Paisley still hadn’t burped yet, so I stood and put her up on one shoulder. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. My brain is a bit overwhelmed. I guess I’ll have to tell them all eventually, but for now, it’s just you.” I frowned. “Although if we see anyone while we’re out shopping today, we better have a good explanation handy for why you and I suddenly have a baby.”
She laughed. “We’ll think of something. See you in a bit.”
As soon she was gone, I realized I should’ve gone to the bathroom while she was here. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just set Paisley down. My apartment was full of hard surfaces and sharp objects, a parental nightmare. But I couldn’t bring her in the bathroom with me either. That didn’t seem right. In the end, I ended up strapping her into the car seat and leaving it in my closet right outside the bathroom door. But I felt guilty about it because she cried the whole time, even though I was in there for less than a minute. I opened the door as soon as my hands were clean and picked her up again. “I’m still here,” I told her. “See? I’m still here.”
She stopped crying, and I marveled at how quickly a baby could become attached to someone. How easily they trusted. Yesterday at this time, she had never seen me, never heard my voice, never even knew I existed. Now I had the power to calm her just by holding her and talking to her. It was sort of sweet, but also scary as hell. I wasn’t sure I deserved that kind of trust, and I certainly didn’t feel like I had earned it. But maybe I could make that up to her. For the first time, an overwhelming urge to protect her struck me, and I found myself furious at Rachel, not just for lying to me or springing this on me, but for abandoning our child. I was more aware every passing minute of what she must’ve been going through trying to parent on her own, but she should have reached out. There was no excuse for leaving Paisley alone the way she had.
“Paisley,” I mused as I brought her downstairs. “Kind of a cute name, I guess. I wonder what your middle name is. And did she give you my last name or hers? It’s kind of fucked up that I don’t know my own kid’s full name, don’t you think? And maybe I should stop saying fuck.”
Downstairs, I spread a blanket out on a rug and put her on it with her stuffed bear, stretching out next to her on my side. She lay happily on her back and wiggled around, making little sounds and drooling up a storm while I yawned and tried to stay awake. My God, was every night going to be like last night? I wouldn’t survive. No one could.
Eventually, she started to cry again, and I picked her up, trying the bouncing thing Emme had done last night. She still wouldn’t quiet down, so I tried singing her a song. I wasn’t the best singer in the world but by the time I’d fudged my way through a few Christmas tunes, which were the only ones I knew all the words to, she had drifted off to sleep.
I looked longingly at the couch.
Maybe I could lie down for a few minutes. Close my eyes. That was all I needed, a few minutes with my eyes closed. But could I manage to do it without waking her up? Suddenly I thought of the thousands of times I had simply flopped onto the couch for a Saturday nap with zero appreciation for how easy it had been. Flopping was definitely not an option today. Instead, I eased myself into a sitting position so slowly that my leg muscles were shaking. Then I carefully pivoted, wincing at the sound my pajama pants made as they squeaked on the leather. Finally, I leaned back at the rate of about one inch every ten seconds, so that my abs were practically screaming when I was done. But I did it—I succeeded in lying down on the couch without waking the baby.
I carefully maneuvered Paisley so that she lay with her belly on mine, her head on my chest. I kept one hand on her back, one hand on her butt, and one foot on the floor just in case (in case of what I had no idea, but it seemed like a good idea), and closed my eyes.
Sweet Jesus, it was amazing.
“Nate.” A hand on my shoulder. “Nate.”
I opened my eyes, and saw Emme standing next to the couch. But I was confused, because she’d gone home wearing her jeans and sweater, and here she was wearing only my T-shirt again. The light was strange too. Some sort of golden glow seemed to shine from behind her, like it had on the stairway this morning, but that was impossible because there were no windows behind her. I tried to speak but couldn’t. She smiled and put a finger to her lips. “Shhhhhh.” Then with no warning whatsoever, she whipped the shirt over her head, and stood there naked from the waist up. My cock jumped. My mouth watered. My hands trembled with the need to touch her skin. But I couldn’t move—I was paralyzed. All I could do was look at her and groan with longing, like a teenage boy with a centerfold.
“Nate. Nate. Wake up.” The hand was on my shoulder again, this time shaking me insistently. I opened my eyes, for real this time, but it took a moment for the fog to clear. I propped myself up on my elbows and blinked at Emme, who stood there—alas, fully clothed—holding Paisley in her arms and looking at me curiously. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice was scratchy, so I cleared my throat.
She smiled. “You must have been dreaming.”
“Really? What makes you say that?” I swung myself into a seated position so fast my head spun.
