by Stacey Lynn
“Thanks for stopping by.” I’ve surprised her by my abrupt tone and change in subject, but it can’t be helped. The realization has knocked all the wind from my sails. It’s probably best for everyone if Mikah and I go back to occasional nods while we duck behind our doors.
Hannah licks her lips like she has something else to say but whatever she must see on my face stops her. She takes one more sip of her wine and nods. “Thanks again for being there for him. I’ll see you around?”
“Sure.” Most likely, absolutely not.
I walk her to the door and tell her good night and when the door is closed behind me, I settle my back against it. All the insanity of the evening slides from my body and if it was visible, it’d be a pool of emotions jumbling at my feet.
I need sleep and to forget tonight ever happened.
The problem is once I do finally fall asleep, hours later, after tossing and turning, I swear I’m awakened by the quiet sounds of a baby crying and my dreams are filled with strollers and diapers and baby laughs and handsome smiles that come from the guy across the hall.
The guy who I’ve crushed on for months, and who now, will probably never be mine.
Chapter Seven
Mikah
* * *
I suck at everything parenting and baby related. I’m still in the clothes I threw on Friday night in a hurry. I haven’t had time to take a shower. I’m not sure when the last time I ate was… probably when Byron and Hannah brought food. I’m certain I haven’t brushed my teeth since yesterday.
Angelo hates me. He has to with the way he cries regardless of how I try to take care of him.
Hannah was nice enough to stay Friday night. She slept in my guest room in case I needed her and three times she came in when he was crying. But I was already awake because I seem to wake up every time he makes a noise. And he makes a lot of them.
When she left Saturday, she could not hide the worry on her face. She was worried about leaving me home alone with my son.
And isn’t that a slapshot to the face without a mask on?
Byron called yesterday afternoon on the rare occasion Angelo was sleeping, but I was too tired myself to answer. I laid on the couch, too sore and worn out to move. My muscles ached. I didn’t have the energy to lift my arm to reach my cell phone two small feet away.
Since then, I’ve been on the phone with my agent, the team coach, and a lawyer. Conversations that are hard to have with a baby who cries all day long.
He does like the swing sometimes. It’s a huge contraption. Navy blue seat with yellow ducks on it and sometimes a thing that spins around above his head grabs his attention. He likes his pacifier.
The note Angela wrote is correct. He doesn’t spit up much after he eats, but when he does… well, there is a stain on my living room rug and my home now smells like sour milk.
That could also, maybe be me, because he cries and spits when I hold him, and he cries when I set him down.
I am failing at this.
I am also angry that Paisley hasn’t come and checked on me. Perhaps she has plans. Maybe she works. But she said she’d be here all weekend and I haven’t seen her. Haven’t heard her leave, and I have spent time by my door, bouncing and swaying Angelo like she did so easily but all it does is make him cry harder.
I can’t even calm my baby correctly.
I am currently a sweaty mess, angry with my lawyer who says I’ll need a paternity test to determine he’s mine before anything else can happen… like getting me on his birth certificate and tracking down Angela to hurt her for doing this to me.
I am an ass for thinking such things but some warning… some help… that would have been nice.
Angelo is in his swing, unhappy at the world, perhaps screaming because he can’t stand the sight of me, and I’m trying… and failing… at getting some carrier contraption onto me. The straps keep twisting and my arms do not bend behind my back enough to fix them. Hannah said her kids loved being carried in this thing Byron bought me. I remember him carrying his babies like this when they were littler, so I figure I’ll give it a shot.
For as much as the instructions that came with this thing make sense to me, they might be written in Swahili… not one of the three languages I know.
I need help.
I need to go to the team’s doctor and have my head examined. How big of a fool am I for thinking I might be able to do this? And this is all I’ve been thinking of this weekend. Can I do this with Angelo? Alone?
His mother couldn’t.
What makes me think I can? Especially once the season begins.
Hannah has already called me with the name of a babysitting service she hired when her babies were little before she stayed home full time. She said they’re highly reputable. Some nannies live-in, some don’t. Some have flexible schedules and can stay while I travel.
I have no idea what it comes to needing to do what’s best for Angelo. The only needs I have in front of me are getting him to stop crying, take a shower, and figure out this damn carrier.
I fling it off my shoulders and slam my hands to my hips. In his swing, Angelo is settling and as I move closer to him, hesitantly because my mere presence seems to piss him off, he hiccups. It’s followed by a smile.
Everything around me melts to the floor.
When he’s not screaming, he’s cute.
“Mine,” I grit my teeth. He’s mine. I point at him, although his eyes are quickly closing. “I will figure this out, Angelo. Swear it to you. And I will not be a giant jackass like my fer is to me.”
Shit. I haven’t called them to let them know what’s going on. Which isn’t surprising. I don’t speak to them much at all these days. I send them money every year. I don’t know if they spend it or invest it and I don’t care. My relationship with my father ended the day I signed my contract and boarded a plane for America.
He never said congratulations. He didn’t slap me on the back. He stood next to me in the airport, holding one of my bags before dropping it off at my feet and said, “Do not screw this up. We have worked too hard.”
