Main Bonus #66: The Calloway Couture Fashion Ad (Patreon)

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MUSIC: We listened to "Used to Be Young" by Miley Cyrus while writing this bonus scene.

SPOILER WARNING: This bonus takes place during MISFISTS LIKE US but still contains minor spoilers from UNLUCKY LIKE US.

WE ARE THREE days away from one of the worst days of the year.

Halloween.

Also known as Satan’s—I mean my brother-in-law’s—birthday. The universe can go to hell for choosing October 31st to bring Loren Hale into the world. He has “requested” us to dress in specific costumes before, but this year he’s gone to a whole other diabolical level.

I stare at the costume list for the thousandth time since he emailed it to me last month. At least he gave me more than three days to work on my costume.

And Eliot’s.

And Audrey’s.

They both asked that I design theirs as well.

But I’m not fussing too much over them. It’s mine that has me theorizing ways to put bleach into Loren’s shampoo. In his comic list, he assigned me Emma Frost—the cold-hearted ice queen of the Marvel comic-verse.

Of course I know of her character. One Comic-Con many years ago, when I was in my twenties, I wore an Emma Frost costume solely in a masterful act of diversion to help my sister. It was her costume. And it barely fit me.

The fact that Emma is considered a frosty bitch is not what’s making me want to plot murder.

She wears three different costumes to the Hellfire Gala.

Costume 1: a white body suit and a long white fur cape. Something a pop star would wear on stage if she were sent to the Arctic.

Costume 2: an oversized fur coat/dress with an X cut out in the chest. She looks like she was swallowed by Lily’s favorite Wampa creature.

Costume 3: linked diamonds draping down in a waterfall. Is it a dress? Or is it a beaded curtain that hangs in doorways?

And all three of these horrendous looks have one thing in common. Cleavage. Intense cleavage.

I know Loren would rather pluck out his eyeballs than see my breasts, so I had to text him last month when he sent the list.

Me: Is this some sick joke? Have you seen the costumes that Emma Frost wears???

Loren: Calm down, Cruella. You don’t have to make them comic book accurate. In fact, please don’t. No one wants to see that.

Me: So which costume do you want me to wear?

Loren: You pick.

Me: Seriously? You’re letting me choose? You realize it’s your birthday. Are you okay. Running ill?

Loren: What can I say. I’m becoming a softie in my old age.

Me: Absolutely zero takebacks, Loren.

Loren: And incur your wrath, no thanks. I’m set with this plan.

So it’s been my choice of which costume to choose, and maybe Loren knew this would plague me more than if he’d just assigned me one look. Because I can’t pick.

Literally.

I have three dresses hanging up on mannequins in my office. I look like a knock off Lady Gaga in costume 1, the Abominable Snowman in costume 2, and a disco ball in costume 3.

I click out of the emailed costume list. Sometimes I obsess too hard over certain things, and I need to be obsessing over the more pressing issue at hand.

My gremlins.

More specifically, my five sons.

I tuck my phone away in the middle console of the car. I’m behind the wheel and parked beside the curb. Outside the windshield, I spot students milling around the grassy quad, in no hurry to reach their next class. Leaves are changing to vibrant oranges, and the students partake in the crisp fall weather. Some lounge on blankets with laptops and coffees. Two girls sit against an oak tree, textbooks balancing on their knees.

A pang of nostalgia pinches me. Some of my favorite days were in college. Minus the exams, the stress, the late-night anxieties. If I could swat those negatives away, I think I’d greatly miss the days of reading and learning and devouring new information like it was my life blood.

And the Model UNs, the Quiz Bowls, the competition—I miss those too.

My lips twitch in an almost-smile as I think of my husband.

It’s not all in the past. The very best competition is still firmly beside me in this life.

Speaking of my husband. I see a version of him walking across the quad.

Or at least, a mixture of him and me. Ben has Connor’s windswept hair and striking blue eyes, but he has my heart that loves too hard and gives too much. The black fabric of his athletic backpack has faded to a murky gray color. It’s also endured a myriad of tears and holes over the years, to the point where it’s been stitched a hundred times. Once he spots my car, he hooks his black Eco wayfarers to the collar of his plain white tee.

