I smirk.
“Calypso.” I take a step toward her, but she’s already out the door. I can’t chase after her because I can’t leave Emme. “Wait.”
She turns toward me, but she continues walking backward. “You asked. Now forget I said anything.”
“You’re just going to walk off?” I’m not sure where I get off expecting her to stick around, but I’m not about to end the conversation without getting a chance to explain.
“Gotta go back to work.”
“It’s not like that,” I call after her.
“Okay, fine. Whatever. Just keep it down . . . whatever you’re doing.”
The enchantment I saw in Calypso’s eyes has vanished. She seems annoyed with me now. By the time she’s halfway down the sidewalk, I’m standing in my doorway scratching my brow.
A faint crackle comes through the baby monitor, and I step back inside. Emme’s waking, and I don’t have time to figure out why the hell that hippy Barbie doll took off in such a hurry and why the fuck it bothers me so much.
FOUR
Calypso
“I need a drink, Bryson.” I take a stool at the end of my bar, several seats away from a couple who are very obviously on a first date, and a couple of spots from a handful of middle-aged book club members who meet here each week, same night, same time. “Something strong.”
He pushes his tragically hip, horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and cocks a flaccid hand on his hip.
“What’d you do now?” His words scold, but his eyes flash with salacious delight.
“Did Presley tell you about the guy who came in today?” I ask.
Bryson’s manicured brows arch. “The guy who looks like Liam Hemsworth?”
I laugh, slicking my hand along the polished wood bevel of the bar top. Of course Presley would compare him to Liam Hemsworth. She hooked up with him once, before he got super famous, and she talks about that night at least once a week anytime she finds a way to work it into a conversation.
“Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, it turns out he’s my neighbor.”
“The Jackhammer?” Bryson gasps, his hand flying to his chest. “Did you tell him off like you’ve always wanted?”
He grabs a bottle and a martini shaker from the top shelf and gets to work.
“He bought some books today and needed them dropped off.” I rest my head in my hand as I watch him pour two cocktails, one for him and one for me. He throws a cardboard coaster in front of me and deposits a martini glass before me with some kind of fruity, muddled mixture floating in the bottom. I don’t care how terrible it looks, Bryson makes the best cocktails I’ve ever tasted.
“Bottoms up, darling,” he says, lifting his glass and pointing to mine with his free hand.
I take a sip, my face puckering. This may be his strongest creation yet.
“Anyway, we were having a nice conversation,” I said. “And then I made a comment about how he has a baby and yet he screws all these women all the time and how I didn’t understand it.”
Bryson cringes from head to toe, the veins in his thin neck straining as he shrinks down.
“Calypso, why?” He drags his words until they fade out. “All you had to do was ask him to keep his noise down and strut off like the adorable Little House on the Prairie sweetheart you are.”
My cheeks burn. I wish I had an answer, something better than, “I was nervous” or “The way he stared at me made my thoughts jumble and I couldn’t think straight.” He was so cute, standing there in his doorway with messy hair like he’d just taken a nap. And when I saw him carry the baby to her room, he was so tender and sweet with her and she was so tiny in his tatted arms.
All the anger and resentment I’d been harboring toward my faceless neighbor boiled to the surface the second I found myself entertaining the notion that I might be wildly attracted to this Vegas playboy.
“We were chatting and everything was going well,” I say. “And then the image of him fucking some Vegas dancer popped into my head, and suddenly I remembered how tired I was, and it all went out the window.”
His eyes drag the length of me as he pulls in another sip. “Such a sweet little fireball you are. You’re not sure if you want to be angry or peaceful half the time, and I love it. Never a dull moment with you, doll.”
Bryson wags a finger in the air and places his glass on the ledge before strutting off to help the couple at the end of the bar.
We weren’t allowed to be angry in Shiloh Springs. We weren’t allowed to question authority or confront anyone on their unsavory behaviors. Instead, we were encouraged to talk to Father Nathaniel about it and let him deal. He’d sweep it all under the rug in his own special way, and we were supposed to be grateful for that.
“So what now?” Bryson returns, swiping what’s left in the martini shaker and topping off my drink. “He’s your neighbor, right? You’ll run into him again. Going to apologize?”
“I’m going to avoid him,” I announce, sitting up straight.
“Psh. Honey, you’re going to bake him some cookies and write him an apology. Tell him he can screw all the women he wants as long as you don’t hear so much as a sound of a panty melting to the ground.”
“If I bake him cookies, he’ll think I like him. And he probably already thinks I’m crazy.” I bury my face in my hands. “We were having such a nice chat, and then I got all weird and scurried off like some psychopath. I’m so embarrassed, Bryson.”
“Cookies.” He glances up at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. “Oatmeal chocolate chip.”
“Why oatmeal chocolate chip?”
“Because they’re wholesome and unsexy. Like you.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, girl. You’re adorable, but you are not sexy. You’re not bringin’ it. You could be sexy if you wanted. You choose not to be.” His quirky delivery makes it sting a little less, like the swift rip of a Band-Aid on a day-old injury. “But my point is, it’s a benign gesture.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not baking him cookies.” I finish my drink and glance at my office door. I have a good couple of hours’ worth of bookkeeping to do, and I’m a week behind on inventory. How I envy Presley and Bryson. They get the easy jobs.
