One and Only Boxed Set

by Melanie Harlow

  “Hey, neighbor. What’s going on with you?”

  “Sorry. I’m not very good company tonight.”

  He didn’t answer the question. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s been kind of an emotional day. The visit home, and then Rachel showing up wanting to take the baby back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m here if you do.” I put my head down again, totally baffled. This was not the Nate I’d been with last night. It wasn’t even the Nate from Coney Island earlier today. I tried to think of when he’d started putting the walls back up—was it at his mother’s house? On the ride home?

  And why?

  “I want you to know, I was really proud of you today,” I told him.

  “For what?”

  “For not giving up on your mother. For standing up to Rachel. For not letting Paisley go early.”

  “I didn’t even consider it. In fact, when Rachel threatened to take her, something in me went a little caveman. I was not going to let her take my daughter away from me.”

  “Of course not.” I loved the ferocity in his voice. And he looked so handsome sitting there, with that stubborn jaw set just so and his hair all tousled.

  I put my hand on his thigh and spoke seductively. “Want some help working off all that tension?”

  He looked at my hand and cleared his throat. “I’m not really in the mood.”

  Hurt, I pulled my hand away. “Oh. Okay.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. It’s been a long day. You’re probably tired.”

  “Yeah.”

  An awkward, awkward silence followed. What was going on? “I’ll head home, I guess.” I wanted him to argue. I wanted him to put his arms around me. I wanted him to tell me that last night wasn’t just a dream, because at this point, I was beginning to think I’d imagined it.

  What he said was, “Yeah, that’s probably best. I think we could both use some space.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “Some space. I think we’ve been…rushing things.”

  I stared at his profile. Was I hearing him right? “You want space?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m feeling a little crowded, okay? You probably are too.”

  “Crowded?” I parroted. This had to be a joke. Was he fucking kidding me with this? He felt crowded? After asking me to stay over last night, inviting me to come with him to his mom’s house, and making me come in when Rachel was here when I’d offered to go home, now he felt fucking crowded?

  With my face burning, I got off the couch, felt around in the dark for my sneakers and tugged them on. I needed to get home before I lost my temper or burst into tears.

  How had this day gone so terribly wrong?

  Eighteen

  Nate

  Let her go.

  She doesn’t really want you. She wants some version of you that doesn’t exist.

  Let her find someone who can make her happy, someone who can make her his everything, someone who will give her the future she deserves, because you can’t.

  It had been hard enough to close myself off from her today, but it had taken every ounce of strength I had not to give in when she touched my leg and spoke low in my ear and offered to help me work off the tension. She had no idea how badly I wanted to do exactly that—throw her down on the couch and ravish her hot little body, give her all the love and attention I’d denied her today, take my pleasure in pleasing her, show her how grateful I was that she was here, that she was perfect, that she was mine.

  But I couldn’t. I had to let her go.

  My hands balled into fists as she put on her shoes.

  I’d feel better after she was gone, right? Just like I’d felt better after Rachel had gone. Less threatened. More in control. More like myself. It had felt so good to call the shots after she’d blindsided me—again—by showing up at my door and trying to take Paisley away. Maybe I’d been a little harsh, but fuck her for thinking she got to decide everything all the time. For thinking she could come and go with Paisley as she pleased. For treating me like I didn’t matter, like what I wanted didn’t matter. It had felt good to shut off my feelings, assert myself and take command of the situation. Tell her how things were going to go. Lay out my terms. It felt familiar.

  That’s all I wanted. To feel like myself again.

  Emme walked to the door.

  Don’t look at her. Don’t watch her go.

  But I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  She reached for the handle. And stopped. Turned around.

  “No,” she said, as if I’d asked her a question.

  “What?”

  “No. You don’t get to be just another dick that blows me off without a good explanation. I’m worth more than that.”

  So much more. But I couldn’t give in. “All I said was that I needed some space.”

  “That’s bullshit. Something is going on with you, and you’re not telling me what it is.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I could have choked on my own self-loathing.

  “No. It’s not.” She went over to the lamp and turned it on. “You look me in the eye and tell me nothing has changed since last night. Because the guy I was with last night is not the same person sitting on that couch right now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I met her eyes for exactly two seconds and looked away.

  “Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. So what the fuck, Nate? Which version of you is real?”

  My hands clenched my knees. My stomach churned. “Last night was me trying to be someone I’m not.”

  Silence. “Are you serious?”

  I swallowed hard, gulping back all the words of apology threatening to escape my lips. “Yeah. I said what I thought you wanted to hear.”

  “Why?”

  “I was trying to be what you wanted me to be.”

  “All I ever asked you to be was honest!”

  “Guess I wasn’t very good at it.” Every word out of my mouth was despicable. I felt sick.

  “Why’d you ask me to sleep over last night? Why’d you ask me to go with you to your mom’s today?”

  I shrugged. “Seemed like things I should ask you to do.”

  “Oh, my God. I cannot fucking believe this.”