This isn’t Dalton Academy. It’s not every day I show up at his college to pick him up.

As he approaches, I spot his bodyguard, Novak, strolling beside him and scanning the area. He’ll ride in the security SUV parked in front of me. My bodyguard, Heidi, is already behind the wheel.

Ben opens the passenger door gently and tosses his backpack into the backseat. “Hey, Mom,” he greets rather glumly. He snaps the seatbelt on over his chest, avoiding my eyes.

“What happened?” I ask sharply, ready to bulldoze all who turned my one sunshine child into a raincloud.

He lifts a tensed shoulder and eyes the campus out his window. “I never deluded myself into thinking I’m good enough to go pro, but I know I’m good enough to start at a collegiate level. I’ve known that, but only the head coach doesn’t think so and his word is god. Not even the assistant could push back hard enough. It’s just aggravating.”

Hockey.

He was ecstatic when he made the Division II team after the arduous tryouts, and that happy balloon has been daggered by this pea-brained coach. While I’d love to go give Coach Dorsey a piece of my mind, I know from experience that it won’t help Ben’s position by having that kind of mother.

“The season has just begun, gremlin,” I tell him as I start the car. “You’ll have plenty of time to prove your coach wrong.”

He nods slowly and murmurs in French, saying yeah, I suppose.

As I clutch the steering wheel, he pulls himself out of a slouch, then looks around like he’s waiting for someone to jump out and say boo.

I’m about to shift out of park.

He holds out a hand. “Wait, you’re driving?”

“I’m in the driver’s seat,” I state like it’s obvious. “See, this is why I have a severe love-hate with hockey. How many times have you been slammed into the wall or knocked your head on ice?”

“Not enough,” he says.

“Don’t even joke.” I only love hockey because he finds joy playing it, and it’s his joy that I could never hate.

“Hockey isn’t why I’m slow,” he explains. “My head is fine, Mom.”

I see the error of my words. “You’re not slow,” I state as harshly as I said the other thing. God, sometimes being a mother is harder than sprinting up eighty flights of stairs, which I would do for my kids. Only them. And my sisters.

Loren can rot in hell.

And Connor would never be in a position where I’d have to run eighty flights for him, so he’s out of contention.

Ben scrapes a hand through his tousled hair. “Heidi can’t drive?”

I try not to take offense, but I bristle. “I’m an A-plus driver.”

“I know you aren’t that bad,” he breathes out.

Not that bad. My competitive spirit is dying to be unleashed and prove my son wrong. That I could drive circles around Heidi. But I’m doing my best to soften my front for him. It’s very fucking difficult.

Though I know where he’s coming from. Ever since the car crash, he’s had more fears getting behind a wheel and even being a passenger in a vehicle. So he deserves calmness and understanding, not pitchforks.

It’s hard not to look at this situation and feel like Connor is better suited for it. We tag-team as parents, and a part of me would like to tag him in right now.

“I took a defensive driving class,” I tell him, not mentioning that I was sixteen and overprepared for my driver’s test. “I am skilled beyond belief for any assholes we should encounter. I’ve never wrecked.”

“The fender-bender—”

“He backed into me,” I retort.

“Okay, yeah.” He rests a hand on the top of his head and exhales. “It’s just that you don’t do it a lot, Mom. Heidi mostly drives.” He’s distracted for a second as a couple girls wave to him from the quad. They can see him through the windshield.

Ben lifts a few fingers in greeting, and his lips rise in a soft, heartfelt smile.

“Friends?” I ask.

“Everly and Brielle. I just met them yesterday. They’re in one of my classes.”

I look him over while he watches the girls giggle, and he smiles more, his eyes tipping downward in modesty. Ben likes making people feel good, and his notoriety is a helping hand in that arena.

“You have a knack for remembering names and faces,” I tell him.

“Not really.” He swigs from his stainless-steel water bottle. Colorful stickers of different environmental causes are stuck on the side.

Connor and I have contemplated whether his responses are more humble or self-deprecating. When he speaks with such finality and less bitterness, it’s hard to say. I never imagined I’d birth a self-deprecating child, that’s for damn sure.

Still in park, I ask my son, “You really don’t believe you have a great memory?”

