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I lost Adam Sully at twenty-seven, and I thought I’d at least have him for another five fucking years. Not ten, not twenty, but I thought five—just give me five more years with my friend.
Connor Cobalt used to put himself above every person in this world. Self-centered, conceited, arrogant as fuck—he’s still these things but somehow he learned to be a little less selfish. He wants the opposite for me. The selfish man is telling me to be a little less selfless.
He didn’t care what we wrote, so I suggested our Favorite Sayings from Ryke Meadows. My favorite: I fucking love you. Willow’s: I don’t fucking understand Tumblr. Lo’s: fuck you, you fucking fuck. Lily’s: Fucking fantastic. Rose’s: No means no. Better yet, fuck no. Connor’s: Connor Cobalt is a fucking narcissist.
“Rose is going into labor.” On my birthday. She’s giving birth to twins.
Charlie Keating Cobalt and Beckett Joyce Cobalt were born September 19th, 2017 at 5 pounds 6 ounces and 5 pounds 4 ounces respectively. Two boys.
“So,” Lo says, “what are we calling this docu-series thing?” We all look around again, and even though we haven’t written out a contract to enact this choice yet—I feel an immense weight lift from the entire room. And we all begin to smile.
Connor rarely gives up that type of time to another human being unless it benefits himself. He must see a bright fucking future in Garrison.
Willow isn’t just leaving Philadelphia in August; she’s leaving the country. She’s going to college in London, paying for the first semester herself.
“I’m going to put a doctor on the line.” “We’re not going to make it to the fucking hospital?” Ryke asks, his features as dark as the roiling sky. “I don’t think so.” Am I that far along already?
And then another scream entwines with my dwindling one. All the suffering begins to eke away. I just listen to the tiny cry of a baby. I see little arms waving, crying like here I am; look at me. I break into a sob, my hand trembling by my lips. The EMT cleans the baby only a little before setting the newborn on my chest. “Here’s your girl.”
There is no doubt—I know exactly who we brought into this world. Who will one day run fast and wild. She coos in contentment. “Hey there,” I say, “Sullivan Minnie Meadows.” She stretches her left arm as though to say, that’s me.
The orange horizon warms my body, and I scream madly and happily. Nothing can stop our souls from singing. Nothing can stop our spirits from shrieking. So whatever anyone says, whatever anyone thinks—I’ve lived so very long. I’ve been in love. I’ve been free. I’d like to think, no matter where I go, I can still be found. Just look up. I’ll be there. That’s where I’ll be. Every time the sun shines down, maybe you’ll think of me.
“I’ll never love you any fucking less…whatever happens—she wouldn’t want that.” My throat tightens. “Even if…” I can’t fucking say it. Even if it’s just you and me.
I want Sullivan Minnie Meadows to race one-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour. No brakes in sight.
Give Ryke Meadows my ashes. I want to be in the clouds, and no one is going to get there but him.
We started out practically unknown. Then we were swept into the limelight. Years of slowly entering fame culture. Years of protecting one another. Years of growing and missteps and falling backwards. I want to say in the end, but maybe this is still the middle. In the middle. I’ve watched Lo become sober. I’ve watched Lily curb a relentless addiction. (I’m proud of you, sis.) I’ve watched Rose blaze her own trail and put fire to stereotypes. I’ve watched Connor fall in love. With more than just himself. I’ve watched Ryke Meadows unclip his shackles and rise again. And me. I’ve discovered who I
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“This is the first interview of the brand new documentary series called We Are Calloway.”
The four-bedroom cottage has more yard and grounds than Connor and Lo’s houses combined. Greg and Jonathan apparently had this wild idea to gift Daisy and me a house for our wedding present, and they spent over a year trying to convince the owner to fucking sell this exact home.
You know what I’m happy about—my brother, my little fucking brother—he’s thirteen years sober.
“Sleep is so fucking boring,” she says with a woeful sigh. “Why can’t I just use an alarm clock and wake up earlier? Just one hour?” Lo shakes his head at me. “Only your kid, man.”
Connor’s mother had red hair, but not exactly the same carrot-orange that Audrey Virginia Cobalt has. She’s really fucking adorable, even passed out on her dad. A long nine years after Jane was born, Rose finally gave birth to another girl. Connor and Rose made good on their promise and stopped having children when girl number two came into the world.
Lo passes me a water bottle and whispers back, “What’s up with this boogey? My kid was crying all last night because of the same thing.” I uncap my water. “Which kid?” Lo has a lot. “Kinney.” His youngest girl, also three like Audrey.
Yesterday, Lo said that I’m a pushover. I let his eight-year-old daughter draw an alien on my arm and stars on my cheek with Sharpie. If Luna Hale asked to pen a spaceship on my forehead, I probably would’ve said just not in my eye.
Curled at the end of the mattress, our thirteen-year-old white husky blinks at me and then shuts her eyes again. Nutty doesn’t have a lot of energy to leap or run and play much anymore, but she seems content.
Daisy combs Winona’s light brown hair out of her face, the same shade as Daisy’s natural color. Now this child—she’s a spitting image of her mom. Winona Briar Meadows. Thanks to Rose’s heart and generosity, we had another daughter.
I peek into the second room, door ajar. Six-year-old Ben Pirrip Cobalt hangs partially off the top wooden bunk, half the quilt with him, and he snores breathy fucking snores in deep slumber. The boy on the lower bunk rubs his amber eyes with his fist and then turns back into his pillow. Five-year-old Xander Hale has the most photogenic face of all the fucking kids. It’s been hard keeping him out of the limelight. Lo said that Xander has been counting down to the lake house. He’s the third-born of the Hale children. Maximoff, Luna, Xander, and Kinney.
The next darkened bedroom contains four wooden bunk beds, all occupied with boys, fast asleep. On one top bunk, Charlie Keating Cobalt sleeps, but even though he’s ten, he chose to skip two grades, in the same classes as Janie and Moffy.
His twin brother sleeps in the bunk below him. I can only distinguish Beckett’s dark wavy brown hair, almost curly and shaggy. On the second top bunk lies eight-year-old Eliot Alice Cobalt. He shares his pillow with worn paperbacks of Shakespearian tragedies and comedies. His younger brother, only eleven months difference between them, sle...
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It’d be stranger if we had one body fewer, one personality shyer of the number of Cobalts in the house now. Five boys. Two girls. Connor and Rose...
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It’s not that the kids are hyper about Willow particularly but the little girl she brings with her. Vada Lauren Abbey. Garrison married Willow the same year she graduated college.
All six of us fix our eyes on the rising sun. There are moments you remember and people you will never fucking forget. While orange light bathes us, while tension flits far, far away, how much we’ve felt—all that we’ve bled—surrenders to our collective love. Lifetimes, days, minutes spent together. As we watch outward. As we watch upward. As our faces warm. We live and breathe in quiet, blissful peace.