As if him screaming at me, punishing me after losing a game by forcing me to spend another two hours once I got home practicing wrist shots in our indoor hockey net area made me who I am.
Perhaps it is. I like to think it’s my constant hard work, my love of the game, and talent I didn’t get from him because he could never play past the eleven-year-old travel leagues that makes me who I am, but perhaps there is a part of me that owes something to my father.
That doesn’t mean I’m in a hurry to call them and tell them they might now be grandparents.
My father will be angrier than a volcano preparing to erupt.
My mom will take her cues from him.
“It’s you and I, Angelo,” I say, as that settles on my shoulders. I have friends. Teammates who feel like family, but when it comes to blood family… “It’s me and you. I will figure this out. I promise you.”
With that, I grab the carrier thing from the couch where I threw it and I stomp back to him, gently unbuckling him and lifting him into my arms, careful to support his head like Hannah and Paisley taught me so he doesn’t smack it on the animals hanging on the machine. I leave my keys on the counter and head for the hall.
I need help and Paisley said she will. Anytime.
That time is now.
Hopefully I can take her help and forget all about how pretty she is and how much I still want to kiss her lips and see if they’re as soft as they appear.
Angelo squirms in my arms and I hold him tighter, adjusting him so his cheek is on my shoulder.
He burps and it reeks like formula, but I’m getting used to the smell. It’s the smile he always gives after that makes my chest warm in a strange way.
Angelo’s smiles are better than scoring a goal in a game and it’s odd I feel so much for him when he does this.
Maybe it means I like him enough to make sure I don’t mess this up.
; “Be good, okay?” I whisper, holding his cheek to my shoulder and whispering in his ear. “We don’t want to scare Paisley away again, right?”
He burps again and smiles. It looks so freaking weird to see a toothless smile.
It makes me laugh too.
“All right, flirt. Do your thing then.”
I knock on her door and drop my hand to the side. I’m holding the carrier in my hand that’s resting beneath Angelo’s bottom. He’s as light as a bag of flour and every time I hold him I get a fear of him flopping backward and me dropping him. Or breaking him from holding him too tight.
When I said something like this to Byron the other night, he’d sighed and ran one of his fat fingers across Angelo’s forehead in a gentle way. Didn’t know he had in him.
Then he’d said, “Yeah. Man, I get it. Good news is they’re stronger than you think.”
But I don’t think he was thinking about me or Angelo then. His face went soft and Hannah had sniffed. I knew then he was remembering his own two kids, a girl and boy who are so loud and always moving and in school now. I’m pretty sure he was imagining them when they were as small as Angelo, wondering where the time went.
I want to hurt Angela and scream at her and make her pay for doing this to me so abruptly. Mostly, I think I’m more pissed she didn’t tell me right away. That I’ve already missed so much.
But I will not miss another moment.
“I swear it,” I whisper and kiss his cheek. His weight settles on my chest and mine warms again. How strange, that holding him seems to calm me when he usually hates it.
I knock again, louder this time. Angelo is starting to get fussy again, squirming and whimpering which tells me he’s getting closer to a full-blown wail at any moment when the lock clicks.
The door opens a few inches and this time, it’s my turn to be surprised at what I see.
“What is on your face?”
Paisley is wearing something pink. On her face. It wrinkles at the edge of her nose. It looks like she took a sheet of hot pink paper and glued it to her face.
For a moment, I swear her eyes seem even more green with the pink goo all over her and she glances at Angelo, smiles, and it falls when she meets my gaze. “It’s a face mask.”
It doesn’t look like any face mask I’ve ever seen. Or worn.
“Mikah. Are you okay?”
She steps back, opening the door, and I’m struck by a déjà vu moment from Friday. Except this time it’s Paisley fresh out of the shower and she’s not holding a towel with her fist at her waist like I was, but she’s in a fluffy, light green robe that covers her from her chin to the tips of her toes.
And I want to strip her out of it so I can see the shape of her curves I’ve thought about so much.
If only she would accidentally drop it to the floor like I did to her. I’m not even embarrassed about it. I liked the way she blushed when I saw her glance down at me.
“I’m fine. Angelo is fine.”
As if he disagrees with me, because he disagrees with everything I do, he lets out a loud squawk sound that grabs both of our attention. She smiles at him.
It’s a smile that hits me in the place that caused this mess in my arms to begin with.
“I think he hates me,” I admit and I mean it as a joke but there’s truth in it. It comes out in the gravel in my throat and Paisley catches it.
“Mikah.” Her shoulders slump and her smile reappears. “He doesn’t hate you.”
Angelo fusses again, kicks at my chest with his tiny feet and his face scrunches. “I think he’s saying you’re wrong. Can you come help me?” I lift and drop the contraption in my hand. “I was trying to get him in this carrier but it’s twisted and not working.”
She laughs softly. “Sure. Can you give me ten minutes? I can be over as soon as I get this” —she circles her face, pointing with her finger— “off my face and get some clothes on.”
I’ll take her in the robe. Mentioning that will probably get the door slammed in my face.
“Ten minutes?”
“I’ll make it seven.”