“It’s decent. Maybe slightly above average. Definitely not great and definitely not better than Dad’s or Eliot's or Charlie’s or even Jane’s—”

“It’s not a competition.”

He groans. “I get that. I’m not trying to be the best. Can we just go?”

This is starting to feel like a royal fuck-up on my part. I sigh out, shifting into drive now. “Heidi is chatting with her niece,” I tell him when we’re on the road. “The one who just gave birth to a new baby girl, and I wanted to give her some private family time during the drive.”

Plus, selfishly, I did want some private family time with my son too.

Ben nods, understanding. He’s sitting straighter in his seat now that we’re moving. “How is the baby?”

My overly sweet gremlin. Barely a gremlin at all. I glance to him, then the street. “Healthy and too cute to be a baby. My theory is she birthed some type of creature.”

Ben narrows his blue eyes to me. “Are you saying we weren’t cute as babies or you birthed creatures too?”

“I birthed seven demons,” I say.

He smiles. “More like four.”

I know he’s referring to his brothers, and it takes me aback that he added Beckett to that mix. As far as I know, he and Beckett are on good solid ground. He’s always been his favorite brother, the one he’ll turn to first.

I brake at a red light. “Seven beasts.”

He laughs now. “You can’t call Audrey a beast.”

“She’s beastly,” I say. “Have you not seen her fangs?”

His smile widens. “Yeah, I have met those, unfortunately.” He stares out at the street, and he seems more relaxed now inside this conversation. Most likely thinking less about the driving, the cars, the accident.

“Seven devils,” Ben suddenly says.

“Hmmm,” I think on this one. “You’d call yourself a devil. Though I’ve never seen your horns.”

“Maybe they were cut off at birth,” he says into another swig of water.

“I would let no harm come to you,” I state. “I’d rip the fucking jugular of anyone who’d try.”

“Then maybe I never had them to begin with.”

I can’t decipher the tone of his voice. “Let that be a gift. Some of your brothers have ghastly ones.”

“Audrey’s are cute though,” Ben says.

“Too cute,” I note. We’re on the freeway now, headed to New York. Ben’s phone pings, and his hand flies to his forehead. He lets out a long groan.

“Shit.” He hurriedly types. “Sorry for cursing, my fucking—my roommate let Theodore out of his cage.”

My stomach drops.

Theodore. His cockatoo that Eliot and Tom gifted him. Ben also spent five minutes talking to the college administration about allowing him the privilege to bring the bird. Connor and I told him that he couldn’t bring an animal unless he was granted permission, and we weren’t going to make that happen on his behalf.

Five minutes—that’s all it took to convince them.

I didn’t eavesdrop on the conversation Ben had, so I don’t know how he won them over, whether he used his last name as currency or simply charmed them. Whatever the case, Theodore now has a new home in a college dorm.

And I really hoped that Ben wouldn’t have gotten a random roommate at Penn. He insisted that he “gets along with everyone” and “it’d be fine.” It’s obviously not fine now.

His roommate still needed to be background checked and approved by the security team. Ben agreed with me and Connor on that front. It’s barely a morsel of safety, but it’s there, nonetheless.

Ben groans again. “Seriously, he says he already left for Sunday brunch.”

I grow hot in anger. “He’s not to going to put Theodore back in his cage?”

Ben shakes his head, exhaling slowly. Worries and concerns still infiltrate every line in his face, and I know how much he loves that bird. I imagine he’s playing every scenario in his head. “I don’t even know if he left a window open,” Ben says. “I asked and Matt said I can’t remember.”

“We can turn around,” I tell him. I’m already plotting to get off the next exit.

“No, don’t,” Ben says. “I can call someone.” I think he might say his cousins or even another bodyguard. But he says, “I have friends.”

That, I know. Not all are from high school. Plenty have been made at his short time at Penn.

He starts down his friends list.

Griffin.

Miles.

Riggs.

But it’s a friend on the hockey team, Beau, who ends up coming through. He FaceTimes Ben while he tries to catch and cage Theodore.

Once it’s successful, Ben says, “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“Do you need me to feed him or anything?” Beau asks. “He’s looking scrawny.”

“Nah, that’s a healthy size for cockatoos,” Ben replies. “I’ll be back later tonight to take care of him.”

