He yawned. “Maybe. Guess I’ll change out of this suit before she wakes up.”
I waited for a moment, hoping he’d at least give me a hug or kiss on the cheek—something to acknowledge the change in our status. It had changed, hadn’t it? Or had last night been only a dream?
But he didn’t touch me. In fact, he didn’t even look at me.
“Thanks again for watching her,” he said, heading for the stairs. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s okay.” The apple fritter balled up in my stomach. “I’ll…talk to you later.”
He said nothing and disappeared into his bedroom, and I let myself out.
It happened, I thought, my stomach churning. I’m one of those girls.
Ten
Nate
Upstairs, I glanced at Paisley, who was still asleep, then fell back onto my bed, loosened my tie, and closed my eyes.
I’d never been so fucking tired.
Not as a kid, when I’d lain awake in bed, worrying all night about my brother, praying for a cure, a reprieve, a miracle. Not in college, when I’d pledged a fraternity and the active members kept us up twenty-four hours a day mopping floors, collecting beer cans, and doing their fucking laundry. Not in law school, when I’d study all night for days on end before an exam, then crash for twelve hours afterward.
But it wasn’t only physical exhaustion. I was worn the fuck out mentally and emotionally too. Word of my situation had buzzed through the office fast. Everyone had been shocked, both that I had a daughter and that I was taking responsibility for her. That kind of pissed me off—did they think I would be so callous as to turn away my own child? A ton of people had burst out laughing. You? With a daughter? A few people offered congratulations and advice, but more common were things like, Oh man. Wouldn’t want to be you. Or, You know your life is over, right? A few (male) colleagues expressed sympathy, saying shit like, “Dude, bitch had no right to do that to you,” which only made me angrier. An older attorney at the firm told me, “Welcome to fatherhood, eighteen years of sleep deprivation, feeling like a failure, taking the blame, and going broke. Least you don’t have to worry about all the damage your divorce will do.”
My God, by the time I left there, I was totally demoralized. My nerve endings were beyond frayed. I felt like my life was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing I could do to keep it together, or even keep it recognizable.
Paisley was one thing—how did fathers handle the constant pressure and doubt? Every second of the day, I was responsible for her. If anything happened, it was on me. As the days went by, I felt more confident with the routine, but Christ. When I thought ahead to eighteen years of this, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. For fuck’s sake, I’d be over FIFTY when she graduated from high school. FIFTY, worried about my teenage daughter out drinking or getting into someone’s car who had. FIFTY, waiting for her to get home after she’d broken her curfew. FIFTY, panicking about her hanging out with guys like me who’d only been interested in one thing at sixteen. Was it too early to think about sending her to a convent as soon as she hit puberty?
Fucking puberty. That was another thing. How was I supposed to handle that? What if Rachel was a total flake and never came back for her? For fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even called since Saturday morning! What kind of mother could she be? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that she’d simply abandoned my child in some random hallway. She could have knocked. She could have asked me for help. She could have done any number of things that wouldn’t have put Paisley in danger. Even if she did come back, how would I know that my daughter would be safe with her?
Then there were the practical matters. If I was going to support a child, I had to work. That meant I needed a regular babysitter, in addition to finding a new place to live.
There were also legal matters. I’d filled out the Affidavit of Parentage the state of Michigan required in order to claim paternity, but I needed Rachel’s information and signature. Then we’d have to work out a custody agreement.
There would be financial matters to deal with, too—child support. Health insurance. College fund. My will and trust. And I still had to face bringing Paisley home to meet my mother next weekend.
And Emme. I’d meant everything I’d said to her last night, but I was so damn terrified. Throughout the night, whether it was Paisley keeping me up or my anxiety, I just kept thinking of all the ways I could blow it with Emme.
Like today, I could tell she’d been looking for some display of affection from me, some sign that she was more to me than just the nanny—and she was, my God, she was—but I hadn’t been able to give it to her. Even after what we’d done last night, something in me wouldn’t allow it. I’d stood there like a fucking telephone pole when she’d tried to hug me. Why was I such a dick? Was I afraid of giving her too much hope? Was I trying to lower her expectations even further? Was I too entrenched in my emotional foxhole, the one I’d dug so many years ago and refused to climb out of?
Because the crazy thing was, I’d wanted to kiss her. Hold her for a moment. Feel like myself again, the way I’d felt during sex last night. I’d wanted to pull her in close, smell her hair and her skin, so I’d have the memory of it throughout the day. I’d wanted to tell her what was wrong when she asked, wanted to admit how upset I’d been by the reactions of people at work. I’d wanted to say Yes, come back later, have dinner with me again, lie with me again, and this time, don’t leave. Let me hold you in my arms as we fall asleep. Let me breathe you in all night. And whatever you do, don’t let me push you away, because I’m going to try.
