Unscrewed

by Ren Alexander

  “You won’t.” Simone answers in monotone, having already given me numerous pep talks.

  Going for it again, I hoist Birdy out of the tub and even stand up as I do.

  Holding open a towel, Simone says, “It’s easier if you stand before you pick her up.”

  “Yeah. Probably.” I successfully place Birdy into Simone’s arms, and we head to the living room.

  On the way to the couch, Simone says, “You need a changing table or one of those portable things.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Can you get me a sleeper for her? I have a diaper.”

  “What’s a sleeper?”

  “Pajamas.”

  “Oh.” I dig through the bag, pulling out the first one I see, which is pink. What the fuck? I’m drowning in a vat of Pepto.

  From the back of the couch, I hand it to Simone, and she smiles. “Pink hearts?”

  “It was the first one I grabbed.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do I need to make a bottle?” Why in the hell did I just ask that?

  “Yeah. That’d be great.”

  Going to the kitchen, I assemble a bottle from the small drying rack, dropping pieces as I fumble with it. “Fucking asshole,” I mumble to a damn baby bottle. And when I scoop the formula, I spill half of the scooper on the way to the bottle. “Goddamn it.” This shouldn’t be brain surgery, but it seems to be.

  Forgetting to plug in the warmer, I’m cussing that out as well. Maybe I’ll get a system going, and everything will be effortless. Yeah. One day. Birdy will be in college before I finally get the hang of this mess.

  When I remove the bottle from the warmer, it’s dripping with water, and I actually have the smarts to dry it off before leaving the kitchen. Score one for the home team. Fucking sports.

  Simone is sitting with Birdy in the dilapidated chair that used to be my grandfather’s, the one whose truck I own. The ugly chair is the only thing I wanted of his.

  I deliver the bottle and Simone says, “Nope. You’re feeding her. It’s my turn for a shower.”

  “Uh, you’re leaving me alone with her?”

  Simone laughs, standing so I can take the seat. “Birdy wants to spend time with her daddy. You’ll do great.”

  “Have you met me?”

  She laughs, leaving the room with her overnight bag. When I hear the bathroom door close, I sigh, watching Birdy eagerly take the bottle. For a little runt, she can down these suckers.

  The room is quiet except for the faint sounds of Birdy’s chugging and water running. I have to be awake earlier in the morning to take Birdy to daycare. I need to pack her some bottles, clothes, and diapers. I now have responsibilities I didn’t imagine having this soon when I slipped on a condom.

  Birdy’s head glows in the lamplight, and I laugh, which makes her look up at me with bright blue eyes as she slurps away. I don’t see Eden in this one. Maybe that’ll change. Maybe it’ll be her attitude, and I’m in for hell revisited.

  We kind of stare at each other in silence for a while until her eyes droop, and she passes out. I guess Garrison was right. I did do okay. This time.

  When Simone returns, she tiptoes over to me. Her long T-shirt skims her thighs, and her tits make themselves known with hard nipples poking out. “Good job, Greg,” she whispers, leaning over me to take the bottle. Her wet hair sweeps across my face. She smells good—exceedingly good. The heat from her shower still lingers on her, making her all the more invigorating. What the frig is my problem? I can’t be so horny that I momentarily lust after Simone Shut-the-Hell-Up Garrison.

  “Watch it, Garrison. You nearly took off my face,” I whisper, pretending to be annoyed. Far from it right now.

  “Sorry.” She turns to take the bottle into the kitchen, and I watch her. She cleans up some of the mess I must’ve left, and she bends, showing off tiny black shorts. Jesus Christ.

  Simone turns, and I sit back in my chair, noticing I was practically drooping over the side, not unlike a dog in the back seat of a car, hanging its head out the window. And I really need to ditch this kid before it turns into countless shades of inappropriate.

  She returns and says, “You have to be up early. I’ll put her to bed and get up with her later. I turned on the monitor in your room. There’s a speaker out here so I can hear her before she wakes you up.”

  “I’ll sleep out here.”

  Simone takes Birdy from me, smiling at her even though she’s asleep. “No. I was only kidding earlier. I’m not here to take your bed.”