  I risked a look at her, and she’d fisted her hands in her hair.

  “I cannot fucking believe I fell for another one of you.” Her eyes closed and she shook her head. “It’s not possible.”

  Fuck. I did not want to be lumped in with all her other weasel exes who’d made her feel bad about herself. I wasn’t dumping her—I was trying to get her to dump me.

  I stood up. “Emme, I’m not saying we have to break things off completely.”

  She dropped her hands and gaped at me. “You can’t mean that. Now who’s living in a fantasy world?”

  “You wanted me to be honest, so I’m being honest. Last night was more of an act than anything else. I wanted you to have a good time.”

  “Oh, my God.” She put up a hand to silence me, but I went on.

  “But that doesn’t mean we have to stop hanging out completely. It just means I don’t want a girlfriend. I really don’t have time, with Paisley and everything.”

  “Don’t you dare use your daughter as an excuse. This isn’t about her.”

  I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest like the stupid asshole I was while she gathered herself up.

  “You know what, Nate? You were right about me. I trust too easily. I get carried away. I give up my heart without a fight. Congratulations on showing me the truth.” She walked to the door and opened it before turning around again. “I get it now. Sometimes a fuck is just a fuck.”

  Then she was gone.

  I couldn’t sleep. Paisley was restless too, and I spent much of the night pacing the bedroom floor, trying to soothe her and trying to convince mysel
f that I’d done the right thing in setting Emme free. I went over and over my reasons, and every single time I came to the same conclusion. Ultimately, it was never going to work. We were too different. We didn’t want the same things. We would have hurt each other in the end.

  But it felt fucking horrible.

  I kept seeing her face when I told her I hadn’t meant what I’d said Friday night. She’d been so devastated. It was such a shitty way to end things, to lie to her like that, but I’d been afraid that if I wasn’t a complete dickhead, she’d have been understanding and granted me the space I requested.

  Crowded. What a fucking joke. I never felt crowded by her. In fact, all I ever wanted to do was get closer.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  How the hell was I going to get over her? Especially living right across the hall? Were we ever going to speak to each other again? God, I missed her already and she’d only been gone a few hours. And what if I saw her with a guy in the hall or something? Some douchebag who didn’t deserve to touch her hair or hear her laugh or hold her hand, let alone see her naked or smell her skin or feel her legs wrapped around him?

  Fuck that guy! I’d fucking tear him apart.

  No one deserved those things. Not even me.

  Especially not me.

  I moved Paisley up to my shoulder, and noticed that she seemed a little warm. Immediately I pressed her cheek to mine. It was burning hot. An alarm bell went off in my head.

  I turned on the nightstand lamp and saw that her face was flushed. Oh, fuck! What if she had a fever? What should I do?

  My first instinct was to go get Emme, but then I remembered that I couldn’t. Dammit! Grimacing, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and called Rachel. No answer.

  Fuck!

  Should I take her to the emergency room? But what if they asked for information I didn’t have? I didn’t even know her fucking birth date, for God’s sake! Or her social security number, her blood type, her weight, or anything else about her except her name. And I wasn’t even legally her father yet. Would they let me give consent to treat her?

  I couldn’t worry about that—I had to take her. What if something was really wrong? I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her while she was in my care.

  “Shhhhh, it’s okay,” I murmured, for myself as much for her. My heart was pounding. “It’s going to be okay.”

  I set her in the sleeper so I could quickly get dressed and put some shoes on. Downstairs, I got her into her jacket and car seat, grabbed my keys, and had just gone out the door when my phone vibrated. It was Rachel calling me back.

  “Hello?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think she has a fever.”

  She gasped. “Oh no!”

  “She was fine all day,” I said quickly, as if I had to prove this wasn’t my fault. “She ate and slept and was really good.”

  “Did you take her temperature?”

  “No.” That hadn’t even occurred to me. I was too busy panicking.

  “Do you have an infant thermometer?”

  Did I? Had Emme put one in the basket at the baby store? Maybe she did. “Actually, yes. I think so. I’ll look. You don’t think I should take her right to the emergency room?”

  “Depends on her fever. Take her temperature and tell me what it is. I’ll either meet you at an Urgent Care or your apartment.”

  At that moment, Emme’s apartment door opened and she appeared in her robe, pajama pants, and bare feet. My heart ached. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept, either. I wanted to wrap my arms around her so badly.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, looking at Paisley. “Is she sick?”

  “I think she has a fever,” I said. “Do I have an infant thermometer?”

  She nodded. “It’s in a bin on one of the changing table shelves.”

  “I’ll call you right back,” I told Rachel.

  “Hurry, please,” she said.

  We went into my apartment and Emme located the thermometer while I took Paisley out of her car seat. She wasn’t crying anymore, but I could tell something was wrong. Her eyes were glassy, and she was listless and radiating heat. It gutted me that she felt pain I couldn’t relieve.

  “Here.” Emme handed me something that looked like a toy. It was small and white with a long, skinny tip and had a digital screen on the front.