It’s just a day trip to New York.

One I fully instigated.

BECKETT IS THE FIRST to arrive, which is a rare surprise that I’m cherishing like my favorite handbag. Ben and I are already seated at the back of Le Petit Rêve. This French café is my favorite in New York, mostly because of the private backroom styled as a greenhouse patio. Marbled floors, fogged glass walls, and hanging potted ferns.

Beckett greets me politely in French before settling in at the long bistro table for six. The green velvety booth-side is tufted with gold buttons. White wicker chairs line the other.

I’ve chosen a chair.

So much easier to sit up straight.

Ben is in the booth across from me, and Beckett chooses to slide in next to his little brother. I try not to eagle-eye their interactions like I’m an overbearing mother bird. I’d rather be a fucking lioness to her cubs, who’d claw any predators to death.

Beckett hands Ben a brown cup with a recyclable straw and tells him, “I passed it on the way here.”

“It?” I question. Yes, I’m butting in already.

“Vedge,” Ben answers. “It’s my favorite vegan smoothie bar in New York.” His irritated features soften on Beckett. “Thanks, man.”

Beckett responds with a simple nod, as if the act was nothing. It was a very thoughtful gesture, considering Ben doesn’t eat much whenever we’re at Le Petit Rêve. Again, I try not to dissect my sons, but God, when did they get so much older? Ben is no longer the little boy clinging onto Beckett for comfort and support, like his teddy bear best friend.

I’ve been waiting for my little gremlins to become adults. Like Connor, we’ve both wished to see who they’d be and the paths they take, but now that two young men sit across from me, I feel old, and I want to rewind just a bit. Just a bit. Fuck the diaper stage. Spit-up and crying for no reason—that can also stay in the past.

Ben downs most of the vegan smoothie in seconds. If he’s expecting this to be a fast brunch, I hope he’s wrong. I would like this to last longer than a few minutes.

I sip a shot of espresso. “Your brothers are late,” I tell Beckett.

He’s already buttering a croissant. His brown hair is damp, from a recent shower most likely, and underneath a leather jacket, he wears a plain white tee and dark jeans. My plan today involves all five of my sons, and I’m most worried he’ll be the one to say no.

It’ll be okay if he does.

I’ve made peace with myself that I can survive without this project. My life doesn’t depend on it. And I don’t necessarily need it as much as I truly want it.

“Charlie is corralling them,” Beckett says. “Eliot and Tom were drunk last night.”

“Them, drunk?” Ben says with the lift of his brows. “Who would’ve thought?” He pops the cap of his sticker-decorated water bottle and swigs.

Beckett takes a bite of croissant. “They’d probably tone it down if you lived with us. Maybe try to be better role models.”

“Yeah, right,” Ben mutters. “They’d most likely try to rope me into their debauchery. Loosen up, Ben. It’s not a sin, Ben. Have fun with us, Ben. Their fun usually ends with someone crying, and you can’t say I’m wrong, can you?” He’s asking Beckett.

“They love you,” Beckett says smoothly, holding his brother’s gaze, and I’m sucking in a breath. If I make one noise of disruption, this conversation will die, and it feels too vital to chop in half.

“Maybe love isn’t enough,” Ben tells him softly.

Beckett whispers in French, and I barely catch his response. He asks, What if it is enough?

Ben picks at an I be-leaf in you sticker that I’m fairly certain Winona gave him. “They can do their own thing. I’ve seen guys in my dorm drink more on a Tuesday, and last night was a Saturday, so I get they were probably out late. But I have things of my own I’m doing and it’s not with them.”

“Hockey?” Beckett wonders.

At this, Ben fights a wince, his shoulders locking.

Beckett seems concerned, his brows knitting, and he swallows the croissant like a hard lump. He looks to me as if I have the answers. And I do.

“The coach is a dick,” I explain. “It’s just the start of the season though. Upward momentum is always possible.”

Beckett looks to Ben. “It’s an easier battle reaching the top than staying there. Enjoy the ride, Pip.”

“Hard to enjoy it from the bench,” Ben says into a sigh. “And it’s not a big deal or anything.” His eyes flit to me. “I’m not going pro after college. I’m just doing it for fun.”

