Chapter 7 The Farm #3
“You’re so hot,” Calliope said without thought, gaze still caught on her wife, the words slipping out unfiltered and sincere.
Lola rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m just telling the truth. Don’t blame me. Blame your insanely good-looking parents and their impeccable genetics.”
Lola laughed once again, the sound rich and unguarded. She leaned back against the wall, eyes warm as she took Calliope in, like she was memorizing her in pieces. Like she always did, as if Calliope were something precious and finite.
“If I’d known all it took was a farmhouse and a hacker wife to reach my final form, I would’ve retired from bounty hunting a lot sooner,” she said teasingly.
Calliope snorted. “Liar. You loved that life.”
“I loved parts of it,” Lola corrected gently. She reached out, tucking a damp curl behind Calliope’s ear, thumb lingering there. “I loved the adrenaline. I loved knowing I could take care of myself. But I didn’t know I could have this too.”
Calliope felt that settle somewhere deep in her chest, heavy in the best way.
Calliope hadn’t known she could have this life either.
Any of it. The quiet mornings. The shared showers.
The goats screaming bloody murder because one of them thought another was getting fed first. The digital fortress hidden behind farmhouse walls.
The people they’d gathered around themselves, every single one of them chosen, stubborn, feral… loyal.
“I didn’t ask you to give any of that up,” Calliope said quietly, the old fear surfacing for just a second.
“No,” Lola agreed. “You didn’t.” She smiled, softer now. “You just made yourself available to me in any way I’d have you and, before I knew it, I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving.”
They stood there for a moment longer, breathing each other in. Outside, the wind rattled the old windows again, a low warning hum that felt more like background noise than danger.
This place was solid.
Fortified.
Loved.
“Okay,” Calliope said eventually, clapping her hands once, breaking the spell with practiced ease.
“I’ll make breakfast. Cinnamon french toast?”
“I suppose it will have to do,” Lola said, dropping a chaste kiss on her lips. The kind of kiss that promised more later, once the house stopped feeling like a hostel. “At least until these people get out of our house.”
“I’ll cook. You wrangle the children.”
Lola raised a brow. “Which children?”
“All of them,” Calliope said. “Including my son.”
“I couldn’t wrangle that boy with spurs and a lasso,” Lola said fondly.
“Don’t put images of you in cowboy boots in my head,” Calliope whined.
Lola laughed, shaking her head as she left the room.
The farmhouse was already awake in its own way. The hum of servers came from behind a disguised panel near the stairs, the quiet heartbeat of the digital defenses Calliope maintained even on holidays.
The kitchen smelled like strong coffee, like warmth and intention.
This was her favorite place in the house.
She never felt more at peace than when she was in there.
It reminded her of better times, of being little, of baking with her grandmother, her hands dusted in flour and her laugh larger than life.
Dimitri was at the table, exactly where she expected him to be, demolishing a bowl of cereal while Arlo hovered nearby with a mug of coffee, looking as angelic as ever. The contrast between them never stopped amusing her, chaos and calm in perfect balance.
“Morning, menace,” Calliope said, pressing a kiss to Dimitri’s hair as she passed.
“Morning, mother,” he replied sweetly, then added, “Make it French toast.”
She shot him a look. “Demanding.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you,” she said haughtily. “And I was already going to make french toast for my wife but if you’re nice to me I’ll make some for you too.”
She paused just long enough to make him sweat.
She made her way to Arlo, kissing his cheek. “Now you, you I love.”
Arlo smiled at that, small and sincere, blushing to the tips of his elf-like ears. It still amazed her how easily kindness landed on him. Java lay at his feet, chin on her paws, watching Calliope with sleepy devotion.
“Wooow,” Dimitri said, but he was smiling.
“How’s Java?” she asked, crouching down to pet the dog briefly.
“She nervous for her procedure?”
Dimitri snorted. “We gave her enough Benadryl to take down a water buffalo. Or Gary Busey. I don’t think she’s gonna care about anything for the foreseeable future.”
Calliope stood, going to the sink to wash her hands before she started breakfast. “But you can pick her up later tonight?”
Arlo nodded, his anxiety about his dog palpable. “Yeah.”
Lola slipped in behind her, looping an arm around Calliope’s waist. Her chin rested between Calliope’s shoulder blades, familiar as breath. “Hello, boys.”
“Hi, Lola,” they chimed in unison.
“Creepy.”
The voice didn’t come from Lola but Cricket who waddled in wearing what looked—to Calliope at least—like a circus tent. It was a dress—maybe?—or a muumuu? The fabric strained valiantly around her belly, patterned in red and white vertical stripes that made her impossible to ignore.
“Damn, Crick, who designed that dress? Barnum & Bailey?” Dimitri chimed, smirking at her over his coffee cup.
“I can and will stab you with your own fork and they’ll let me off,” Cricket said pleasantly. “I’ll just claim the pregnancy hormones drove me to it.”
She smiled like she meant it.
Dimitri picked up his camera and took a picture of Cricket in her Ringling Brothers nightie and fuzzy bunny slippers, catching her mid-scowl with her hair standing on end like she’d been electrocuted by the holiday spirit. Then he showed it to her.
“This right here will be the only thing the prosecutor needs,” he said solemnly. “This is a crime against fashion. Felix would have a stroke.”
“Cricket, honey,” Lola said gently, resting her elbows on the counter like she was bracing for impact. “What are you wearing?”
