“Daisy already gave me some pointers, and she’s bringing over puppy food and some of Coconut’s old things tonight.”
Lo smiles again when the basset hound collapses on the rug, panting with his tongue hung out of his mouth. Luna rubs his belly, teary-eyed with happiness. Pleasing children is really easy. I gave Xander a lime popsicle yesterday, and he acted like I conjured a rainbow out of the sky, just for him.
“What a dork,” Lo says about the dog. “Looks like he’s going to fit right in with all of us.”
I beam. “Are you sure?”
He kisses my cheek, his arms still around me, mine still around him. “I’m sure, Lily.”
Moffy springs up from the ground, out of breath from laughing, but he darts over to us. “We came up with his name!”
We angle towards our nine-year-old son. “Let’s hear it,” Lo says.
Moffy grins. “Gotham.”
You should see Lo’s face. He looks dismayed and perturbed. Sometimes I think Moffy gravitates towards DC comics just to see Lo’s what-is-the-world-coming-to expression that pops up solely for moments like these.
Moffy is already laughing again.
“This better be your biggest joke all year,” Lo says.
“No, really, that’s his name.” He calls out over his shoulder, “Right, Luna?”
Luna nods rapidly. “Gotham!” She giggles when he licks her cheek.
“Jesus Christ,” Lo says beneath his breath.
“It’s a great name, Moffy,” I tell him.
“No it’s not,” Lo says flatly.
“Lo,” I whisper.
Lo turns to me. “I’m not calling our dog Gotham.” He looks personally offended by this, and as soon as Moffy can see, his smile starts fading.
Our son starts, “We can change it—”
“No!” I shout. “You chose it. Right, Lo?” I lower my voice so only he can hear. “It doesn’t mean anything. Moffy just loves Batman.”
Lo tries to accept this. Then he says to Moffy, “If you want to call him Gotham, you can call him Gotham.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, but don’t expect me to call him that.”
Moffy begins smiling again. “What will you call him then?”
“Ham,” Lo says in all seriousness.
Moffy bursts out laughing and keeps nodding like that’s perfect.
“Ham?” My brows crinkle up at Lo. “I don’t think that’s an upgrade.”
Lo hugs me closer to his chest. “Oh it’s a fucking upgrade.”
In his Marvel-loving mind, I’m sure it is.
2025
“I give my time to the people who are most important to me. Odds are that person isn’t you.”
- Connor Cobalt, We Are Calloway (Season 7 Episode 10 – Hamlet & Hogwarts)
[ 42 ]
January 2025
Manhattan Medical Hospital
New York City
ROSE COBALT
I breeze through memories and land on one day.
Over thirteen years ago, I hurried across Princeton’s campus, my umbrella catching the afternoon rain. All my exam and paper due dates rattled in my head on loop, and I walked faster. Heels against wet pavement. The Princeton library in view.
Up the stairs, through the door, I shook out my black umbrella and stiffly checked my phone, hoping for a reply. Connor Cobalt was the top contact in my messages, but he didn’t respond to the ones I previously sent.
I inhaled a strained breath. I hated that I sent him five texts. Five. All in quick succession. It would’ve been better if he responded, but it’d been two hours, and he was utterly silent.
We’d started dating not long ago, and it couldn’t have been worse timing.
Lily had just told me that she was a sex addict. Thanksgiving was approaching, hence all the college due dates raising their swords at my armor. The last thing I wanted was to be consumed by Connor Cobalt and dating. It was a betrayal to my sister and my studies.
This was my senior year. Don’t lose focus now, Rose.
Just to ensure that I hadn’t sent anything humiliating, I glanced over my texts and walked further into the library.
The last one he’d sent: let me take you to lunch – Connor
I’d replied with five frenzied messages.
Text #1: You can eat alone. I don’t have time for food and drink and dates. My sister is my number one priority, and she needs me. Do you know what I did last night? I spent five hours researching sex addiction and contacting professionals in the field. And I’m no closer to helping her than I was the day before.
Text #2: I will not go to lunch with you.
Text #3: I have a French paper worth fifteen-percent of my grade due tomorrow. I haven’t even read Franz Fanon’s “Les damnés de la terre” yet, and now I’ll have to skim the book. (I never skim.)
Text #4: I don’t even have study materials for my Strategy and Information final tomorrow. My economics professor decided to “up the final to November” to alleviate the stress on the first week of December. I loathe him. I’m not alleviated. It’s worth fifty-percent of my grade, and now I have less time to study. His logic is ridiculous. He also added extra reading supplements and teased us about specific questions from these textbooks. Which means I have to take time and go to the library. I’d withdraw, but withdrawing admits defeat. I will not be defeated by a professor.
Text #5: disregard all previous texts except the second one.
I still couldn’t believe I told him that I actually considered withdrawing from an upper-level econ course. He’d never admit that to me.
You should’ve never started dating him, I kept thinking.
Rereading the texts only rusted my joints, my neck strict and shoulders rigid. I slipped my phone in my Chanel bag and strutted past the checkout and returns. The library smelled like old hardback bindings and worn pages. I entered the common area of the first floor, ceilings vaulted, bookshelves lining a couple walls. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered in the middle.
I needed to log onto the library’s database and figure out where my books were shelved. They most likely weren’t on the first floor. I stopped by a short bookshelf and scanned the library for a free computer, people quietly studying.
My narrowed yellow-green eyes flitted this way and that. And then they froze. Right on serene deep blues, six-foot-four feet of arrogance and intellect, and a perpetually assured grin.
Connor Cobalt leaned against a wooden table, skyscraping bookshelves back-dropped his stoic frame. I’ll never forget how he stood out among an ancient, grandiose library. I’ll never forget how he appeared taller and more omnipotent than the towering hardbacks behind him.
I took a heartier breath and strutted towards Connor. When college exams and the texts made me feel frazzled, my wardrobe flooded me with confidence. Black skirt, sheer tights, booties with five-inch heels, a blazer over a loose white blouse, topped with a sleek pony and a Chanel handbag—I was ready for battle.
As I neared, Connor stepped from the table, his wardrobe equally put-together: navy slacks, leather belt, expensive loafers, an Oxford collar button-down and tie beneath a gray sweater. He had always dressed better than most men, but I wouldn’t dare compliment him.
I spoke hurriedly and hushed. “Did you slip and fall and forget that your allegiances are to Penn, not Princeton?”
He almost laughed like I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.
“Richard—”
“My allegiance is to you, Rose.”
My heart skipped a beat, too stunned to move. He calmly took my wet umbrella and placed it in a chair. That was when I noticed the textbooks across the table. I passed him and picked up a few, my eyes widening in more realizations.
These were the four books I needed. “How…?”
Connor leaned his ass on the table again, mostly—I realized—to be at the same height as me. I was angled towards him, a black textbook in my hand called Game of Strategy. His fingers skimmed my wrist, my skin on fire like never before.
Then he flipped open the book, letting me hold it. Highlights, notes scrawled carefully in the margins, he turned to the very first page with a name in the upper corner.
Connor Cobalt.
This was his copy.