and then starts walking backwards along the sidewalk. Facing me with a mischievous smile. I’m not about to tell her no, but on the wet cement, it’s fucking dangerous enough that it pushes me. And I catch up to her side.
I put my coat over her head and she spins around, both of us already drenched.
“Your limp is nearly gone,” Connor says as he sidles next to me. He shares a black umbrella with Rose, both completely dry.
I nod. “Just about.” As soon as we begin up the slick concrete stairs, a news anchor hovers next to us.
“Whose idea is the documentary series? Did the television station approach you or did you approach them?” We’re all quiet so she asks
different questions. “What can we expect from the series? What is it called? Will your children appear? Will we see the birth of your baby, Daisy?”
No one says a thing, and the minute we push into the cavernous courthouse, the doors slam shut on the news crew.
Rose pulls her hair into a tight ponytail, and Connor shakes out the wet umbrella. “The deal was made public this morning if you didn’t already see it,” he says.
I wring out my gray shirt. “Yeah, we did.”
Back in November, we approached a premium cable channel like HBO with our idea, and the contract went through last week, so it was only a matter of time before they ran a press release.
Everything we asked for, we received in the deal. We have complete control over almost every facet of the docu-series. We’re the producers, and at the end of the fucking day, we say what gets aired.
All day people have been tweeting things like: they’re doing another crappy reality show #famewhores #callowsluts.
It’s not a fucking reality show.
The purpose of a reality show is to elicit drama. The purpose of a documentary is to uncover truths.
People will still refuse to call it anything else or believe in what we have to fucking say. So they can misunderstand the intent and brush off the meaning—I don’t give a fuck about them.
I don’t give a fuck about people who don’t care to build another person up. I don’t give a fuck about people whose sole purpose is to bring others down.
I squeeze Daisy’s hair that soaks her sweater. She’s more focused on her stomach, holding the bottom. She needs to sit the fuck down. I wrap my arm around her shoulder, leading her towards the courtroom.
Connor and Rose join us, Rose’s heels tapping along the marble floors.