Beckett nods like he understands, but I’m quite certain he doesn’t.

“How’s ballet anyway?” Ben asks, quickly changing the subject. He shakes the last of the smoothie in his mouth, then asks, “You’re still on Sleeping Beauty, right?”

“Finishing it up, yeah.” Beckett reaches for a second croissant, then pauses. “I’ll order more for them.” He’s telling me, as though I’ll tell him to save some for his brothers, but likely he’s feeling internally like he should. Beckett is a sharer. He would give every brother and sister his last article of clothing in the freezing rain.

“They deserve none for being late,” I declare and watch him butter the second croissant. “Why so hungry?”

“He’s always hungry,” Ben smiles.

Beckett returns a smile to his little brother. “If I could eat my way through New York, I would.” He tips his head. “Best food is here.”

“Philly has great food.”

“Maybe if you could eat cheesesteak.” He nudges Ben’s side in friendly banter, and Ben smiles a little more. Beckett finishes buttering and continues, “I did a two-hour workout this morning, and after fainting that one time, I’m not exactly wishing to wake up drenched in sweat on the gym mats because I burned too much and ate too little.”

He was at their apartment gym when he fainted, thankfully.

“Wise,” I tell him.

Beckett is careful as he rests his dirtied knife straight beside the plate. He eyes it for a beat too long, then refolds the napkin on his lap, then eyes the knife again.

Then he eyes me.

It’s impossible to hide the fact that I’m observing him. His OCD has flared up more in the past couple of years, and he’s been in therapy—but I can’t tell if it’s helping. I’m not attached to my son’s hip, and as honest as Beckett is with me, I’m not so sure he’d be honest about this.

“You have a performance tonight?” Ben wonders, giving his brother an escape hatch from the possibility of entering an uncomfortable conversation. Make no mistake, Ben is doing this on purpose for Beckett’s sake. He’s not imperceptive.

“No, it’s my day off,” Beckett says after a sip of water. “Then come some of the last performances before we start rehearsals for The Nutcracker.”

He already told me that both him and Leo Valavanis got the lead roles as the Prince, but they’ll be performing on different nights. I understand the company wanting to drudge up a rivalry to sell ticket sells, but I just hope it isn’t seeping too much off stage.

“You ready for Halloween?” Ben asks him right as Tom, Eliot, and Charlie strut into Le Petit Rêve.

“Talking about All Hallows Eve without us, brother?” Eliot asks, claiming the chair beside me. “The betrayal.” His white button-down is neatly ironed and tucked into navy slacks. He has a classic, impeccable style, but the shadows under his blue eyes tattle on his late-night.

Ben leans back in the booth. “I didn’t know you trademarked Halloween.”

“Halloween, Christmas, April Fools, Valentine’s,” Eliot lists off with a casual hand through his wavy hair. “They all have EAC inscribed right below them.”

“Pretty sure Jesus has something to say about Christmas,” Tom says, twirling the chair on the other side of Eliot and sitting backwards.

“He can fight me for it,” Eliot proclaims.

“If he even exists,” Beckett adds. “Imagine Eliot fighting air.”

“And losing,” Tom laughs.

Eliot appraises the half-eaten breadbasket. “Unless it’s a tornado, I’m positive I can beat a gust of wind.”

Charlie slips into the booth beside Beckett, his twin brother. I’ve been casually watching this conversation devolve into lunacy. I sip my espresso with a smile, and Charlie’s yellow-green eyes meet mine.

“Hi,” he greets.

Like they just realized their manners, Eliot and Tom turn to greet me too. “Mother,” Eliot says into a partial theatrical bow while seated.

Tom rises from his chair to give me a side-hug and a kiss on the cheek. I grimace, still loathing hugs at times. I pat his shoulder, but I am smiling.

He grins back like my prickly cactus nature is the funniest thing, and I’d be more upset if he ever stopped hugging me. I love that I have special relationships with each of my sons. That no one is alike from the other.

Eliot mimes a heart with his hands at me. I smack his hands away and point at him, “Chair legs on the floor.”

He drops his chair legs. “You broke my heart. My own mother.” He clutches at his actual heart like it’s torn to pieces.

“I’ll break more than that if you disrespect this café.”

“My legs?”

