“How old?” she asks.
“Four months.”
“Do you have one for size three to six months?”
I scan the packages until I find exactly what she needs, tear the packaging, and hand it over.
“Sanitize it.” She hands it back. This woman doesn’t mess around.
“Okay.” I grab the package and flip it to the back to look for directions.
“Do you have a microwave sterilizer?”
“A what?”
“Just run it under really hot water for a minute. Going forward, you should boil them or run them through a dishwasher.”
She rocks Emme back and forth, stroking her hair with a feather-light touch and whispering something only she can hear.
“You’re really good with babies,” I say over the running water at the sink.
Calypso glances up. “Yeah. I tried to tell you that.”
A minute later, I dry off the little rubber mute button and hand it over, watching as she drags it across Emme’s lips until Emme latches on.
“Go to bed, Crew,” she says as she glides across the living room to the recliner. She floats down into the seat, positioning Emme across her chest and draping the baby blanket across her back. “I’ve got this.”
The crying is over. Emme sniffles, her cheek pressed flat against Calypso’s chest as she settles in.
I watch for only a moment before stepping toward the hall.
“Why are you lingering?” Her voice is a hair above a whisper. “Do you not trust me?”
“I don’t know.” Something tells me that three-thirty in the morning isn’t the best time for brutal honesty.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Not quite sure what to make of you yet.”
God, I’m such a fucking asshole. This woman is rocking my baby in her arms at three in the morning so I can sleep, and I’m telling her I’m halfway afraid she’s going to make off with my kid like some baby-snatching lunatic.
“Sleep on the couch if it makes you feel better,” she says. “I understand, Crew. You don’t know me.”
I’ll feel like the biggest jackass on the planet for supervising her as she rocks my baby, but I can put my ego aside if it means protecting my daughter on the off-chance Calypso is some baby-snatching lunatic.
“I’ll just sit here for a little bit,” I say, taking the far end of the sofa next to the recliner. “In case you need anything.”
She and I both know my excuse is pure bullshit, but neither of us have the energy to deal with it.
It is what it is.
“Thanks for all this,” I say, leaning back into a throw pillow and watching the chair swivel back and forth. The faintest baby snore fills the quiet living room. Emme’s already out.
“Sorry for yesterday,” she says, our eyes meeting in the dark for a quick second. “I shouldn’t have judged you. It was rude. I don’t know your situation.”
Conversations like this, where shit gets real and people speak from their heart, have always made me uncomfortable. Perhaps I owe her an apology for forcing her to listen through the walls as I fucked my way through half of Vegas the last several months, but following her apology with one of my own only cheapens it.
“We’re cool, Calypso.”
Heavy eyelids steal me away before I have a chance to fight it. When I wake in the morning, the recliner is empty and the apartment is silent.
SIX
Calypso
“Jesus. Fuck.” Crew’s hand slams against the door to Emme’s nursery as I change her diaper the next morning. He’s panting, his jaw as hard as his flared nostrils. His dark hair is matted in every direction. On anyone else it’d be off-putting, but on Crew, it makes my stomach do a little somersault. “You scared the shit out of me. Don’t do that.”
“What, you thought I ran off with her?” I can’t help but laugh, though I blame it on the lack of sleep.
He rushes to her side, scooping her up. She’s in a fresh outfit, sporting a clean diaper and combed hair. I’ve never seen a baby with so much hair before. It’s downy soft, dark as coal, and it sticks up in little tufts.
“Here.” I hand Emme to Crew and squeeze past. “I’ll make a bottle and then I’m out. I’ve got to go to work.”
By the time the bottle’s ready, Crew meets me in the kitchen with a cooing Emme in his arms.
“I appreciate everything,” he says. “We’ll try and keep it down from now on.”
There’s a hint of a smile in his tone, and his sparkling blue eyes catch in the morning sunlight streaming in from the window above the sink.
“Two of a kind.” I gently tickle her little foot.
There’s a lingering stillness between us, and if I stick around any longer, I know one of us will be tempted to fill it with some kind of small talk. That’ll just lead to more conversation, and then we’ll be obligated to get to know one another and maybe even take things a step beyond cordial.
It’s not my intention at all, and I’d be better off nipping it in the bud.
“Alright. I’m out.” I give him a quick nod and brush past the two of them so quickly he doesn’t have a chance to utter another word.
I don’t know his situation. I don’t want to know it. If I get to know him better, there’s a slight chance I might like him. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my young life, it’s that romantic relationships do nothing but weigh you down. And when they’re over, they send you packing with a whole lot of baggage.
I need to be weightless in this life.
***
“You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.” Presley pops up when I breeze through the store later that morning. “I’m kidding. You look like shit. And I say that with love.”
“I slept in a recliner last night.”
Presley laughs. “Wait, what? You don’t even own a recliner.”
“Crew does.” I trek toward my office, pulling my keys from my bag.
She bounces on the balls of her feet, slapping her palm against the counter repeatedly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Get back here. You cannot just say something like that and walk away.”