“You were moaning and groaning and squirming around.” She looked at Paisley and rubbed noses with her—an Eskimo kiss. “Wasn’t he, peanut?”
The whole shirtless scenario came back to me in a heartbeat, and my skin felt hot beneath my clothes. Well, my pajamas, since I hadn’t gotten dressed yet.
“What were you dreaming about?” she asked me.
I feigned ignorance. “I can’t remember. Did you just get here?”
“About ten minutes ago. Paisley was starting to fuss, but you were sound asleep, so I picked her up and changed her. I’ll get a bottle going while you shower, if you want. It’s been about four hours since she last ate.”
“Has it really?”
She laughed. “Yeah. You guys had, like, a three-hour nap. I’m jealous. Mine was only about an hour.”
Emme headed for the kitchen with Paisley in her arms, so I stood up and quickly headed for the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t notice my erection. I went up to my bedroom, undressed, and got in the shower, feeling increasingly bad about the dream I’d just had—especially since she’d been watching me have it. It felt like getting caught doing something inappropriate.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I stood under the spray, letting it pummel my face and chest for a solid five minutes as I relived that magical moment in my dream when Emme had removed her shirt. Had I ever wanted to touch someone so badly, even in real life? Had I ever been so frustrated that I couldn’t? Had I ever felt so guilty about wanting to know what someone’s curves felt like beneath my palms? My lips? My tongue?
I turned around and braced myself on the opposite wall, letting the water hit my back and rain down my body. I wasn’t used to feeling guilty about wanting anything. Not money, not status, not success, not women. Not even about fantasizing about Emme, which I had done plenty of times before without really thinking twice.
So why did I feel bad about it now? What was different? Was it because she was helping me? Was it because I was a father now and fathers weren’t supposed to act that way? Was it because I suddenly didn’t know who I was or how I was supposed to think or what to do with these strange feelings that were threatening to upset the careful balance of my life?
Stop it, I told myself. This kind of self-pity is beneath you. Yes, your world is different, but you are still you. Maybe this fatherhood thing wasn’t in the script you wrote for your life, but you still have control over your actions.
Control. That was the key. I wanted a measure of control.
I straightened up and took my rock hard dick in my hand, determined to feel like my fucking self, even if it was for five stolen minutes in the shower. I pictured Emme on purpose, reclaiming the dream, the way she’d looked last night sipping a martini on my couch, leaning back on the counter in my kitchen, sleeping next to me in my bed. Behind closed eyes I watched her come down the stairs this morning in my T-shirt, her legs bare, her hair messy.
She laughed. “We’ll think of something. See you in a bit.”
As soon she was gone, I realized I should’ve gone to the bathroom while she was here. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just set Paisley down. My apartment was full of hard surfaces and sharp objects, a parental nightmare. But I couldn’t bring her in the bathroom with me either. That didn’t seem right. In the end, I ended up strapping her into the car seat and leaving it in my closet right outside the bathroom door. But I felt guilty about it because she cried the whole time, even though I was in there for less than a minute. I opened the door as soon as my hands were clean and picked her up again. “I’m still here,” I told her. “See? I’m still here.”
She stopped crying, and I marveled at how quickly a baby could become attached to someone. How easily they trusted. Yesterday at this time, she had never seen me, never heard my voice, never even knew I existed. Now I had the power to calm her just by holding her and talking to her. It was sort of sweet, but also scary as hell. I wasn’t sure I deserved that kind of trust, and I certainly didn’t feel like I had earned it. But maybe I could make that up to her. For the first time, an overwhelming urge to protect her struck me, and I found myself furious at Rachel, not just for lying to me or springing this on me, but for abandoning our child. I was more aware every passing minute of what she must’ve been going through trying to parent on her own, but she should have reached out. There was no excuse for leaving Paisley alone the way she had.
“Paisley,” I mused as I brought her downstairs. “Kind of a cute name, I guess. I wonder what your middle name is. And did she give you my last name or hers? It’s kind of fucked up that I don’t know my own kid’s full name, don’t you think? And maybe I should stop saying fuck.”
Downstairs, I spread a blanket out on a rug and put her on it with her stuffed bear, stretching out next to her on my side. She lay happily on her back and wiggled around, making little sounds and drooling up a storm while I yawned and tried to stay awake. My God, was every night going to be like last night? I wouldn’t survive. No one could.
Eventually, she started to cry again, and I picked her up, trying the bouncing thing Emme had done last night. She still wouldn’t quiet down, so I tried singing her a song. I wasn’t the best singer in the world but by the time I’d fudged my way through a few Christmas tunes, which were the only ones I knew all the words to, she had drifted off to sleep.
I looked longingly at the couch.