“Your pride.”

“Right where it hurts most,” Eliot slips me a smile.

I nearly smile back, our banter typical but less frequent now that he’s twenty-one and no longer living at home.

He levels his hands. “On the ground. Not moving. Je promets.” He promises me, his tone serious and more mature. “Kindest apologies.”

“I’ll accept for now.”

He mimes wiping sweat off his brow, but there is something behind Eliot’s eyes I can’t quite read. He seems…unsettled. I watch him rake another hand through his hair and pick up the breadbasket again. Though he doesn’t take anything.

Charlie is watching too.

Eliot masks a lot with humor, and there are times I wish he wouldn’t. I sweep him again. He rubs his temple. I bet he’s facing a hangover from hell.

The server takes our brunch orders before darting away.

Charlie catches my eyes and says first, “You really want all five of us to work together? Sounds like a tornado, and now we all know how Eliot would fare in one of those.”

Eliot picks up a scone.

“Do not throw that at your brother,” I warn. “This café is not your stage.”

“But I wouldn’t be performing,” Eliot says, but he’s already putting the scone onto his plate. “Apologies again,” he tells me, taking a deep breath before speaking to Charlie. “I would fare quite well in a metaphorical tornado. Let it be known.”

“It is known,” Tom agrees.

Charlie looks between them, then twists to me. “I rest my case.”

“Were we on trial here?” Eliot asks. “Because I don’t see a judge nor a jury.”

“The jury of your brothers sits before you, brother,” Charlie says casually while he reaches for the last croissant. He places it on Beckett’s plate before grabbing a scone for himself.

“I’m not a judge,” I say. “This is not a fucking courtroom. No one is on trial. This is just a proposal I have for all of you.” That’s all I told them. That I had an idea for all five of them that I’d like to discuss over brunch.

Here we are.

Charlie shrugs.

I take a tight breath and then start my speech. The one I’ve been toiling over for weeks. “Since Ben has left the house and you all are on your own, there are days I feel like we could do more together, and I came up with a fun, creative way to do that. Though—I know you all have your own pursuits, and I wanted this to be financially beneficial, so you don’t feel like you’re sacrificing your careers or money to spend time together with me.”

Okay…that sounds downright pathetic. Why do I sound like I don’t think they’d want to spend time with me unless it benefited them? Oh because they’re also spawns of Richard Connor Cobalt. Not that my husband has that stipulation with me, but for most people, he does weigh his time against the benefits.

I steel myself, sitting straighter. “Getting to the point. I’m designing a new line of men’s suits for the spring. And I’d like them all to be designed specifically to your styles. We’ll name them after your names, and half the net profits will go to you.”

Obviously, they’ll benefit even more since they’re all stockholders in my company. But I don’t add that note.

Instead, I add, “You can say no. Actually please say no. Do not fucking agree to this if you have any reservation. I will haunt you in your dreams.”

“Can one of us say no?” Beckett asks first. “Or is this an all or nothing thing?”

“All or nothing,” Charlie answers. “Why else gather us all together?”

And of course, he’s right.

“If I leave even one of you out, the media will have an absolute shitfest over it,” I explain. “They’ll wonder why one or two of you were excluded. It will drudge up unwanted rumors and likely create animosity, so it’d be better to shelve the idea than roll around in that mud.”

“All we have to do is lend our name?” Tom asks.

“And approve the designs,” I say. “I was thinking of having one or two days where we all get together and go over the initial concepts. It’s casual. We can even do it over brunch again.”

Ben frowns. “You don’t have to buy our time together, Mom.”

“I’m not doing that,” I say, my face roasting. “This is just a fun idea. Doing something I love with all of you. But I’m also aware you’re all adults and have your own lives.”

“I’ll do it,” Ben says first, “but I don’t want the money.”

Charlie rolls his eyes.

“The money is nonnegotiable, gremlin,” I say. “Your name has value, so you will be compensated for it. Even if it’s from me.”

Beckett leans into Charlie’s shoulder. They start whispering together.

Eliot looks to me. “Can I throw a scone at him now?”

“No,” I snap.

“Secrets are no fun unless shared with everyone,” Eliot declares. He picks up a glass and flicks some water at his brothers. Beckett and Charlie blow apart.