I grin. It’s always fun torturing Presley like that.
“Nothing happened,” I say. “His baby was crying, and I went over to help. Ended up falling asleep in the recliner with her, that’s all.”
Her lower lip juts out as her lips pull down at the ends. “That sucks.”
“Actually, it wasn’t so bad. I hadn’t held a baby in years,” I say. “I kind of missed it.”
“Yuck.” She pretends to stick a finger down her throat.
I’m pretty sure Presley’s going to be one of those people who claim they hate babies, and the second they accidentally have one, they’re the most doting mother who ever lived. It happens. I haven’t seen it, but I’ve read about it. It comes from a place of fear. She’s projecting. I swear there’s a book about it somewhere around here.
“Where was his girlfriend?” She grabs a bottle of window cleaner and wipes down the register area, and I watch as she inhales the crystal clean scent of industrial chemicals. Presley’s weird like that. “Why wasn’t she there last night?”
“Oh.” I scrunch my brows. “I’m not sure. I didn’t ask.”
Come to think of it, I didn’t see a single item in his place that so much as suggested a woman lived there.
“I kinda think he might be single,” I say. “That’s the impression I got.”
Presley’s lips widen, stretching across her face like the Cheshire cat.
“You want him? Go for him.” I raise my hands in the air and take a step backward. It’s a grand gesture, slightly over the top. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her to swoop in and take him all for herself. The sooner he’s off-limits, the sooner I’ll stop wondering what it’d be like to feel his lips on mine . . . which I’ve done in secret maybe seven separate times in the last twenty-four hours. “I know he’s your type.”
“No, no, n
o.” When Presley shakes her head, her dark hair cascades around her face in slow motion. She belongs in a Pantene commercial. “For you.”
“I don’t want him.” I scrunch my nose. I’m a terrible liar. I blame it on all those years at Shiloh Springs. We were only allowed to speak the truth, even if it hurt. Lying, there, was unnatural and considered evil, even when done to protect feelings. Out here, everyone does it constantly, though they mostly do it to protect their own feelings.
I get it.
“He’s not my cuppa, Pres. You know that.”
“No one’s your cuppa. I’m beginning to wonder if something’s broken in there. Maybe you should see a doctor for that?” She studies my face, and I know now we’re basking in a rare moment of Presley sincerity. “You don’t want to date anyone; you don’t want to get laid. You’re twenty-four and beautiful and smart and kind. It doesn’t add up.”
“It doesn’t need to add up.”
I pray for the phone to ring or a customer to walk in the door, something to distract her and get me out of this godforsaken conversation.
“I know a girl who’s been hurt when I see one,” she says. “Some asshole back at that Shiloh cult screwed you over, didn’t he?”
My head tilts to the left. “It wasn’t a cult, Pres. You know that. And yeah, I had my heart broken. So what?”
I’ve told her nearly everything there is to know about life back then—except the details surrounding Mathias and our failed attempts at procreating.
There’s a tight squeeze in my chest when I think of him. Come to think of it, that tightness never fully goes away. Some days it’s just stronger than others.
Presley laughs, combing her fingers through her hair and doing a little jig behind the cash register.
“I can’t believe I’ve figured it out,” she says. “All this time, you were just being guarded because you were afraid to get hurt. Duh. It’s so simple.”
Yeah, but it’s not.
“You just need to get back out there,” she says. “The only way to get over the last one is to find yourself a new one. Someone hotter. Better. More worthy of your time and energy.”
“Sure.” I head toward my office. “One of these days, right?”
“Don’t brush me off, Calypso.” Her tone scolds. “We’re having this conversation, whether you want to or not.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the phone rings before I get the chance.
Shucky darn.
Presley glares at me as she yanks the receiver from the hook. “The Tipsy Poet, Presley speaking, how may I help you this morning?”
A few long strides later and I’m in my office, door locked, freed from that conversation, if only for a little while.
***
A little brown package leans against my apartment door that night. The words “Calypso No Last Name” are scrawled across it in black Sharpie. The handwriting is undeniably masculine, and I’d generously place it in the same category as chicken scratches.
Sliding the key into my lock, I pop the door open and grab the package. A little note is taped to the outside, some kind of message scribbled on a piece of lined notebook paper folded in half.
Have a have a good night’s rest on me for once.
- Crew
I smirk, shaking my head and pulling the lid off the package. A set of noise cancelling headphones rests next to a white noise machine and a tiny packet of ear buds. Behind it all is a silky black sleep mask.
This is the first gift I’ve received since moving here, aside from the Boss’s Day mugs Bryson and Presley get me each ear, each one intentionally uglier than the one before. Each year, they hand me the mug filled with cash from that week’s tip jar and lock me out of the store. A forced day off is my gift from them, and I love them for it.
I rifle through my box of goodies and sink into my vintage velvet sofa, a pawn shop find. It’s as uncomfortable as it is kitschy, but it’s perfect for me.
