Then one of them moves her hair aside, and the other girl lotions up her back. I swallow.
I really need to have sex. Not a relationship. Not love. Just sex. When was the last time I even…uh…relieved myself? I can’t remember. How fucking sad is that.
But really. If I’m not at work, I’m at soccer, and if I’m not at soccer, I’m either in the presence of a crying baby or so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. What am I supposed to do, say, “Oh hey, Mom, can you take Hope for ten minutes so I can go jerk off in peace?”
The blond catches me staring, and I look away quickly as she says something to her friend. Don’t stare, you idiot. You used to be smoother than this. I keep my eyes focused solely on the water ahead of me for as long as I can stand it, and when I finally look back, the girls are coming my way.
Shit.
I sit up straighter, praying to God the crease in my jeans hides my boner.
“Hey,” the blond says.
The redhead just smiles.
“Hey,” I say.
“We were wondering if you wanted to—omigod, is that a baby?!” Their eyes go all gooey, and they’ve got these sappy grins on their faces.
Kill me now.
“Yeah. That’s Hope. She’s my—uh, niece. I’m Ryden.”
“I’m Jaime,” the blond says. “This is Emory.”
Emory gives a little wave and her boobs jiggle.
“So, Ryden,” Jaime says, pulling her hair over one shoulder and swaying coyly back and forth. “You want to come hang out with us? We’ve got plenty of room on our blanket. And we have wine coolers.”
Tempting, but no. For about a hundred thousand reasons.
“No, thanks. I’m cool.”
Jaime and Emory pout, their expressions so identical I have a sudden hilarious vision of them practicing the look in the mirror together. “Okay, well, we’ll be right over there if you change your mind.”
I nod.
They turn to go, but Jaime turns back. “By the way, what are you listening to? It’s weird.”
Hey, don’t dis my miracle baby sleep inducer. “It’s Washington Square Park,” I say and leave it at that. She shrugs and walks away.
A year and a half ago, that whole scenario would have gone very differently.
I lie back on the grass, keeping one hand on Hope’s belly to make sure she stays where she is, and close my eyes. She grabs my finger in her sleep. It’s not very long before the New York sounds pumping from my phone combined with the rise and fall of my hand from Hope’s baby breathing and the gentle pressure on my finger from her grip send me off into sleep.
Chapter 14
I’m jolted awake to the sound of crying. I sit up slowly and push my hair back from my eyes. It’s almost dark. My face feels weird—I run my hand over it to find there are hundreds of little imprints on my cheek from the grass. The park sounds have stopped. Shit, my phone is dead. Jaime and Emory are gone. Probably long gone. The air is a lot chillier now. And Hope is wailing away.
I lean forward and sniff her butt—yup, she crapped her diaper. Fantastic.
I slap my face a couple of times to wake myself up and go about the disgusting yet depressingly mundane task of changing her.
There’s a garbage can about ten yards away, and I move to throw away the reeking diaper but stop. I can’t just leave her here on the grass. I’ve seen America’s Most Wanted. Babies get snatched like that all the time. A parent turns his head for one second, then poof.
Yet another example of how nothing, even something as minute as throwing away a diaper, will ever be easy again. I put the diaper down, pick up the crying baby, and begin the ridiculously complicated process of putting my shirt on while holding her. It involves a lot of shrugging and shifting her from arm to arm, while her arms, legs, and head bobble every which way and she screams in my ears. Then I pack all the diaper stuff back in the bag, secure the baby harness to my chest, and slide Hope inside. She’s probably hungry. Actually, so am I. And then I remember—eggplant parm. Shit, what time is it?
“We’ll get you a bottle soon, baby,” I say, picking up the diaper and finally trudging over to the trash can.
Fifteen minutes later, I walk through my front door. The clock on the wall at the top of the stairs says 7:46.
“Mom?”
“In here.”
She’s in the kitchen, sitting at the set table. She sticks her bookmark in her book. There’s a basket of garlic bread in the center of the table and two open beer bottles—a near-empty one at her place setting and a full one at mine, dripping with condensation. I raise an eyebrow. This is new.
Mom follows my gaze. “I thought we could have a beer together, since, you know, you’re a dad now, a grown-up for all intents and purposes. But clearly I was wrong.”
Oh, now I see it. She’s pissed.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. My phone died. And I fell asleep.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and slide it across the table as evidence.
She rakes her hands through her hair. Huh. I must get that from her. Never noticed that before. “Where were you?”