“Seriously?” Beckett says with bunched brows.

“You’re no match for water,” Eliot says, referring to another element.

“Are we still on this?” Charlie says in annoyance, then tells me, “Beckett and I are in, but we want to do more.”

“Excuse me?” I frown. I did not hear him right.

“It’s a spring line,” Charlie says. “You’ll need advertising. Let us model the suits.”

“That’s a big ask,” I tell him.

“You’re not asking,” Charlie tells me. “We’re offering.”

Point made. “There’ll need to be fittings,” I also point out. “Multiple.”

“Understood.”

Tom lifts a finger. “I propose a runway walk.”

“I second,” Eliot decrees.

Beckett is smiling.

Ben is staring at his stainless-steel water bottle cupped in two hands on the table. I’m most worried about my youngest son.

I look to Charlie. “A fashion ad is a sweet gesture, but all of your brothers have to be willing.”

“I’m definitely in,” Tom says.

Beckett nods in agreement.

Eliot raises his water. “I look best in a suit. Of course, I’m in.”

They all turn to their youngest brother.

Ben is still staring at the water bottle. He’s already agreed to two more brunches to discuss designs. He’s likely troubled over these extra outings that he’ll be forced to attend with his brothers.

“Ben—” I start, about to tell him we can scrap the ad. It’s not important.

“I’ll do it, under one condition,” Ben says, glancing between his four brothers. “No real leather, and any silk or fabric needs to be ethically sourced. I don’t care if it’s your fucking style. That’s my condition.”

Charlie deadpans, “There goes my idea of an all-leather suit. Darn.” He snaps his fingers.

“Fuck you,” Ben says, but there’s not much heat to his voice. His gaze briefly flickers to me for cursing at his brother in my presence. Then back to Charlie. “I’m being serious.”

“Mom doesn’t allow any of that in Calloway Couture,” Beckett reminds him. “She wouldn’t for us.”

“She’d do anything for you guys,” Ben refutes.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I say.

Ben softens at my words and relaxes into the booth. “I’m in, too,” he tells me.

I clap my hands. “Let’s make it official.” I order us a bottle of champagne. I am delighted and terrified by this idea, but with all great things there are risks. And my secret goal for this project is not even for them to spend time together with me.

But to spend time with their brother.

Ben is at Penn.

There’s nothing but Wednesday Night Dinners bringing him back home, and there are some nights he even skips that. When they were younger, I feared Charlie would be the one to rip away from the family for good. I’d lose him completely over time.

I should’ve worried more about Ben. He was the one who tried to run away as a child.

It’d be so easy to do that as an adult now. Run away and never look back.

Maybe this will bring him closer to his brothers. Though, I realize it could also push him away. But I have to try, and if Ben knew this was my plan, he would’ve never let me pick him up and take him to New York. It’s more believable I want them to spend time with me.

So I leaned into it.

A little hard, but it did the fucking job.

All our champagne flutes are full, and Eliot raises his glass. “To the Eliot,” he beams.

Dear God.

“To the Tom,” Tom lifts his.

“To the Ben.” Ben plays into it, giving me a soft smile, then raises his flute into the air.

“To the Beckett,” Beckett joins.

And last is Charlie.

Charlie was the one who proposed the fashion ad. The one who voluntarily wants to spend more time with his brothers. I’d say it was a shock, but since living with Eliot and Tom, he’s become more like his father than he knows. The glue that holds the ship together. The one who fixes the broken boards and beams and rights it up again.

And maybe there are days Charlie is the one putting holes in the boat. Maybe there will be a day he obliterates it completely, but I cherish these moments of his life where’s he fallen into a role I never thought he’d want.

He raises his glass and toasts in French. “Ensemble.”

Together.

Thank you so much for reading this month's main bonus! Not only is it a long one, but it's from Queen Rose's POV! It was so much fun returning to her voice and getting more of an insight into the Cobalt Empire. We have such a blast writing this fam and writing their dynamic, since it's so unique.

There's lots more to come this month! The extra bonus will be in Ryke's POV and you have two podcasts on the horizon. Stay tuned!! :D

xoxo Krista & Becca

"The Calloway Couture Fashion Ad" Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie