I can’t imagine her abandoning a puppy, let alone an actual person…her person…
It’s not real.
And then my mom says, with staggered breath, “I never saw his father after the day the baby was born…” I can’t tell whether this is true or not. She plants her eyes on the ground in shame, never meeting my dad’s gaze.
“You’re lying again,” he grits.
“I’m not!” she screams at the floor. “Those were checks from him, but it’s been twenty-four years since I last saw him. He had his assistant fly out…and give the checks to me. Five years ago was the last one. I’ve told you this. Please, Rob—” She tries to grab onto his forearm, but he jerks away. She catches air and then grips the sink counter for support again.
I lean my weight on the doorframe, my glasses misted with tears, and I take them off with trembling hands and rub them on my green striped shirt. I try hard not to make a noise, but my nose runs…I wipe that with my arm—shaking.
Stop shaking, Willow. It’s okay…
My chin quivers.
You’ve been on the wrong side of things all along. You fool.
I expected my dad to hurt me.
I never expected her to.
My father silently fumes before he bursts again. “And why’d he just give you checks?” He lets out an anguished laugh, hands on his waist. “You’re telling me there was nothing attached to them? No stipulation?” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I told you, he wanted me to keep quiet, out of pity, I don’t know. He just kept sending them, and we needed the money for your car, the house—”
“You’ve got to be…” He yells at the top of his lungs, pissed and furious. I flinch, and then he grabs a nearby bowl of oranges. He tosses it violently at the wall.
I jump as the ceramic shatters all over the linoleum.
“He paid for my car, for my house?!” He points a finger at his chest again, a good distance still between him and my mom, as though it sickens him to even be near her.
“Please…”
“Did you cheat on me?” he suddenly asks, veins protruding from his neck. “Tell me the fucking truth, Emily!” He’s crying.
I’ve never seen my dad shed a tear, not even from anger, not even when he said goodbye to me.
My mom rocks back a little, as though his words and voice have shoved her hard. At her extended silence, I want to press my back to the wall and slide down into a tight ball. I want to hide, but I can’t unfreeze. I can’t move.
“I didn’t…” The way her voice trails off, it makes it so hard to believe her—but I still want to. I want to believe she didn’t do this.
She didn’t cheat on my dad. She didn’t.
I believe it. I do. I want to be on her side.
My dad breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling, tears dripping. And then he asks, “Is she even my daughter?”
My throat swells closed. She didn’t cheat on my dad. He has it all wrong.
Maybe I just really want her to confide in me. To tell me the truth. This force inside pushes me, and I round the corner. “Mom?” I sound small.
As I stare between my mom and dad, their rage and hurt and distress start to cage behind an opaque screen, one that bars me from entry.
I blink, wetness sopping my lashes.
I hate that they won’t show me anything real right now—that I have to spy in order to see it.
My mom straightens up and rubs her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Go upstairs, honey.” Her voice cracks.
“Who’s my father?” I ask.
“Rob Moore is your father, and he’s Ellie’s too,” she says adamantly. “It’s not what you think—”
“I’m leaving,” my father says, his tears dried up. Another glare plastered on his face.
He hardly acknowledges me.
He passes me to reach the doorway, and our bodies seem to lean away from each other, like pressing the wrong side of two magnets together, unable to near.
He has a clear aversion to me, and now I think I know why. He believes I’m not his child, even when I really am.
I listen to his footsteps all the way to the living room. Not long after, the door bangs closed, and my mom turns her back on me, beginning to clean a few dirtied glasses in the sink. She can’t just act like nothing happened.
“Mom!” I shout.
“I’m done talking…” Her arms shake like mine, and maybe a year ago, I would’ve stayed quiet and just gathered these bare details and created my own horrific conclusion. I don’t want to live with this half-picture anymore. I don’t want to see through clouds, stained glass and opaque screens. I want transparency for my own life, and only she can give that to me.
“I’m not done.” My voice is softer than I intend. She doesn’t turn around. I take a deep, strong inhale. “Mom,” I choke, “I’m not done.”
She slowly spins around, her hand fisting a dishtowel, eyes bloodshot. She waits for me to speak this time.
I lick my lips and I ask, “Do I have a brother?” She lied about him. I’m not sure if I can trust her, and I’m not sure if I should love her—but I do love her, and I do still trust her. That can’t vanish that quickly.
But right now, I resent her. For the first time, I truly do. And I hate it.
“Willow…” She shakes her head at me, struggling to reveal what she’s kept secret for so long.
I wipe my burning eyes beneath my glasses. I shift my feet and accidentally step on a balloon. It pops loudly, and we both flinch.
My family tree has been set on fire, and I’m desperately trying to find one missing branch so I can make sense of myself again.
I need him.
Whoever he is. I need to know what he’s like. How old he is. A name. A place. Maybe he understands things that I don’t. Maybe he gets it.
“It was a long time ago,” she says. “I was a teenager, about your age, a little younger when I was pregnant.” She lets out a weak, broken laugh. “You can’t even imagine…”
I watch her lean against the sink and stare off at the half-eaten vanilla cake, lopsided on the counter. “Is he still alive? Does he know—”
“Loren Hale,” she says, her voice suddenly stoic and cold. “That’s your brother.”
My legs want to buckle, but I manage to stay upright, my mind whirling as pieces of a much larger puzzle fit in place. “He knew…” He came to our house about four years ago. She told me that she knew his father. And I realize, his visit wasn’t random. He came and he left so quickly. “Did you tell him not to tell me?” I wonder.
Her lips press in a line, and I take her silence as affirmation.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, my chin trembling again as I restrain a flood of tears. She kept him away from me. Why would she do that?
Loren Hale is my half-brother. All this time…we could’ve talked, had a relationship, been friends—seen each other. Instead there’s just this black hole of nothingness, hollow and empty.
I feel empty.
“Can you just forget about it?” my mom asks me.
I shake my head in a daze. “No…I want to meet him.” I need to tell him that I know the truth now. I want to regain this piece that I’ve lost.
“You can’t,” she says tiredly and brushes strands of her hair off her forehead. “The Hales are famous, Willow. The moment the media learns that Loren’s related to you, they’re going to harass our family. I’ve tried so hard to give you girls a normal life. You may decide to live in that world later on, but Ellie is young and she’s not going to. Okay?”
I try to process this as quickly as I can. Hale Co. is what elevated Jonathan Hale’s status to “wealthy billionaire” and his son to the heir. But their fame ultimately came through a salacious scandal that involved Lily Calloway, Loren’s fiancée.
Soon after, the Calloway sisters and their men became public interest and fodder. They’re all in at least three tabloids every day. Paparazzi follow them around Philadelphia, their hometown.<
br />
People love them and hate them.
I understand why my mom would want to protect us from that, but Loren Hale has only been this famous for a few years at most. She could’ve introduced me to him when he was just a rich kid in Philadelphia.
She never intended for me to meet him, to know him…
How can I believe anything she says?
“Willow,” she pleads. “Let this go. Jonathan gave us a lot of money over the years. It’s over, okay? No one can know that Loren’s my…” Her face suddenly contorts. She can’t say it.
My heart palpitates. “Your son,” I whisper with burgeoning tears.
She shifts her body until I can’t see her face. After a short silence, she says softly, “I was only sixteen, Willow.”
She was so young.
And she’s right, I can’t imagine…
Jonathan Hale must’ve been so old too. I cringe at the picture—at the twisted, grotesque reality that I never knew I was a part of. I feel bad for her, but I worry that if I wade in grief then I’ll never grow the strength to meet my brother. I’ll flounder in her sadness and hold onto her hurt like I’ve done since the divorce.
“I’m leaving,” I suddenly say—just realizing that these were my father’s exact words minutes ago. She blinks back emotions again, and I’m already determining what I should pack. A duffel bag in my closet, some jeans and shirts, my backpack and my wallet.
I’m leaving.
I’ve never been this bold. I’ve never been this courageous. I’ve never felt this lost, but I know nothing’s here in Caribou, Maine except pain, and I want to feel something better than this.
I’m leaving for Philadelphia.
“If he wasn’t famous,” she says slowly, “you wouldn’t even think about meeting him.” She throws this in my face.
That’s not true, I want to believe wholeheartedly, but she roots doubt in my head.
“If he wasn’t famous,” I say softly, “then this would be a lot easier.” I’d be able to call him on the phone. I’d be able to tell him in advance that I’m going to see him. I could even Skype him instead of travel all the way to Philadelphia.
None of that is possible when Loren Hale is an internationally recognized celebrity.
As I turn my back on my mom, as I head for the staircase, I know it’s going to be a challenge even approaching him.
But I have to try.
I need to grab this branch before it burns. So I race upstairs, pack a bag, noticing Ellie sleeping on my bed. Five minutes later, I zip up my duffel and sling my faded JanSport backpack over my shoulder.
I hear my mom downstairs, cleaning, and I wonder if she’ll try to convince me to stay. I wonder if she cares enough to keep me here.
Part of me wants her to fight for me out of love and fear.
Part of me wants her to let me go so I can be free.
I hesitate, Ellie’s plastic crown halfway off her head, breath parting her lips as she sleeps. I crouch close to her and whisper in her ear, “I love you, little princess.” I kiss her cheek lightly enough that she never wakes. I know she can survive just fine without me for a while.
She’s the energy that keeps this house alive.
I’m just the shadow in the corner.
When I head down the narrow staircase, squeezing my duffel through, the sink shuts off, and my mom emerges in the living room. I slow down between her and the front door.
She dries her hands with a towel, poker-faced and more resilient. “I’m not paying for this,” she says. “You’re on your own now.”
A tear slips down my cheek. “Okay.” I guess she’s hoping I’ll become afraid, run out of money, and turn around. I want to be brave enough to stick it out, but I’m not sure if I’m wired that way.
She adds, “You’re old enough to do what you want, and you’re old enough to make your own mistakes.”
I think about her around my age, pregnant and making some of the hardest choices she had to make. I suppose she would believe that I’m an adult now if she was forced to be one back then. But I’m scared, and I feel like a plastic doll headed for a toy car, unable to see outside of my Polly Pocket house. What lies beyond—I don’t know.
