Maybe I was reading too much into this. Maybe he was just a hot dude with a big ego who couldn’t stand for anyone, especially a woman, to get the better of him. And maybe all these fleeting romantic feelings on my part were a silly, biological response to seeing a man with a baby. After all, I hadn’t had these urges around him before Paisley showed up. Not very many of them anyway. A handful—okay, a couple dozen maybe, and I blamed good genetics for that. Who wouldn’t be attracted to him, with that face and that body? Of course, there was also his sense of humor, his brain, his reliability, his generosity, and his knack for mixing the perfect dirty martini, but those were all good qualities in a friend. And that’s what we were. Friends.
That’s why he cares what you think, silly. Because you’re friends. He knows you were being honest with him last night, because there has never been any bullshit between you. No sex to cloud judgment. No jealousy. No reason for either of you to cut the other down.
And we had, hadn’t we? As much as we liked to bicker, last night had been our first real fight, the first personal insults hurled, the first hurtful “punches” thrown. But we’d gotten through it.
That’s true, you did. So when are you going to deal with what he said about you?
I frowned as I signaled and changed lanes on Woodward Avenue. Since last night, I had done a good job ignoring the voice in my head demanding I take a closer look at what he’d said about me. I really didn’t want to, mostly because it was sort of true. I did tend to fall in love with anyone I slept with. I did want each lover to be the one. Why else would I be with him?
My sisters had all kinds of opinions about this. Analytical Stella thought I chose the wrong guys on purpose, some crap about my subconscious self being afraid the kind of love I wanted didn’t really exist. She thought this probably stemmed from our parents’ divorce, but I constantly reminded her that their split had been amicable, and no one blamed Dad for leaving, least of all Mom. For crying out loud, he was married to a man now, a wonderful guy named Roberto, who we all adored—even our mother. Free-spirited Maren thought I was simply trying too hard, moving too fast. She was always telling me I needed to take time for myself, turn my focus inward, and concentrate on achieving harmony within my body and mind. Sometimes I tried to do what she said, but it never worked. For one thing, the inner workings of my mind were kind of frightening at times, and I never enjoyed examining them up close.
I pulled into the parking lot next to the old Model T factory, gathered my things, and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. Then I couldn’t resist taking my phone out of my bag and texting Nate.
How’s it going? Everything okay?
I gave it a minute but he didn’t reply, and I really didn’t have any extra time. My professional reputation was very important to me. Dropping my phone back in my bag, I got out of the car, locked it up, and hurried through the cold March wind into the building.
But when it was five o’clock and the ceremony was about to start and he still hadn’t answered my message, I started to worry. Which was silly, right? He’d have called or texted if anything was wrong. Still, I was nervous enough to shoot off a quick question as the grandmothers were being seated.
You two okay?
Nothing.
The processional music started and I had no choice but to slip my phone into my pocket and concentrate on pulling off a smooth event, pleasing as many people as possible with as few delays or hitches as possible, answering everybody’s questions, and ensuring that everything from the flowers to the music to the timing—the fucking timing—to the food to the drinks to the photography to the toast to the first dance to the cutting of the cake went off exactly as the bride had envisioned it. This was a fairly big, high-profile wedding, and pictures of the event were sure to make it into the glossy pages of local press. Since Coco wasn’t here, I was working by myself, and felt the weight of our business’s reputation on my shoulders. For that reason, I didn’t get a chance to even look at my phone again until much later in the evening.
When I did, I gasped. I had 42 messages. All from Nate.
Many of them were questions.
Why won’t she eat?
She’s supposed to sleep on her back, right?
When do I give her a bath? Should I wait until she’s messy?
How often am I supposed to change her?
Is it safe to leave her in that swing while I go to the bathroom?
Why won’t she stop crying?
Why is her poop that color?
Fuck am I supposed to trim her nails?
Why doesn’t she like naps as much as I do?
Sometimes they were just frustrations.
She won’t go to sleep.
She won’t finish her bottle.
She won’t burp.
She hates me.
She threw up on my sock.
I can’t do this. Help me.
HELLLLPMEEEE.
Then he must have gotten her to go to sleep and started reading his new books because his messages were full of things he was learning.
Did you know babies get acne?
Did you know you can predict how tall a baby will be?
Did you know she is supposed to be gaining half a pound a week?