  “I said you could have it. I’ll be fine out here. I’ll only toss and turn in there anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Just let me grab a few things.”

  I follow her into my room and watch as she smoothly puts Birdy into the crib. I would’ve fucked it up, waking her for sure.

  Dragging a pillow off the bed, I then grab my phone for an alarm. As I do that, Simone gets into my bed. Her shirt lifts and I see more of her black shorts, causing some serious issues with my composure.

  I clear my throat, moving my pillow in front of me. Simone glances my way, smiling. “Night, swizzle stick.”

  I nod, croaking, “Night.”

  Returning to the living room, I toss the pillow on the couch and grab the black and white afghan my Uncle Leonard knitted me, which was the reason he lost access to sharp objects and is a story for another never. Carrying it with me, I turn off the lamps and make myself as comfortable as a 40-year-old secondhand couch, and a controversial throw blanket allow.

  About two hours later, I’m awakened by screaming. At first, being disoriented, I think Flo is screaming outside for her date shortchanging her with a blow job. But it dawns on me that it’s Birdy.

  Going into the room, I pick her up, and she quiets some. Looking at the bed, Simone is asleep still, and I leave her there as I take Birdy to the couch. Remembering how I changed her earlier, I do it. All by myself. I then grab a bottle from the fridge, and I pace around the kitchen with her while it warms, which feels like an eternity with an impatient kid.

  I feed her, again, all on my own. And I have to say I’m rather proud of myself, especially when she falls asleep. Bonus.

  I return Birdy to her crib, and on my way out, I take another opportunity to admire Simone’s ass, which isn’t covered by her shirt or the blanket. Damn.

  Seriously. Damn.

  I go to the couch with a sudden and throbbing hard-on.

  I don’t need my phone this time. For a whole lot of reasons.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Looks like you made it through your first night, Rod. How’d it go?”

  I continue to stare at my computer screen, not awake yet. Plus, avoiding Vaughn’s face is my morning ambition. “Great.”

  It’s actually the truth. I got up with Birdy each time. Apparently, Garrison sleeps like a brick. Birdy didn’t cry all that much. I don’t know if she’s different with me or if Shasta’s exaggerating. Simone did drag her ass out of bed early to help me get Birdy ready this morning, which was a huge help even if I don’t admit it to her. I then dropped Birdy off at a daycare that smelled like piss when I walked through the door. That doesn’t fly well with me, so first thing this morning I caught Val in the kitchen and asked her for the place Finley goes to since Val’s friends with the owner. She gave me their number, and I have an appointment to tour the place this afternoon. It’s going to further expedite my endeavor to dress like a mere peasant, wearing damn Levi’s instead of True Religion, but it’s a sacrifice I have to make.

  I also got to work earlier than Hadley, which made it easier to avoid her, agonizing as that is. But if she wants space, she can have it. Just not forever.

  “It was nice to see you and Simone working together.”

  “Awesome,” I mutter, still not facing him. My coffee hasn’t kicked in yet to deal with his psychosis.

  “She’s pretty,” Amos says with a definitive tone to that statement. Jesus Christ. When does he stop?
>
  With that, I spin my chair from my computer. “Where’re you going with that, Amos? You think we’re some kind of ready-made family or something?” I really want to tell him his orange and red paisley tie is uglier than Betsy.

  “Not at all. I just think maybe you should take Simone to dinner. See where things go.”

  “They’ll go straight to the crapper.” In hell.

  Amos frowns, scolding me for being me, I guess. “With that preconceived notion, I agree.”

  “Good. I’m glad we agree on something.”

  “Simone’s a good-hearted young lady. She’s responsible and a spitfire who’ll never bore you. But she cares. She’s there for you when you didn’t expect it.”

  “You done?” I sigh, picking up a stray paper clip and twirling it between my fingers, concocting ways I could strangle him with it.

  “What?”

  “Sounds like you’re auctioning off your milkmaid daughter at the county fair.”

  Amos laughs, shifting to lean against the doorframe. “Maybe I’m trying to sell her a little. I like her.”