“If you need me,” she says, “you have to come home yourself.” She works for the post office and has almost no vacation days—definitely not enough to chase me to Philadelphia. And I’m not asking her to.
I wish I could say that I’m full of bittersweet love, but I’m mostly dark and resentful. Most of me hates, and I can barely meet her eyes without feeling tricked and fooled and deceived.
I want to meet a different pair of eyes that hold greater truths and sentiments, and they’re not hers.
I just nod, turn around, and open the front door, the sun already gone. The street lamps already turned on, and I unlock my gold ‘90s Honda. I jiggle the handle for it to open. The car used to be my Grandma Ida’s, and I’m just grateful I have it, something that I can use to leave.
“Drive safe.” I think I hear my mom.
I look back at the front door, but it’s already closed. The lights are already off, and I wonder if she’s happy that I’m going, if all this time I’ve been a bad memory for her.
Maybe just like Loren Hale has been.
The Calloway Sisters & Their Men – Fan Page
Back Then | Followers: 11K
Are you new here? Welcome! This is the fan page for all things Calloway Sisters & Their Men. It’s not an “official” fan page and is in no way associated with the Calloways, Meadows, Cobalts or Hales. It’s just run by a dedicated blogger (me, Olive!) who is in love with all things Calloway!
Don’t know who they are? Let me give you a crash course…
There are four Calloway Sisters, but only the youngest three sisters have gained notoriety after a huge scandal. Headlines were everywhere. Even national news channels! It leaked that Lily Calloway is a sex addict, for real. It probably would have just breezed through the media if not for the fact that they’re all heiresses. Their father owns Fizzle. So the Fizz Life or Diet Fizz you’re drinking—yeah, the Calloway Sisters are heiresses of that soda fortune.
The Calloway Sisters (and their current ages):
Poppy Calloway (30)
Rose Calloway (26)
Lily Calloway (24)
Daisy Calloway (19)
That’s right, their parents named them after flowers! How cute is that? So the biggest deal is that Rose, Lily, and Daisy all currently live together in a mansion (with their men) in Philadelphia. It’s like a real-life episode of Friends! And you’ll probably find a lot more fan pages about them, but I promise to bring the latest and best news about the Calloway sisters. So let’s get to their men…
Dating
Daisy Calloway & Ryke Meadows (25) – the adventurous couple. Daisy is a former model and Ryke is a professional rock climber, but they’re often caught riding motorcycles together!
Engaged
Lily Calloway & Loren Hale (24) – the geeky couple. Lily owns Superheroes & Scones, while Loren is the CEO of Hale Co. and Halway Comics.
Married
Rose Calloway & Connor Cobalt (26) – the genius couple. Rose owns Calloway Couture, a fashion company for the everyday working woman, and Connor is the CEO of Cobalt Inc.
Poppy Calloway & Sam Stokes (30) – the private couple. Both Poppy and Sam tend to remain out of the spotlight, but what we know is that Poppy is a stay-at-home mom and Sam works for Fizzle.
Children
Lily & Loren: Maximoff Hale (2 months old)
Rose & Connor: Jane Eleanor Cobalt (3 months old)
Poppy & Sam: Maria Stokes (7)
That’s the basic run-down. Another important fact that you might want to know—Loren Hale and Ryke Meadows are half-brothers. They have the same dad: Jonathan Hale. There’s been some terrible allegations in the press lately about Jonathan Hale. I’m not going to repeat them here because there has been zero proof, and like I said, they’re serious allegation
s.
I’ll have more information as it breaks. Until then, check out the photos and gifs page!
Love you like Loren loves Lily,
xo Olive
5 BACK THEN – August
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 17
Mom: Where are you?? Your brothers are leaving tomorrow, and you need to be here before it’s too late. You already missed dinner.
“Garrison, it’s your turn.” Nathan Patrick nods to me, chewing on a toothpick with a wry smile. His combed red hair might as well be fucking brown from my vantage. Smoke from cigarettes and joints create a filmy haze in his family’s den—the door open as people drunkenly pass in and out.
I suck a joint between two fingers before standing up and flipping my cards on the poker table, my two queens losing to Nathan’s three kings.
Of ten people, three girls let out short cheers. Another two girls in only bras and panties smile but make no loud exclamation. One of them sits next to me: Rachel Barnes, a brunette with diamond earrings and Zeta Beta Zeta aspirations like her sister in college.
She’s prescribing to her family’s legacy—something I can’t stomach without another crappy joint and bottle of vodka.
After overturning my cards, I lift off my black shirt, revealing whatever muscles lacrosse has granted me and a black skull tattoo on the crease of my forearm and bicep. In small font, my favorite lyrics from the Interpol song “Rest My Chemistry” outline the inked design.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I remain standing and blow gray smoke up at the ceiling, my mind lulling and eyelids slowly closing. I’m almost always surrounded by people—friends and acquaintances from Dalton Academy—and even when I stand in a room with them, even when I’m physically here, I always mentally check out for a few seconds.
Whatever It Takes Page 4
