I tried the pacing and bouncing while Nate threw her clothing in the washer, sealed the wet and dirty diapers in plastic grocery bags, and took them down to the trash bins in the basement. She still hadn’t calmed down by the time he got back, so we turned off all the lights and tried the pacifier (she refused it), another bottle (hell no, she didn’t want that), running the vacuum cleaner (did the trick on a couple of kids I used to sit, but Paisley wasn’t having it), and even swinging her side to side in her car seat—but nothing worked. Nothing.
The hours crawled by.
“My God, what’s wrong with her? Why won’t she go to sleep?” Nate asked, taking Paisley from me and placing her up over his shoulder. “It’s going on three in the morning. Even an alpha male needs sleep.”
“She’s got colic, I guess.”
“What the fuck is colic?”
“It’s when a baby cries for hours on end with no reason, usually at night.”
“What do you do for it?”
“Nothing.”
“No, I refuse to accept that. There must be a solution.”
God, he was such a guy, thinking every problem could be solved. “Sometimes motion helps. I wish we had a stroller,” I said over the wailing. I was worn out too, and desperate for sleep, but I didn’t want to leave him like this.
Our eyes met in the dark. “I’ve got a bar cart. Would that work?”
“Let’s try it. But let’s see if she’ll eat first.”
Nate held her while I prepared the bottle, then I fed and burped her while Nate cleared his Art Deco chrome bar cart of decanters, an ice bucket, glasses, coasters and some other random barware. We placed her car seat on top of the cart, strapped her in, and Nate held it in place as I pushed. It took some maneuvering to turn corners, but we managed to wheel her around the living room, circle the kitchen island, loop around the couch. Eventually, it worked.
“Oh my God,” Nate whispered. “It’s a miracle. She’s asleep.”
“For now, anyway.” I knew from experience an eight-week-old wasn’t going to sleep long. Stifling a yawn, I said, “Keep her in the seat, okay? You can take her up to your room or sleep on the couch.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” His voice was panicked.
“I have to get some sleep, Nate. I’m exhausted.”
“I know, but…don’t leave,” he whispered frantically. “I still need you. Please.”
I was nearly asleep on my feet, but hearing him say those four words did something to me. Usually it was the other way around with us—me needing him. And as bad as I felt for Nate tonight, I sort of liked the role reversal. When had any man ever needed me, unless it was to plan his wedding?
“Okay,” I agreed. “But we both need to sleep while she does.” I figured I’d crash on the couch, so I was surprised at his next words.
“Come upstairs.”
It was ridiculous, but my heart tripped a little quicker.
Don’t make this into something it’s not, Emme. He doesn’t want to be alone with the baby. It has nothing to do with you and him. “Okay. You bring the car seat up—carefully.”
You’d have thought the seat was made of blown glass, he was so gentle with it on the trek up the stairs. I’d never been in Nate’s bedroom before, but it was laid out like mine—sleeping area, walk-through closet, master bath on the other side. I was a little surprised the decor was so normal, no mirrors or restraints or sex swings hanging from the ceiling. Just plain white bedding, unadorned brick walls, a bed, and nightstand.
“You can use the bathroom first,” he said softly, setting the car seat on the floor next to the king-sized bed and switching on his bedside lamp. “There are spare toothbrushes in the second drawer down.”
“Thanks.” I walked through his closet—it smelled like him—to the bathroom and shut the door softly behind me. I turned on the light, scorching my retinas since we’d been in the dark for hours, and frowning at my bloodshot eyes and smudged mascara. After using the bathroom and washing my hands and face, I located a spare toothbrush (refusing to think about why he had a stash of them), and brushed my teeth. Normally, I’d have been more curious about what else I’d find in his bathroom, but I was too tired to even snoop in his cabinets.
When I came out, Nate stood at the foot of the bed holding out something folded and white. “You can sleep in this if you want.”
“Okay, thanks.” I noticed he’d traded his jeans for a pair of loose black pajama pants, but he’d kept his T-shirt on.
While he was in the bathroom, I slipped out of my jeans and sweater and quickly pulled the cotton T-shirt he’d given me over my head, keeping my bra on. The shirt was big and comfortable, but a sniff of the collar disappointed me, because it smelled like fabric softener and not him.
Don’t be fucking weird. Just get in bed.
It looked like Nate slept on the left side of the bed, so I quickly turned back the covers on the right, scrambled beneath them, and pulled them up to my chin.