Maybe I could lie down for a few minutes. Close my eyes. That was all I needed, a few minutes with my eyes closed. But could I manage to do it without waking her up? Suddenly I thought of the thousands of times I had simply flopped onto the couch for a Saturday nap with zero appreciation for how easy it had been. Flopping was definitely not an option today. Instead, I eased myself into a sitting position so slowly that my leg muscles were shaking. Then I carefully pivoted, wincing at the sound my pajama pants made as they squeaked on the leather. Finally, I leaned back at the rate of about one inch every ten seconds, so that my abs were practically screaming when I was done. But I did it—I succeeded in lying down on the couch without waking the baby.
I carefully maneuvered Paisley so that she lay with her belly on mine, her head on my chest. I kept one hand on her back, one hand on her butt, and one foot on the floor just in case (in case of what I had no idea, but it seemed like a good idea), and closed my eyes.
Sweet Jesus, it was amazing.
“Nate.” A hand on my shoulder. “Nate.”
I opened my eyes, and saw Emme standing next to the couch. But I was confused, because she’d gone home wearing her jeans and sweater, and here she was wearing only my T-shirt again. The light was strange too. Some sort of golden glow seemed to shine from behind her, like it had on the stairway this morning, but that was impossible because there were no windows behind her. I tried to speak but couldn’t. She smiled and put a finger to her lips. “Shhhhhh.” Then with no warning whatsoever, she whipped the shirt over her head, and stood there naked from the waist up. My cock jumped. My mouth watered. My hands trembled with the need to touch her skin. But I couldn’t move—I was paralyzed. All I could do was look at her and groan with longing, like a teenage boy with a centerfold.
“Nate. Nate. Wake up.” The hand was on my shoulder again, this time shaking me insistently. I opened my eyes, for real this time, but it took a moment for the fog to clear. I propped myself up on my elbows and blinked at Emme, who stood there—alas, fully clothed—holding Paisley in her arms and looking at me curiously. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice was scratchy, so I cleared my throat.
She smiled. “You must have been dreaming.”
“Really? What makes you say that?” I swung myself into a seated position so fast my head spun.
“You were moaning and groaning and squirming around.” She looked at Paisley and rubbed noses with her—an Eskimo kiss. “Wasn’t he, peanut?”
The whole shirtless scenario came back to me in a heartbeat, and my skin felt hot beneath my clothes. Well, my pajamas, since I hadn’t gotten dressed yet.
“What were you dreaming about?” she asked me.
I feigned ignorance. “I can’t remember. Did you just get here?”
“About ten minutes ago. Paisley was starting to fuss, but you were sound asleep, so I picked her up and changed her. I’ll get a bottle going while you shower, if you want. It’s been about four hours since she last ate.”
“Has it really?”
She laughed. “Yeah. You guys had, like, a three-hour nap. I’m jealous. Mine was only about an hour.”
Emme headed for the kitchen with Paisley in her arms, so I stood up and quickly headed for the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t notice my erection. I went up to my bedroom, undressed, and got in the shower, feeling increasingly bad about the dream I’d just had—especially since she’d been watching me have it. It felt like getting caught doing something inappropriate.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I stood under the spray, letting it pummel my face and chest for a solid five minutes as I relived that magical moment in my dream when Emme had removed her shirt. Had I ever wanted to touch someone so badly, even in real life? Had I ever been so frustrated that I couldn’t? Had I ever felt so guilty about wanting to know what someone’s curves felt like beneath my palms? My lips? My tongue?
I turned around and braced myself on the opposite wall, letting the water hit my back and rain down my body. I wasn’t used to feeling guilty about wanting anything. Not money, not status, not success, not women. Not even about fantasizing about Emme, which I had done plenty of times before without really thinking twice.
So why did I feel bad about it now? What was different? Was it because she was helping me? Was it because I was a father now and fathers weren’t supposed to act that way? Was it because I suddenly didn’t know who I was or how I was supposed to think or what to do with these strange feelings that were threatening to upset the careful balance of my life?
Stop it, I told myself. This kind of self-pity is beneath you. Yes, your world is different, but you are still you. Maybe this fatherhood thing wasn’t in the script you wrote for your life, but you still have control over your actions.
Control. That was the key. I wanted a measure of control.
I straightened up and took my rock hard dick in my hand, determined to feel like my fucking self, even if it was for five stolen minutes in the shower. I pictured Emme on purpose, reclaiming the dream, the way she’d looked last night sipping a martini on my couch, leaning back on the counter in my kitchen, sleeping next to me in my bed. Behind closed eyes I watched her come down the stairs this morning in my T-shirt, her legs bare, her hair messy.