The appropriate thing to do would be to send a thank you card, but that would be a ridiculous gesture when I can just pop over next door and say hi. It’d give me a chance to check on Emme and see how their day went anyway. I’d been thinking about them all afternoon.
Both of them.
I’d love to hold her again too, smell her little baby head and breathe in the soft scent of powder and baby’s breath.
I need to say thank you.
I don’t have a choice.
It’s the right thing to do.
I’ll say thanks, I’ll ask about Emme, and then I’ll be on my way.
SEVEN
Crew
Noelle rocks Emme in the recliner. She’s been here all afternoon watching the baby while I checked on some job sites. Two flip houses in North Vegas are near completion, and I’m considering moving into one of them myself.
Emme doesn’t need to live in this frat boy dump. Not when I can afford something nicer than this. It’s certainly served me well during my tenure, but the time has come to move on.
“How’s the house on Irvine?” she asks.
“Just waiting on floors. I might have them repaint the living room.”
“Why? You don’t like that gorgeous shade of terracotta our dear mother picked out last time she was here?”
A couple of months ago, my mother, a self-proclaimed interior design hobbyist with tastes set a decade or two behind, pleaded with me to let her help with the renovation of a four-bedroom two-story I’d just acquired. It was Christmas and I was feeling generous, so I said yes.
Never. Again.
“I might have them repaint the entire house.” I shudder when I think of the color scheme. Vibrant oranges and golden yellows and puke greens. It’s a house fit for Marcia Brady, not a twenty-four-year-old, card-slinging bachelor.
“Someone just knocked at your door.” Noelle gazes beyond my shoulder before tending to Emme again.
“It’s Calypso,” I say after checking.
“Who’s Calypso?”
“Hey . . .” I open the door and motion for her to step inside. She’s probably here to thank me for the package, which is unnecessary.
“Oh, um.” She stops when she sees my sister rocking Emme. “I didn’t realize you . . . I didn’t know there was someone . . .”
Noelle’s brows lift as she stares ahead at Calypso with a blank look on her face. If you don’t know my sister, it’d be impossible to read her. We’re a lot alike in that way.
“Is this . . . is this Emme’s mother?” Calypso asks.
Noelle’s face falls before she laughs. “No, no, no. God, no. I’m his sister.”
Calypso exhales and smiles, taking ginger steps toward where Noelle sits with Emme.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I’m terrible about assuming things.”
“He hasn’t told you about Emme’s mom?” Noelle speaks to Calypso but looks at me.
“I haven’t asked. It’s none of my business.” Calypso brushes her hand across Emme’s forehead before letting her grip onto her pinky. If I knew anything about babies, I might think Emme recognizes her from last night. It’s hard to tell.
“Saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Noelle says with a sigh. “Who just abandons their baby? Drops it off like a Goodwill donation?”
Calypso rises, turning toward me, her blue eyes searching mine. She’s officially curious thanks to the incomparable Noelle Forrester.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
Noelle scrunches her nose. “Not really.”
“It’s okay,” Calypso says to my sister as our eyes lock. “If he doesn’t want to talk about it, I understand.”
“He needs to talk about it,” she says. “This shit is real, and he could use a friend right now.”
“Jesus, Noelle, you make it sound like I have no friends.” I blow a hard breath past my lips and lace my fingers behind my head.
“All your friends are skinflints and Black Jack dealers,” she says.
Mostly true.
; “How’d you two meet?” Noelle’s gaze darts between both of ours.
“He came into my bookstore a couple of days ago. Bought every baby book we had,” Calypso says. “Then we realized we’re neighbors.”
“Oh.” Noelle chews her lower lip and stares off. “So you don’t know each other that well.”
“Nope.” My answer is unapologetically curt.
“I can come back another time.” Calypso points toward the door.
“Ignore Noelle,” I say. “We’re still trying to program some tact into her monkey brain.”
“I don’t mind,” she says to me before offering a smile toward my sister. “I just came by to thank you for the headphones and everything. And I wanted to make sure Emme was doing okay.”
“Headphones?” Noelle asks.
“Emme’s fine,” I say. “She stayed with my sister most of today. Getting ready to feed her a bottle and wind down for the night.”
Noelle laughs. “Look at you. Mr. Mom over there. I’m impressed, brother. Catching right on.”
“You know better than to doubt me.” I roll my eyes.
“So cocky, this one.” Noelle points at me and looks at Calypso. “Sure you want to be friends with him?”
Calypso’s expression is caught between a smirk and a polite smile.
“Noelle.” My tone is flat.
She ignores me, repositioning her body toward Calypso. “So, where are you from?”
“Oh, um.” Calypso’s fingers knit together for a second before she tucks them behind her back. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a really small little community in Northern California.”
Noelle scrunches her nose. “What was it called?”
“No one ever knows when I tell them,” Calypso stalls. “There were maybe a couple of hundred of us there.”
“Oh. Was it like one of those commune things? A cooperative?” Noelle asks.
“Exactly.” Calypso’s shoulders relax and she releases a subtle breath. “A cooperative.”
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