Thank goodness. Ten minutes seems like forever. “Thank you.”
Chapter Eight
Paisley
* * *
My resolve to stay away from Mikah crumbles as soon as I see him. I almost yanked the door open and kissed him myself when I saw the way he grinned down at Angelo through the peephole. I’ve spent the entire weekend trying to ignore him, which is in a direct internal war with my crazy desire to want to help him. I have spent entirely too much time at my door, squinting with one eye in hopes of catching the smallest glimpse of him.
I might need a new life. At least a hobby that doesn’t involve stalking the hockey player in real life and on the internet.
Because yes, I’ve done this as well. I’ve tried telling myself it’s pure curiosity. I mean, who is this guy that is with a woman and then gets a baby dropped off at the door. And why would he trust her?
I consider all of this, not questioning why I’m willing to scrub my face before my face mask is done and throw on some cute, but still relaxing clothes, when I’ve planned for today to be a day where I rest and recharge. Something tells me being around Mikah isn’t going to relax anything. I predict the opposite if seeing him rumpled, looking exhausted, and possibly wearing the same clothes he was wearing on Friday jumpstarts my libido in a matter of seconds.
I haven’t seen any action since last spring, and I’ve been okay with that. Mikah’s accent alone threatens to awaken parts of me I haven’t concerned myself with lately without battery aided assistance.
Unwrapping my hair from the towel I scrunched it up in after my shower, I pull it back into a braid so it looks halfway decent. Then slather on a tinted moisturizer and grab my keys and phone. At the door to my condo, I slide into a pair of leather, flip-flop sandals.
I’m not even at his door when his opens. He’s sans baby, shirt wrinkled, hair a mess and he has dark purple circles beneath his eyes.
A twinge of regret pierces me. I should have come and helped him or at least offered earlier. Still, I hate him a little bit for how he looks when he’s such a mess.
It’s official. Mikah Lutzgo, whose last name I learned from my internet searches, looks good in a suit, sweatpants, wrinkled and overwhelmed, and possibly, no… definitely, better when he’s wearing nothing at all. A visual I still haven’t forgotten.
“Good. You’re here.”
“Waiting for me?” I ask, laughing at the way he sounds so desperate. I can’t lie to myself. I like that he’s desperate for me, even if it’s for baby help.
“Yes.” He nods and steps back so the door is open but I have to slide and shimmy my way past him. “Angelo is finally sleeping but he doesn’t stay sleeping. And when I came to your place I was trying to figure out how to wear this” —he grabs the carrier from the couch and throws it back down— “but I can’t… I can’t twist and get everything right, I don’t think. And I’m not sure I’ve showered, or eaten, and I reek.” He stops. Stares at me and I swear a pale pink rises on the tips of his ears and his nose. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he mutters, “I can’t believe I’m talking about my smell.” When his eyes pull back to mine, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and shrugs. “I need help. Can you?”
I mean… I can help him with the shower… gladly… but I’m certain that’s not what he’s asking. Which is a shame.
“I’ve got him.” I gesture to the tiny, sleeping cutie-pie in the swing. “Go do whatever you need. Shower. Take a nap if you need it. I’ll take care of everything out here.”
Relief makes his shoulders fall but then his thick, blond brows pucker. “Are you sure? I haven’t left him…”
We’re dealing with a rather large unknown. Hannah’s words come back to me. They’ve been difficult to forget since she said them.
“I’ll stay here, in the living room. I can handle this while you do what you need to do. When has he last eaten?”
“Two.” He goes to the kitchen counter. The mess I left from the diaper bag has been cleared and in its place is a notebook. I follow him while he picks it up, flashes me a page and sets it back down. “I’ve been keeping track. Hannah says it can help me get him on a schedule, figure out when he’s hungry or tired. She bought me a book to help too, but I haven’t been able to read it.”
The chart he’s created is intense, filled with every diaper change, a W or D circled on various ones, sometimes both and I assume they stand for wet and dirty.
He’s so sweet.
“How are you doing?” I ask, resisting the urge to trail my finger over this chart. We did something similar at the daycare where I worked. Parents want to know everything about their babies when they aren’t with them.
I like he wants to do it when he is with his baby.
“It’s a lot of work.” He brushes a hand down his face and sighs, shoulders slumping forward. “Would it make me a jerk if I say I understand why Angela did this? Why she didn’t think she could do this?”
“No.” It’s the truth. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a parent, but I do remember how exhausting taking care of babies is. To be thrown into it without warning or any knowledge or preparation, I imagine is terrifying. “No, I don’t think it makes you a jerk or a bad person. You’re overwhelmed. This is a lot. But you seem to be doing well.”
A quick scan of his condo shows the swing and other larger items have been assembled and are set out. There is an open box of diapers in one corner along with a rolled up mat. Several blankets drape over his furniture. A large plastic container of baby wipes on his coffee table. I smile when I see the bumpers on the corners of the table and television stand.
“You look like you have everything you need. The rest will take time and practice.” I flip my hands in his direction and shoo him away. “Now go, shower. Sleep if you need it. I have this and we can talk more when you’re done, or we don’t have to talk at all.”