What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
I couldn’t even think. I fell asleep right there on my back, fully clothed, shoes on, feet on the floor arms outstretched, and dreamt I was being buried alive.
Eleven
Emme
Back in my apartment, I changed out of my jeans and shirt and put on black pants, a blush-colored blouse that tied around the neck, and low heels. We were actually just going to have lunch at her house, but I still wanted to appear professional. I’d learned a lot from both Mia and Coco, including that personal appearances matter, especially in our business.
Not that Nate had noticed much about my appearance this morning.
Annoyed, I frowned at my reflection as I wound my hair into a bun. Was I being unreasonable? Needy? Impatient? Had I been wrong about myself last night?
Maybe. But I didn’t think so. And I couldn’t shake the sense of resentment brewing as I drove over to Coco’s. My expectations were pretty low, but they weren’t nonexistent. I didn’t need to be the center of his universe, but I’d at least like to feel like a part of the sky.
Coco and her husband, Nick, lived in a big, beautiful old home in Indian Village, one of Detroit’s historic neighborhoods. They claimed it had been a giant mess when they bought it, and that something was always going wrong with it, but to my eye it looked perfect. Big flowerbeds waiting to be planted out front, huge rooms with high ceilings and crown moldings, gorgeous original wood floors that creaked when you walked on them, reminding you this house had a history. They had bumped out the back of the house in order to put on an addition with a big modern kitchen and family room, and since the house had been built on a double lot they’d still had enough room to put in a pool and patio with a built-in grill. Nick was a chef and owned several restaurants in the city, as well as the apartment building Nate and I lived in, which was how I managed to afford such a beautiful loft. They gave me a great deal on the rent.
I knocked on the big wooden front door about 12:15, and Nick answered it. Like Nate, Nick was tall, dark, and handsome, although in an entirely different way. Nick was clean-shaven, with olive skin and deep brown eyes, and his arms were sleeved with tattoos. I’d attended several pool parties here at their house and knew that he had them on his back and chest too. Once I asked him if he had a favorite, and he pointed to the one on his left pec, which was a heart with an arrow through it and said Coco at the top. “It was my first one,” he’d told me, “and will always be my favorite.” Coco had rolled her eyes, but she’d kissed his cheek, and I could tell she was happy about it. I was sort of in love with them as a couple. Not in a creepy way—but for me, they were the gold standard of a relationship, and Nick was the ultimate husband. All man, but not afraid to let his feelings show.
I waited for a moment, hoping he’d at least give me a hug or kiss on the cheek—something to acknowledge the change in our status. It had changed, hadn’t it? Or had last night been only a dream?
But he didn’t touch me. In fact, he didn’t even look at me.
“Thanks again for watching her,” he said, heading for the stairs. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s okay.” The apple fritter balled up in my stomach. “I’ll…talk to you later.”
He said nothing and disappeared into his bedroom, and I let myself out.
It happened, I thought, my stomach churning. I’m one of those girls.
Ten
Nate
Upstairs, I glanced at Paisley, who was still asleep, then fell back onto my bed, loosened my tie, and closed my eyes.
I’d never been so fucking tired.
Not as a kid, when I’d lain awake in bed, worrying all night about my brother, praying for a cure, a reprieve, a miracle. Not in college, when I’d pledged a fraternity and the active members kept us up twenty-four hours a day mopping floors, collecting beer cans, and doing their fucking laundry. Not in law school, when I’d study all night for days on end before an exam, then crash for twelve hours afterward.
But it wasn’t only physical exhaustion. I was worn the fuck out mentally and emotionally too. Word of my situation had buzzed through the office fast. Everyone had been shocked, both that I had a daughter and that I was taking responsibility for her. That kind of pissed me off—did they think I would be so callous as to turn away my own child? A ton of people had burst out laughing. You? With a daughter? A few people offered congratulations and advice, but more common were things like, Oh man. Wouldn’t want to be you. Or, You know your life is over, right? A few (male) colleagues expressed sympathy, saying shit like, “Dude, bitch had no right to do that to you,” which only made me angrier. An older attorney at the firm told me, “Welcome to fatherhood, eighteen years of sleep deprivation, feeling like a failure, taking the blame, and going broke. Least you don’t have to worry about all the damage your divorce will do.”
My God, by the time I left there, I was totally demoralized. My nerve endings were beyond frayed. I felt like my life was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing I could do to keep it together, or even keep it recognizable.
Paisley was one thing—how did fathers handle the constant pressure and doubt? Every second of the day, I was responsible for her. If anything happened, it was on me. As the days went by, I felt more confident with the routine, but Christ. When I thought ahead to eighteen years of this, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. For fuck’s sake, I’d be over FIFTY when she graduated from high school. FIFTY, worried about my teenage daughter out drinking or getting into someone’s car who had. FIFTY, waiting for her to get home after she’d broken her curfew. FIFTY, panicking about her hanging out with guys like me who’d only been interested in one thing at sixteen. Was it too early to think about sending her to a convent as soon as she hit puberty?