A moment later, the bathroom door opened. Nate came into the room and went around to the other side of the bed, moving Paisley a little closer to it. He removed his wrist watch and turned off the lamp, but then he hesitated. “Would you rather I slept downstairs?”
“No,” I said. Then I couldn’t resist a joke. “Despite your reputation, I don’t think you’re going to try anything.”
He climbed into bed. “In this particular case, you’re right. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
When both of us were under the covers, Nate on his back, me on my side, facing him, he whispered, “I still can’t believe this.”
“I can’t either. It’s so huge.”
“That’s what she said,” he whispered a moment later.
Despite my exhaustion, I giggled. He might be a dad, but he was still a guy.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He was quiet for a minute, and I was nearly asleep before he spoke again. “Emme.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
I opened my eyes. He was still on his back, arms at his sides above the covers. Automatically, I reached out, placing my hand on his bicep. “I know.”
He looked at me. “Thanks for staying.”
“You’re welcome.”
I fell asleep with my hand on him.
* * *
Four
Nate
My body was begging my brain to shut down, but even with my eyes closed, my muscles relaxed, and the room dark and silent, my mind refused to quiet.
I had a daughter.
My life would never be the same.
As the shock wore off and reality set in, I felt more and more panicked. What if Rachel didn’t come back? What would I do? Alpha masculinity aside, how was I going to reconcile the person I had been, a person I liked and enjoyed being, with being a father to this child? Was it even possible? And what about work? The gym? My social life? Travel? I had plans, for fuck’s sake. Goals. A bucket list. I wanted to run with the bulls and climb Kilimanjaro and skydive over Dubai. I couldn’t do any of that with a baby strapped to my back.
And I had no idea how to be a dad.
I thought about my own father, who’d died three years ago of heart disease, but who had retreated from the family long before, so long ago that I’d barely registered the loss. But I had never blamed him for his distance, nor my mother for her nervous frailty. It was another loss, an earlier, unthinkable tragedy, that had done us all in. It was that loss that was responsible for who we became—an absent alcoholic, and agoraphobic hypochondriac, and a divorce lawyer with an iron cage around his heart. I had made up my mind long ago that love was something to be feared. Avoided. And if necessary, sabotaged.
Otherwise it would destroy you.
The problem wasn’t love itself. The problem was allowing yourself to care for someone so deeply that the loss of them cut you deep to the bone, so deep you lost a piece of yourself. And that piece was your trust in God, your faith in the universe, your belief that if you wished hard enough and prayed long enough and loved fiercely enough, it would save a life. It would save your family. It would save you.
The hours crawled by.
“My God, what’s wrong with her? Why won’t she go to sleep?” Nate asked, taking Paisley from me and placing her up over his shoulder. “It’s going on three in the morning. Even an alpha male needs sleep.”
“She’s got colic, I guess.”
“What the fuck is colic?”
“It’s when a baby cries for hours on end with no reason, usually at night.”
“What do you do for it?”
“Nothing.”
“No, I refuse to accept that. There must be a solution.”
God, he was such a guy, thinking every problem could be solved. “Sometimes motion helps. I wish we had a stroller,” I said over the wailing. I was worn out too, and desperate for sleep, but I didn’t want to leave him like this.
Our eyes met in the dark. “I’ve got a bar cart. Would that work?”
“Let’s try it. But let’s see if she’ll eat first.”
Nate held her while I prepared the bottle, then I fed and burped her while Nate cleared his Art Deco chrome bar cart of decanters, an ice bucket, glasses, coasters and some other random barware. We placed her car seat on top of the cart, strapped her in, and Nate held it in place as I pushed. It took some maneuvering to turn corners, but we managed to wheel her around the living room, circle the kitchen island, loop around the couch. Eventually, it worked.
“Oh my God,” Nate whispered. “It’s a miracle. She’s asleep.”
“For now, anyway.” I knew from experience an eight-week-old wasn’t going to sleep long. Stifling a yawn, I said, “Keep her in the seat, okay? You can take her up to your room or sleep on the couch.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” His voice was panicked.
“I have to get some sleep, Nate. I’m exhausted.”
“I know, but…don’t leave,” he whispered frantically. “I still need you. Please.”
I was nearly asleep on my feet, but hearing him say those four words did something to me. Usually it was the other way around with us—me needing him. And as bad as I felt for Nate tonight, I sort of liked the role reversal. When had any man ever needed me, unless it was to plan his wedding?
“Okay,” I agreed. “But we both need to sleep while she does.” I figured I’d crash on the couch, so I was surprised at his next words.