  “How do I use it? Under the tongue?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a rectal thermometer.”

  “R-Rectal?” My voice cracked.

  “Yes. You have to take it that way in babies this young. Want me to do it?”

  Jesus Christ. Of course I did. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. “No. I’ll do it.” I undressed Paisley, who began to cry again, like she knew something bad was coming. She’s going to hate me for this. “Should I put her on the changing table?”

  “Just turn her onto her belly on your lap,” Emme instructed.

  I laid Paisley across my thighs on her stomach and took the thermometer from Emme, noticing that she’d covered the tip with some kind of lubricant. Ten seconds later I was still staring at it. There was no way I could do this.

  “Nate.”

  I looked up at Emme. “I can’t do it. She trusts me not to hurt her.”

  She rolled her eyes and muttered something I didn’t catch. “Give it to me.”

  I handed it over. She pressed a button and carefully inserted the tip. Paisley wiggled and protested, her little arms and legs flailing. Emme frowned as she tried to keep the thermometer in place. Thank God she’s here, I kept thinking. Followed by, I don’t deserve it.

  The thermometer beeped a couple times and then a number popped onto the screen.

  “Ninety nine point nine,” Emme said.

  “Should I take her to the ER?”

  “I don’t think you need to, but let me check something.” Glancing around, she spotted my stack of baby books over on a side table. While she flipped through it, I took Paisley over to the changing table and put a new diaper on her, silently apologizing for the injustice she’d just suffered.

  “No,” Emme said, reading from the book. “In babies three months or younger, the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends taking a child to the doctor only if the fever is one hundred point four or higher. Call her doctor tomorrow.” She set the book down. “But you do need to give her a fever reducer.”

  “Do I have one?”

  “Yes. It’s in the same bin under the table. Give me a second to clean off the thermometer and I’ll find it for you.”

  She went into the kitchen and I finished dressing Paisley. When she came over to the table, she pulled a bin from beneath it, dropped the thermometer in and pulled out a red box that said Infants’ Tylenol. “What does she weigh?”

  Guilt slammed into me. “I don’t know.”

  “You need to call Rachel.”

  I nodded. “Can you watch her for a second?”

  “Yes.” She picked her up and I went over to the couch, where I’d left my phone, and discovered Rachel had actually called twice in the last few minutes. I called her back.

  “Nate? What took you so long? Is she okay?”

  “She’s okay. Her fever is ninety-nine point nine. We’re giving her some Tylenol.”

  “We?”

  “Emme is here.” Our eyes met and Emme looked away fast. “How much does Paisley weigh?”

  “She was eleven pounds, eight ounces at her last checkup.”

  “Eleven pounds, eight ounces,” I told Emme.

  “I’m coming over,” Rachel said. “I’m already on my way.”

  I didn’t want her here, but I didn’t feel like I could say no, either. “Okay.”

  “Don’t give her anything until I get there.”

  “Why not? She’s got a fever and needs the medicine.”

  “Because I’m worried about the dosage. It’s dangerous to give a baby too much.”


  “I’ll read the dosage chart, Rachel. I’m not an idiot.” But I felt like one. If Emme hadn’t come over, I wouldn’t have even known where the thermometer was, let alone how to use it. A thought ran through my mind—I’m not cut out for this. And they both know it. Everyone knows it.

  “Just wait for me, please,” Rachel demanded. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  We hung up and I walked over to Emme and Paisley. “Rachel is on her way over. She doesn’t want me to give her any medicine without her here.”

  “Are you going to wait?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Emme pressed her lips together, but didn’t say anything. I picked up the Infants’ Tylenol box and looked at the front. It had a picture of a woman holding a baby on it. It was always a woman with a baby, on everything. Dads might as well not even exist as far as marketing was concerned. I checked the back of the box. “It says one point two five milliliters for six to eleven pounds, and two point five for twelve to seventeen pounds. What if a baby is in between eleven and twelve pounds? How much do you give?”

  “I’d go with the lesser amount to be safe.”

  The thought of making an unsafe decision for Paisley nauseated me. “I’ll wait for Rachel.”

  “Fine.” She kissed Paisley’s forehead. “Feel better, peanut.” Then she handed her to me. “I’m going home.”

  Please don’t leave me. “Okay.” I watched her walk to the door, my heart hammering. “Emme, wait.”

  “What?” She didn’t even turn around, and I didn’t blame her.

  “Do you hate me?”

  “No, Nate. I don’t hate you. I hate what you did, but mostly I hate myself for falling for you. For believing your lies when I should have known better. I deserve this broken heart.”

  I swallowed hard, wishing she would be harder on me. Tell me I was an asshole. Call me a liar. Hit me if she wanted to. Hearing that she blamed herself made me feel even worse.

  There were so many things I wanted to say to her. Simple things like I’m sorry. Don’t go. I need you. And complicated things too, like I’m ashamed to be such an inept father. Why does love have to hurt? You said you wouldn’t let me push you away, but you did.