Fucking puberty. That was another thing. How was I supposed to handle that? What if Rachel was a total flake and never came back for her? For fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even called since Saturday morning! What kind of mother could she be? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that she’d simply abandoned my child in some random hallway. She could have knocked. She could have asked me for help. She could have done any number of things that wouldn’t have put Paisley in danger. Even if she did come back, how would I know that my daughter would be safe with her?
Then there were the practical matters. If I was going to support a child, I had to work. That meant I needed a regular babysitter, in addition to finding a new place to live.
There were also legal matters. I’d filled out the Affidavit of Parentage the state of Michigan required in order to claim paternity, but I needed Rachel’s information and signature. Then we’d have to work out a custody agreement.
There would be financial matters to deal with, too—child support. Health insurance. College fund. My will and trust. And I still had to face bringing Paisley home to meet my mother next weekend.
And Emme. I’d meant everything I’d said to her last night, but I was so damn terrified. Throughout the night, whether it was Paisley keeping me up or my anxiety, I just kept thinking of all the ways I could blow it with Emme.
Like today, I could tell she’d been looking for some display of affection from me, some sign that she was more to me than just the nanny—and she was, my God, she was—but I hadn’t been able to give it to her. Even after what we’d done last night, something in me wouldn’t allow it. I’d stood there like a fucking telephone pole when she’d tried to hug me. Why was I such a dick? Was I afraid of giving her too much hope? Was I trying to lower her expectations even further? Was I too entrenched in my emotional foxhole, the one I’d dug so many years ago and refused to climb out of?
Because the crazy thing was, I’d wanted to kiss her. Hold her for a moment. Feel like myself again, the way I’d felt during sex last night. I’d wanted to pull her in close, smell her hair and her skin, so I’d have the memory of it throughout the day. I’d wanted to tell her what was wrong when she asked, wanted to admit how upset I’d been by the reactions of people at work. I’d wanted to say Yes, come back later, have dinner with me again, lie with me again, and this time, don’t leave. Let me hold you in my arms as we fall asleep. Let me breathe you in all night. And whatever you do, don’t let me push you away, because I’m going to try.
What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
I couldn’t even think. I fell asleep right there on my back, fully clothed, shoes on, feet on the floor arms outstretched, and dreamt I was being buried alive.
Eleven
Emme
Back in my apartment, I changed out of my jeans and shirt and put on black pants, a blush-colored blouse that tied around the neck, and low heels. We were actually just going to have lunch at her house, but I still wanted to appear professional. I’d learned a lot from both Mia and Coco, including that personal appearances matter, especially in our business.
Not that Nate had noticed much about my appearance this morning.
Annoyed, I frowned at my reflection as I wound my hair into a bun. Was I being unreasonable? Needy? Impatient? Had I been wrong about myself last night?
Maybe. But I didn’t think so. And I couldn’t shake the sense of resentment brewing as I drove over to Coco’s. My expectations were pretty low, but they weren’t nonexistent. I didn’t need to be the center of his universe, but I’d at least like to feel like a part of the sky.
Coco and her husband, Nick, lived in a big, beautiful old home in Indian Village, one of Detroit’s historic neighborhoods. They claimed it had been a giant mess when they bought it, and that something was always going wrong with it, but to my eye it looked perfect. Big flowerbeds waiting to be planted out front, huge rooms with high ceilings and crown moldings, gorgeous original wood floors that creaked when you walked on them, reminding you this house had a history. They had bumped out the back of the house in order to put on an addition with a big modern kitchen and family room, and since the house had been built on a double lot they’d still had enough room to put in a pool and patio with a built-in grill. Nick was a chef and owned several restaurants in the city, as well as the apartment building Nate and I lived in, which was how I managed to afford such a beautiful loft. They gave me a great deal on the rent.
I knocked on the big wooden front door about 12:15, and Nick answered it. Like Nate, Nick was tall, dark, and handsome, although in an entirely different way. Nick was clean-shaven, with olive skin and deep brown eyes, and his arms were sleeved with tattoos. I’d attended several pool parties here at their house and knew that he had them on his back and chest too. Once I asked him if he had a favorite, and he pointed to the one on his left pec, which was a heart with an arrow through it and said Coco at the top. “It was my first one,” he’d told me, “and will always be my favorite.” Coco had rolled her eyes, but she’d kissed his cheek, and I could tell she was happy about it. I was sort of in love with them as a couple. Not in a creepy way—but for me, they were the gold standard of a relationship, and Nick was the ultimate husband. All man, but not afraid to let his feelings show.