Did you know most babies are born on a Tuesday? Did you know you could tell if your baby is the Dalai Lama or not by checking for large ears, long eyes, eyebrows curving up at the ends, streaks on the legs, and a mark in the shape of a conch shell on the palm of one hand? (Note: I do not believe Paisley is the Dalai Lama.)
Then there were actually some positive messages.
I take back what I said about the sling.
I think she just smiled at me.
She definitely likes my singing voice (she might be the only one).
She finished her bottle!
She is trying to roll over already, I think she might be a genius.
She’s sleeping!
I was about to text him back when I heard the mother of the bride calling my name. Sighing, I dropped my phone into my jacket pocket and went back to work. Overall, it sounded like Nate and Paisley were doing okay. I’d check on them when I got home.
It ended up being close to midnight by the time I left the reception, and by then my phone was dead. I hadn’t charged it last night at Nate’s and I’d been so tired this morning that I’d neglected to plug it in. As I approached Nate’s door, I could hear the sound of Paisley crying. Wincing, I knocked.
Nate opened the door, his hair a mess, his feet bare, his expression desperate, his daughter in the sling against his chest. His button-down from earlier was gone, and he wore only a navy T-shirt and jeans. “Oh thank God,” he said. “I thought you were dead, and I need you.”
“You didn’t care that I was dead?” My heart was beating a little bit faster at the sight of him wearing that sling, but I ignored it as I went into his apartment and shrugged out of my suit jacket.
“I did, I swear. And I was going to mourn you properly as soon as possible.”
I dropped my jacket onto a chrome and leather chair and reached for Paisley, pulling her from the sling. “Hey, you. What’s the matter?”
Nate rubbed his face with both hands. “I have no idea why she won’t stop crying. It’s exactly like last night. She was relatively fine all evening, even took a pretty decent nap in the swing, but then it was like someone flipped a switch at ten o’clock and she turned into the devil. Her head has spun all the way around like five times.”
Laughing, I stepped out of my heels and left them by the chair with my jacket. “When did she last eat?”
“I don’t know. I kept trying to feed her, but I think that was a mistake because she ended up only taking like half an ounce to an ounce every so often. She never got hungry enough to drink a whole bottle.” Nate ditched the sling, flopped onto the couch, and flung an arm over his eyes. “I keep reading about schedules, like you’re supposed to get your baby on a schedule, but how the fuck is that even possible?”
“A schedule is a great idea, but she might be a little bit young for that.” I bounced Paisley in my arms, holding her tight. “Did you try the pacifier?”
“I’ve tried everything.”
“Did you ever give her a bath?”
He removed his arm from his head and gave me a guilty look. “No. I was too nervous.”
That’s why he cares what you think, silly. Because you’re friends. He knows you were being honest with him last night, because there has never been any bullshit between you. No sex to cloud judgment. No jealousy. No reason for either of you to cut the other down.
And we had, hadn’t we? As much as we liked to bicker, last night had been our first real fight, the first personal insults hurled, the first hurtful “punches” thrown. But we’d gotten through it.
That’s true, you did. So when are you going to deal with what he said about you?
I frowned as I signaled and changed lanes on Woodward Avenue. Since last night, I had done a good job ignoring the voice in my head demanding I take a closer look at what he’d said about me. I really didn’t want to, mostly because it was sort of true. I did tend to fall in love with anyone I slept with. I did want each lover to be the one. Why else would I be with him?
My sisters had all kinds of opinions about this. Analytical Stella thought I chose the wrong guys on purpose, some crap about my subconscious self being afraid the kind of love I wanted didn’t really exist. She thought this probably stemmed from our parents’ divorce, but I constantly reminded her that their split had been amicable, and no one blamed Dad for leaving, least of all Mom. For crying out loud, he was married to a man now, a wonderful guy named Roberto, who we all adored—even our mother. Free-spirited Maren thought I was simply trying too hard, moving too fast. She was always telling me I needed to take time for myself, turn my focus inward, and concentrate on achieving harmony within my body and mind. Sometimes I tried to do what she said, but it never worked. For one thing, the inner workings of my mind were kind of frightening at times, and I never enjoyed examining them up close.
I pulled into the parking lot next to the old Model T factory, gathered my things, and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. Then I couldn’t resist taking my phone out of my bag and texting Nate.
How’s it going? Everything okay?
I gave it a minute but he didn’t reply, and I really didn’t have any extra time. My professional reputation was very important to me. Dropping my phone back in my bag, I got out of the car, locked it up, and hurried through the cold March wind into the building.