Cricket huffed, then flopped down in the wooden chair opposite Dimitri, the chair protesting her dramatics with a faint creak. “The only nightgown that fits me right now.”
It was a nightgown. Thank God. Calliope didn’t care what she wore, but if the other Mulvaneys got ahold of that dress, Cricket probably would be going to prison for mass murder.
She was at that point in pregnancy where she had zero patience for stupid-ass questions like you haven’t had that baby yet?
or how many babies are in there anyway? Her poor ankles had disappeared entirely, her face was puffy, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
She looked like someone who had reached the end of her goodwill for the human race.
“French toast?” Calliope asked, already knowing the answer but asking anyway because it felt like kindness.
“Please,” Cricket said.
Calliope smiled. “How many slices?”
“Is half the loaf too much?” Cricket asked wryly. “I’m starving today.”
“You can have anything you want until that baby makes an appearance,” Lola promised, voice soft but absolute.
As Calliope started pulling out bread and eggs, she glanced toward the window, watching snow drift lazily across the fields.
The world outside looked hushed, wrapped in white.
It felt like the calm before something—not ominous, exactly, just…
full. Like clouds before rain, or that niggling sensation she got right before something big happened.
The kind of feeling she’d learned never to ignore.
Dimitri appeared behind his mother, hooking his chin over her shoulder as he watched her coat bread in eggs. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla was already starting to bloom.
“What did you get me for Christmas?”
“Some manners,” she shot back.
Dimitri made a noise of disgust. “I was kinda hoping for a PS5.”
“Then maybe you should’ve sat on Santa’s lap,” Calliope said without looking at him.
Lola snorted, pulling out the Christmas dishes that went with their Santa coffee mugs. “For a PS5, you should have given him a lap dance.”
“That’s not fair,” Dimitri said, pointing accusingly with his spoon. “Y’all are rich and you live out here like Mennonites. What could you possibly need all that money for?”
“For Arlo’s gifts, of course,” Calliope said benevolently, shooting a smile his way.
“I don’t need anything, Mom,” Arlo said, voice earnest in that way that always made her chest ache a little.
Lola leaned into his space and snuck another kiss to his cheek. “And that’s why we spoil you. You’re grateful. Unlike some people.”
“I can’t help it,” Dimitri said, pooching out his lower lip. “I was born this way.”
“So was August,” Cricket said dryly. “But he’s always gracious.”
“I’d be gracious too if I was a billionaire,” Dimitri shot back, his voice rising in pitch at the end. “Give me some money and I’ll prove it.”
Calliope shook her head. He used to be such a somber kid.
Watchful. Measuring. Always assessing the room before deciding who he needed to be in it.
He was an excellent actor. He’d faked his way into the cool kids’ clique in high school, had charmed the admissions board at his university, was one of the only freshmen who’d been actively sought out by his fraternity.
He’d learned early how to perform likability like a survival skill.
But when he wasn’t performing, he’d always been kind of quiet. Still. Coiled. Waiting.
That was what had always worried Calliope, that feeling that at some point that spring would snap.
All that changed when Arlo came back into his life. It was like someone had flipped a switch, gave him permission to just…be.
“You’d be a monster if you had money,” Cricket countered. “There would be documentaries made about what a humongous cock-weasel you were—songs, ballads, limericks, true crime podcasts—”
“Nobody likes you when you’re pregnant,” Dimitri said, fake pout firmly in place.
“Nobody likes you ever,” she shot back, making a face before sticking out her tongue.
Dimitri snorted. “Untrue. Everyone loves me.”
“Everyone loves Arlo,” Lola said with a smile, patting Dimitri’s cheek. “They tolerate you.”
“Why is everyone defending her and attacking me?” Dimitri demanded. “She called me a cock-weasel—whatever the fuck that is. When are they gonna go in there and extract that little parasite anyway?”
It was a testament to how exhausted Cricket was that she let that slide, only saying, “Hopefully soon, since my son seems to think I’m an elephant and not a human. If they don’t get him out soon, be prepared for another fourteen months of me being an absolute thundercunt.”
“Did someone give you, like, a creative insult-of-the-day calendar?” Arlo asked, eyes wide with genuine curiosity.
“No,” Dimitri said solemnly. “It’s the demon inside her taking over.”
She flipped him off. He returned the gesture with interest. She rolled her eyes. He made a face. It was like watching two raccoons fight over a shiny object.
Calliope shook her head, exasperated but fond. “Enough. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
They acted like siblings. Chaotic. Unfiltered. Loud in a way that only came from deep comfort. It was so strange the way all their lives had intersected. They were close enough in age, far closer than either of them were to Calliope or Lola.
“So,” Dimitri said, appearing over her shoulder once more, “what did you get me?”
“What did you get me?” she countered. “Hm?”
“Uh…”
“That’s right. You don’t know. Because Arlo does all the Christmas shopping and you just slap your name on it.”
“Mooom,” Dimitri whined.
She set down the spatula, grabbing a wooden spoon before turning and poking him sharply in the ribs. “Go sit down right now or I will not let you open gifts after breakfast.”
“Ugh, fine,” Dimitri huffed, trudging to the table and flouncing into his seat.
Beside her, Lola hit a button on the remote and Christmas music began to float softly through the speakers, low and warm. Arms wrapped around Calliope from behind, lips pressing gently to her neck,
“Better?” Lola murmured.
“Much better,” Calliope said, leaning back into her without thinking.
Now it felt like Christmas Eve.