  “Then you date her. I’ll pass.” It’s still a rumor, unlike my damn non-love life, that Vaughn is dating a federal judge named Juan. But I heard that from Rachelle of the night cleaning crew. Rachelle specializes in every kind of dirt and will most likely know my business before I do. There’s no way in hell I’ll ask Amos about his love life, even though he can’t stay out of mine. I don’t need to know who he’s kissing. I need a barf bag and a Xanax just thinking about it.

  Amos nods, squinting at me. I ditch the paper clip to grab my stress baseball, tossing it in the air while I wait for him to leave me the hell alone. He sighs, sounding like a deflating hot air balloon, and I look at him as I catch the ball. He says, “Anyway, I have court today. I don’t need you there. I left you plenty to do so you won’t find trouble.”

  “So kind of you. I also noticed you left me law school brochures.” I nod at the stack laying on the corner of my desk.

  “I’m still not giving up on that.”

  “Well, you’re wasting your time then.” I drop the ball, and it bounces off my chest and then under the desk. A commentary on my life.

  “You are the one wasting time. And it’s a real shame.” Great. Starting off the day with Amos school-shaming me.

  Pissy, he leaves, and I pick up the ball. Sitting back, I lightly bounce it on my desk, which I’ll probably do for the rest of the day. When my phone buzzes, I reach for it, seeing my mother’s name. Perfect.

  When are you coming home, Greg?

  I miss you.

  Fuck.

  I can’t deal with this shit. My mother only wants me home because she has another empty bedroom in the house she refuses to sell. Eden and I grew up there, but Eden never really got to leave. Yeah, she had her own apartment for a little while, but it got to be too much for her as her cystic fibrosis progressed. That house became her Hotel California.

  Without Eden there anymore, I’m now the anointed one. I won’t survive that kind of burden, especially once my mother finds out I’ve been withholding a couple things.

  Sorry. Working.

  Talk later.

  Bullshit.

  Yawning, I throw the stack of brochures into a drawer and pick up the stack of files Amos left for me when he got to work at the buttcrack of dawn. No life, that guy. Not that I’m a raging swinger.

  Busy doing actual work, when my phone buzzes it’s only then I realize I blew through two hours. I pick up my phone and see a text from Garrison.

  Hey! I’m having lunch at Sage’s.

  Stop by in 20. My treat!

  What the hell? Simone Garrison has traumatized me enough already. As I type a no response, my stomach growls, essentially giving me the finger. Sighing, I reword my reply.

  Yeah. Ok.

  Short and to the point. No need for a fucking essay.

  Making a pitstop, I then head to my truck, knowing I have lunch hour traffic to put up with. All this for Sage’s chicken pot pie, which is even worth suffering through more of Simone.

  I park on the side of the diner and head in, fixated on stuffing my face. I go to the hostess podium, where a frail woman resembling George Washington wearing heavy lipstick asks how many are in my party. I stare at her, waiting for her to count the ghosts joining me. I also note how eerily similar she is to a one-dollar bill.

  “Greg! Over here!”

  I look to the corner half-circle booth, seeing not just Simone but also Hadley and Wilder. Fuck me to next Thursday. This can’t be happening.

  When I don’t make any effort to move, George Washington asks, “Do you need to wait for your party?” Only if it’s the Donner Party.

  Simone waves louder—it’s possible—causing other diners to stare at me. Can’t she restrain herself for once? Grumbling, I leave General Washington at Lexington and Concord to drag myself to the table. I try to keep my demeanor casual and unobservant while noticing Hadley’s snowballing anxiety with Wilder’s simmering rage.

  Jesus Christ. I hate Simone Garrison.

  At the table, I notice Rhonda in the corner.

  What the fuck is this shit?

  Simone obnoxiously pats the green bench seat. That’s supposed to be an enticing invitation to this shitshow? I didn’t RSVP to this.

  Clearing my throat, I opt not to make a scene by slaughtering Simone with a butter knife, so I sit, hating I’m so close to her that I can smell the gardenia in her perfume. Across from me, Hadley hides behind her menu in an attempt to not bring any attention to herself while drawing attention to herself. Hell.

  The opposite holds true for Wilder, who can’t keep his eyes off me. As lyrical as that sounds, it’s maddening.