But when it was five o’clock and the ceremony was about to start and he still hadn’t answered my message, I started to worry. Which was silly, right? He’d have called or texted if anything was wrong. Still, I was nervous enough to shoot off a quick question as the grandmothers were being seated.
You two okay?
Nothing.
The processional music started and I had no choice but to slip my phone into my pocket and concentrate on pulling off a smooth event, pleasing as many people as possible with as few delays or hitches as possible, answering everybody’s questions, and ensuring that everything from the flowers to the music to the timing—the fucking timing—to the food to the drinks to the photography to the toast to the first dance to the cutting of the cake went off exactly as the bride had envisioned it. This was a fairly big, high-profile wedding, and pictures of the event were sure to make it into the glossy pages of local press. Since Coco wasn’t here, I was working by myself, and felt the weight of our business’s reputation on my shoulders. For that reason, I didn’t get a chance to even look at my phone again until much later in the evening.
When I did, I gasped. I had 42 messages. All from Nate.
Many of them were questions.
Why won’t she eat?
She’s supposed to sleep on her back, right?
When do I give her a bath? Should I wait until she’s messy?
How often am I supposed to change her?
Is it safe to leave her in that swing while I go to the bathroom?
Why won’t she stop crying?
Why is her poop that color?
Fuck am I supposed to trim her nails?
Why doesn’t she like naps as much as I do?
Sometimes they were just frustrations.
She won’t go to sleep.
She won’t finish her bottle.
She won’t burp.
She hates me.
She threw up on my sock.
I can’t do this. Help me.
HELLLLPMEEEE.
Then he must have gotten her to go to sleep and started reading his new books because his messages were full of things he was learning.
Did you know babies get acne?
Did you know you can predict how tall a baby will be?
Did you know she is supposed to be gaining half a pound a week?
Did you know most babies are born on a Tuesday? Did you know you could tell if your baby is the Dalai Lama or not by checking for large ears, long eyes, eyebrows curving up at the ends, streaks on the legs, and a mark in the shape of a conch shell on the palm of one hand? (Note: I do not believe Paisley is the Dalai Lama.)
Then there were actually some positive messages.
I take back what I said about the sling.
I think she just smiled at me.
She definitely likes my singing voice (she might be the only one).
She finished her bottle!
She is trying to roll over already, I think she might be a genius.
She’s sleeping!
I was about to text him back when I heard the mother of the bride calling my name. Sighing, I dropped my phone into my jacket pocket and went back to work. Overall, it sounded like Nate and Paisley were doing okay. I’d check on them when I got home.
It ended up being close to midnight by the time I left the reception, and by then my phone was dead. I hadn’t charged it last night at Nate’s and I’d been so tired this morning that I’d neglected to plug it in. As I approached Nate’s door, I could hear the sound of Paisley crying. Wincing, I knocked.
Nate opened the door, his hair a mess, his feet bare, his expression desperate, his daughter in the sling against his chest. His button-down from earlier was gone, and he wore only a navy T-shirt and jeans. “Oh thank God,” he said. “I thought you were dead, and I need you.”
“You didn’t care that I was dead?” My heart was beating a little bit faster at the sight of him wearing that sling, but I ignored it as I went into his apartment and shrugged out of my suit jacket.
“I did, I swear. And I was going to mourn you properly as soon as possible.”
I dropped my jacket onto a chrome and leather chair and reached for Paisley, pulling her from the sling. “Hey, you. What’s the matter?”
Nate rubbed his face with both hands. “I have no idea why she won’t stop crying. It’s exactly like last night. She was relatively fine all evening, even took a pretty decent nap in the swing, but then it was like someone flipped a switch at ten o’clock and she turned into the devil. Her head has spun all the way around like five times.”
Laughing, I stepped out of my heels and left them by the chair with my jacket. “When did she last eat?”
“I don’t know. I kept trying to feed her, but I think that was a mistake because she ended up only taking like half an ounce to an ounce every so often. She never got hungry enough to drink a whole bottle.” Nate ditched the sling, flopped onto the couch, and flung an arm over his eyes. “I keep reading about schedules, like you’re supposed to get your baby on a schedule, but how the fuck is that even possible?”
“A schedule is a great idea, but she might be a little bit young for that.” I bounced Paisley in my arms, holding her tight. “Did you try the pacifier?”
“I’ve tried everything.”
“Did you ever give her a bath?”
He removed his arm from his head and gave me a guilty look. “No. I was too nervous.”