“Come upstairs.”
It was ridiculous, but my heart tripped a little quicker.
Don’t make this into something it’s not, Emme. He doesn’t want to be alone with the baby. It has nothing to do with you and him. “Okay. You bring the car seat up—carefully.”
You’d have thought the seat was made of blown glass, he was so gentle with it on the trek up the stairs. I’d never been in Nate’s bedroom before, but it was laid out like mine—sleeping area, walk-through closet, master bath on the other side. I was a little surprised the decor was so normal, no mirrors or restraints or sex swings hanging from the ceiling. Just plain white bedding, unadorned brick walls, a bed, and nightstand.
“You can use the bathroom first,” he said softly, setting the car seat on the floor next to the king-sized bed and switching on his bedside lamp. “There are spare toothbrushes in the second drawer down.”
“Thanks.” I walked through his closet—it smelled like him—to the bathroom and shut the door softly behind me. I turned on the light, scorching my retinas since we’d been in the dark for hours, and frowning at my bloodshot eyes and smudged mascara. After using the bathroom and washing my hands and face, I located a spare toothbrush (refusing to think about why he had a stash of them), and brushed my teeth. Normally, I’d have been more curious about what else I’d find in his bathroom, but I was too tired to even snoop in his cabinets.
When I came out, Nate stood at the foot of the bed holding out something folded and white. “You can sleep in this if you want.”
“Okay, thanks.” I noticed he’d traded his jeans for a pair of loose black pajama pants, but he’d kept his T-shirt on.
While he was in the bathroom, I slipped out of my jeans and sweater and quickly pulled the cotton T-shirt he’d given me over my head, keeping my bra on. The shirt was big and comfortable, but a sniff of the collar disappointed me, because it smelled like fabric softener and not him.
Don’t be fucking weird. Just get in bed.
It looked like Nate slept on the left side of the bed, so I quickly turned back the covers on the right, scrambled beneath them, and pulled them up to my chin.
A moment later, the bathroom door opened. Nate came into the room and went around to the other side of the bed, moving Paisley a little closer to it. He removed his wrist watch and turned off the lamp, but then he hesitated. “Would you rather I slept downstairs?”
“No,” I said. Then I couldn’t resist a joke. “Despite your reputation, I don’t think you’re going to try anything.”
He climbed into bed. “In this particular case, you’re right. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
When both of us were under the covers, Nate on his back, me on my side, facing him, he whispered, “I still can’t believe this.”
“I can’t either. It’s so huge.”
“That’s what she said,” he whispered a moment later.
Despite my exhaustion, I giggled. He might be a dad, but he was still a guy.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He was quiet for a minute, and I was nearly asleep before he spoke again. “Emme.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
I opened my eyes. He was still on his back, arms at his sides above the covers. Automatically, I reached out, placing my hand on his bicep. “I know.”
He looked at me. “Thanks for staying.”
“You’re welcome.”
I fell asleep with my hand on him.
* * *
Four
Nate
My body was begging my brain to shut down, but even with my eyes closed, my muscles relaxed, and the room dark and silent, my mind refused to quiet.
I had a daughter.
My life would never be the same.
As the shock wore off and reality set in, I felt more and more panicked. What if Rachel didn’t come back? What would I do? Alpha masculinity aside, how was I going to reconcile the person I had been, a person I liked and enjoyed being, with being a father to this child? Was it even possible? And what about work? The gym? My social life? Travel? I had plans, for fuck’s sake. Goals. A bucket list. I wanted to run with the bulls and climb Kilimanjaro and skydive over Dubai. I couldn’t do any of that with a baby strapped to my back.
And I had no idea how to be a dad.
I thought about my own father, who’d died three years ago of heart disease, but who had retreated from the family long before, so long ago that I’d barely registered the loss. But I had never blamed him for his distance, nor my mother for her nervous frailty. It was another loss, an earlier, unthinkable tragedy, that had done us all in. It was that loss that was responsible for who we became—an absent alcoholic, and agoraphobic hypochondriac, and a divorce lawyer with an iron cage around his heart. I had made up my mind long ago that love was something to be feared. Avoided. And if necessary, sabotaged.
Otherwise it would destroy you.
The problem wasn’t love itself. The problem was allowing yourself to care for someone so deeply that the loss of them cut you deep to the bone, so deep you lost a piece of yourself. And that piece was your trust in God, your faith in the universe, your belief that if you wished hard enough and prayed long enough and loved fiercely enough, it would save a life. It would save your family. It would save you.