  And Rhonda? Pass.

  Unable to contain herself to solitary confinement in a padded cell, Simone says, “Funny thing...” It’s already fucking hilarious. It’ll be even funnier when I drag her dead body to the nearest ravine. “Hadley invited me to lunch. She mentioned she was bringing Finn and Rhonda. I asked her if you were coming along, but she said you were busy. I took a chance. I guess you weren’t busy.”

  “I guess not.” I watch a waitress at a nearby table flirting with a much older man while we get the founder of our country. Probably a serial killer.

  “It’s a good thing I thought of you, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I mumble, still watching Lady and the Perv. Fuck this. I’m ready to commit a couple murders. Fellow diners can even pitch in. Perv too. Crowdsourcing at its best.

  Simone says, “I’m sure you’re tired. It was a rough night.”

  Wilder asks, “How would you know?”

  “I was there. I’m staying with Greg this week to help him with Birdy.”

  “Uh, what?” Wilder’s mouth resembles my neighbor Flo’s when low on rent. Pure speculation, of course. I’d rather die from gangrene of the dick.

  “Greg has Birdy all week. I’m helping. I thought it was pretty explanatory the first time.”

  “You two aren’t...?”

  I immediately answer, “Hell no. Jesus.” For a second, Hadley and I hook each other’s gaze, and I wonder if she was thinking the same thing. Would it bother her if I were fucking her sister-in-law?

  Wilder’s expression changes from horror to offended. “What’s wrong with my sister, Rodwell?”

  “You really need to ask that?” I shake my head as Hadley laughs. I miss that.

  To the left of me, Simone sighs, making a face. “Seriously. Get your head out of your ass, Wilderness.”

  I laugh with Simone and Hadley. I think Rhonda even squeaks. Wilder argues, “Yeah, but she’s my sister.”

  “That’s not exactly a selling point,” I mutter and he frowns at me, but I laugh again, victorious in something today.

  Simone states, “For your info, I’m sleeping in his bed while he sleeps on the couch. And for your extra nosiness, when we drove to Baltimore to save your sorry ass, we shared a bed. Shocker, yes, but we slept
with our clothes on and pillows between us.”

  Wilder shrugs. “You’re an adult.” He cringes, and I’m so close to hiring Perv to be my hitman.

  “I’m glad you feel that way. Remember you said that.” Simone bounces against me as she turns to Hadley. “How’s Finley? I’d ask Finn, but you know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Wilder bitches and I grin, kind of impressed with Simone taking her brother down a notch or five.

  Hadley squeezes her hands together beneath the table, still nervous. I can tell because her upper arms push her tits together. I shift forward, resting my arms on the table, so Simone doesn’t have a full view of my noon wood. “Uh, she’s fine. She has a checkup in two hours.”

  I try to focus my attention on anything but her. I don’t want to hear her living her life like nothing’s wrong while mine has gone to shit. Because of her. Mostly.

  Hadley throws it back to Simone. “Does Birdy really cry a lot as Shasta says?” Can’t she ask me? Fuck. Don’t lump me in the same group as Wilder.

  Simone answers, “So far, no. She’s such a sweet girl. Right, Greg?”

  “I just met her.”

  The women laugh while Wilder deviates from glaring at me to ignoring me. Simone says, “So did I, but I already know your daughter’s sweet.” Which one?

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You’re really good with her too. I’m surprised.” I’ll try not to be offended.

  “Why?” I don’t want to make her talk more. Christ. I’m stupid.

  “You’re a novice. I’m breaking you in.”

  Wilder laughs. “Good luck, Sims. I think you’re in way over your head.” Shut up, asshole.

  Garrison ignores him and elbows my arm. “You’re doing great. I can’t believe I slept through all the crying.”

  Wilder asks, “Rodwell not keeping the crying to a minimum?” I could remove his eyes with a spoon for starters.

  Not wanting him to get the best of me, I sit back with a smirk. “I only cry on Tuesdays.”

  Dodging his jab, Wilder inexplicably doesn’t add to it. And aside from the death glares, awkward silences, and Simone, I’ve seen infomercials more enthralling than this.