“Where are you going?” Bryson asks when I rise.
“My office. To work.”
His eyes snap to the ceiling and back to me. “Fine. Be that way.”
“Love you,” I call out with a wink.
“Love you too, but just a little bit less than you love me,” he teases.
***
The other side of my bedroom wall is silent as I slide into my sheets around midnight. I can only hope for a quiet night. It’s almost always around three in the morning when the thumping begins.
The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner this day will be over. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can try to forget about looking like a giant weirdo in front of Crew earlier. The last three months have been nothing but one giant, unlucky streak. There’s a giant black rain cloud following my every move, clouding my judgment, and making me act like a complete idiot at the worst of times.
The store’s failing is probably a blessing in disguise, and I hate that term.
Blessing in disguise.
Father Nathaniel used to use it any time someone would complain about something. He could take the worst possible thing to ever happen to you and spin it into something akin to divine intervention.
“Mathias falling out of love with you is a blessing in disguise, sweet Calypso,” he’d said to me one night when he found me crying at the edge of the woods. “You losing those pregnancies was a blessing too. You were all wrong for each other. Mathias needs a young woman who can give him a large family, and I would hate to set you both up for a lifetime of heartache. This is a blessing for both of you. Someday you’ll see.”
I loved Mathias Shiloh with every breath I took, and as a woman on the edge of young adulthood, I’d never felt more discarded than the mo
ment everything we had was tossed aside when I couldn’t bring his child into the world. We were zero for three. I couldn’t carry past the first trimester, each pregnancy lasting a week longer than the one before, but never lasting long enough.
Nathaniel’s mother coddled me every time, personally attending to my every whim. Bringing me teas and special herbs. Blankets. Pillows. Books. I’d never felt so pampered and special. But as soon as the pregnancies ended, so did Penelope’s kindness.
Shiloh Springs elder women examined me, saying my hips were too narrow, my cycle too erratic. They checked my skin, my eyes, asked invasive questions, and then proposed some kind of fertility ritual involving a drum circle and laying of hands.
In retrospect, I had no business having babies that young anyway. Besides, I was nothing more than a vessel for Father Nathaniel’s legacy, and I was replaced the second I was deemed useless.
Shutting my eyes, I roll to my stomach, curl up into a ball, and bring the covers halfway over my head. I can only sleep when I’m tucked into myself, like a broken little turtle needing to shield herself from the outside world at all times.
***
A funny noise filters through the wall, pulling me from my deep sleep come three in the morning. I throw the covers off in a fit of half-asleep rage and rise to my feet. With a million profanities under my breath, I stumble around my dark room in search of something to punch. A throw pillow. A pile of clothes.
I’m so fucking angry it hurts. It physically hurts. My jaw is clenched tight. My stomach is knotted. This isn’t normal. It has to be the culmination of several months’ worth of sleep deprivation.
I amble into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and stare at the twisted reflection in the mirror. That girl is bitter and angry and pissed off. Her long hair says she’s one with Mother Nature, but her scowling eyes say she’s dancing with the devil these days.
A mild alertness washes over me, and the more I come to, the more I realize that funny noise I’m hearing through the walls is the sound of a crying baby.
I shake my head at myself for getting that worked up over that.
It’s not the baby’s fault her father is a shameless, charming manwhore. It’s not the baby’s fault she’s hungry or cold or wet at three in the morning. I can’t get mad at her. Couldn’t if I tried.
Sighing, I climb back into my bed and reach for my headphones. I miss falling asleep to the sound of crickets and owls outside my window. Nature was my white noise. Now I have an app for that on a ridiculously shiny, skinny phone that costs enough to feed a small village in a third-world country for a year.
The low rumble of Crew’s voice comes through the wall, and I assume he’s trying to comfort her, but I’ve no clue what he’s saying. Maybe he’s singing? Sitting up a little, I press my ear against the cold drywall and try to make out some words.
Is he . . .?
Is he singing Hotline Bling?
My hand flies to my mouth as I stifle a laugh. I’m pretty sure that’s what it is, and the only reason I recognize it is because it’s Bryson’s ringtone.
The baby cries louder. Apparently she’s not a fan of Drake.
I hear creaking and footsteps, like he’s pacing the room with her.
If I weren’t in such a foul mood, I might consider going over there and helping. Then again, I don’t know what his girlfriend would think, and I certainly don’t want to send the wrong message.
Childrearing in Shiloh Springs was a communal job, just like everything else. It was no different than weed pulling in the garden or hanging clothes on the line. We were all assigned, at some point, to nanny for each other. I’ve nannied for at least five families, the last of which had colicky twins and a mother too frazzled to think straight during their midnight wakings. Those moonlit car drives I took them on always did the trick, and it was the only time I was allowed to drive one of the commune’s fleet vehicles—the only time I was allowed to leave the grounds just because.
I cried when the twins turned two and I was reassigned to another family.
Crew isn’t singing anymore. It sounds like he’s on the phone with someone now. He doesn’t sound happy. I hear him ask, “What should I do?”
I should help him.
I should suck up my pride, brush my teeth, and march over there to show him how to calm a fussy baby.
My fingers drum against my bed as I slink down the wall and nestle back under my covers. The moon glows bright through my slatted blinds and my room is much too lit for me to fall back asleep now.
The baby’s cries grow louder, nearly vibrating through the wall. He’s probably just on the other side of it now.
Flinging off the covers again, I drag in a cleansing breath and decide to show him some mercy.
Screw oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. This is my apology.
FIVE
Crew
Emme cries in my arms.
I’m not good with tears. I’ve never seen my father cry, and the number of times my sister has cried, I can count on one hand. My college girlfriend, who was all kinds of wrong for me, cried in my arms when I tried breaking things off.
We dated another four months after that.
I can walk into any casino in this city, any high-stakes poker tourney in this country, with my head held high and every intention of walking away with my name on the jackpot, but damn if I can handle someone crying in front of me.
“Shh . . .” I cradle Emme and sway back and forth. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, and all those books I bought are still stacked against the wall by the front door. Untouched.
Part of me wonders if Emme misses Ava, but I’m not sure how that would be possible. I can’t imagine Ava as a doting mother with little Emme on her hip every waking moment of the day. Not after watching her drop her off like a puppy at a shelter and practically sprint away in her red-bottomed heels.
Three knocks at the door are barely audible over the wailing in my ears. The clock on my phone reads a quarter past three. Shuffling down the hall and toward the door with Emme in the crook of my elbow, I peer out the peephole and see Calypso on the other side of the door.
From what I can see, she wears a scowl and her arms are folded tight across her chest. She’s come to yell at me about the noise, I’m sure of it.
Not. In. The. Mood.
With the loudest groan I can muster, I yank the door open.
“If you’ve come to yell at me,” I say above Emme’s wails, “I won’t be able to hear you anyway.”
“I came to help, not yell at you,” she fires back, her words chopped and heated.
“I don’t need your help.” Nor do I want it, if she’s going to be that way.
“Trust me, you do.” Her arms fall to her sides, her eyes still beautiful despite the unflattering fluorescent lighting above my door or the slight droop in her lids. “I’m good with babies.”
“How do I know you’re not some baby kidnapper?”
She shoots me a dirty look. Perhaps it’s a little early—or late, depending on how you look at it—for jokes.
Emme’s crying so hard her eyes are almost swollen shut. Her rosy cheeks are sticky with tears. My grown-man heart aches at the sight.
“You going to invite me in?” Her brows lift. “It’s the only way either of us will get any sleep tonight.”
Guess I don’t have a choice. I stand back and wave her through. When she brushes by me, I catch a whiff of lavender.
“I’ll take her.” She scoops Emme from my arms. “Where’s her room?”
I point down the hall, following Calypso as her pale cotton shorts and tank top glow in the dim space.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“First of all, you have her dressed too warmly.” She shakes her head, as if I should’ve known better. Maybe had I read the books, I would. “You don’t need to dress her in this many layers, it’s dangerous.”
“Didn’t want Emme to get cold.”
Calypso strips her do
wn to just a cotton onesie, tossing the fleece pajamas and fleece zippered blanket aside.
“She’s wet too,” she says. “Enough to make it hard for her to get comfortable. When was the last time she ate?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“Okay, good. She’s just a little wound up, I think.” Calypso places her open palm on Emme’s face. “She doesn’t feel feverish.”
Emme’s cries have tempered down significantly in the last couple of minutes. Either she’s wearing out or she likes Calypso. Just my luck that my kid would like a complete stranger more than me.
“It’s her first night here,” I say. “Maybe she’s homesick.”
“Oh.” She glances to the side. “I thought she was your daughter. Are you babysitting?”
I hook my hand across the back of my neck and massage the knotted muscles at the base.
“She is my daughter,” I say. “And it’s a long story.”
Calypso lifts Emme into her arms. “No worries. It’s none of my business. Do you have a light blanket? Muslin maybe?”
What the fuck is a muslin blanket?
“Or any baby blanket will do . . .” She peers around the dark makeshift nursery, her eyes stopping briefly on the vintage Sports Illustrated posters I’ve yet to take down. “Hand me that one.”
I grab the white blanket she’s pointing at and drape it over Emme, following her back to the living room.
“I’m going to rock her to sleep. The rocking motion should calm her. You didn’t try that earlier, did you?” she asks.
No. Like a fucking moron, I sang her Hotline Bling and paced my apartment. I can hold a tune with the best of them, but in retrospect my song selection was slightly off.
“Does she use a pacifier?” she asks.
I hand her the one emblazoned with Emme’s moniker and she examines it. “This is a newborn pacifier. It’s too small. She could choke on it. Do you have any others?”
A pack of those things sits on my kitchen table. I wasn’t sure which size or brand to get earlier, so I had the guy grab me a little bit of everything.
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