by Lane Hart
Rubbing his dirty blond scruff where I hit him, John says, “In our eight years of marriage I had one moment of weakness that you’re gonna punish me for forever, but yet you’ll forgive Bianca?”
“No, I haven’t forgiven her. But she’s my sister, and she needs help! You are a rat bastard that I never want to see again!” I tell him without an ounce of sympathy. “Now get the fuck out of my house before I call the police. And you better believe that Monday morning I’ll have a restraining order against your ass.”
“Come on, Callie,” John whines, giving me big, brown puppy dog eyes. “We can start over if you’ll just give me a second chance.”
“Never. Gonna. Happen,” I tell him slowly so that it will maybe finally penetrate his thick skull. “Hell could someday freeze over,” I say while giving his shoulder a shove that propels him down the hallway. “Pigs could eventually evolve and start to fly.” Another shove to his chest in the living room causes him to stumble backward closer to the door. “But one thing I know without a shred of doubt in my mind is that we are done!”
Unlocking and unchaining the front door, I open it and push him, forcing him out before slamming it shut again. Slumping with my back against the door, I close my eyes and take a deep calming breath, trying to lower my heart rate to an acceptable level. Monday I’ll get the locks changed, and then I’ll go to the police department to fill out the paperwork for a restraining order because I am so sick of this bullshit happening. John suddenly pops up out of the blue every few weeks, but this was his first late night visit. I wasted too many years of my life being tied to that asshole. Never again.
I finally pour that glass of water I wanted before settling back into bed. As expected, after the weird baby dream and the ordeal with an uninvited guest, it takes lots of tossing and turning before I’m able to drift back to sleep.
The next time I wake up, it’s to the sound of the doorbell ringing.
“Ugh! Are you fucking kidding me?” I roll over and groan to the ceiling. I consider pulling the pillow over my head and ignoring him, but then I realize John has a key, so why would he bother with the hassle of the doorbell?
Lumbering out of bed, my feet shuffle toward the door where I unlock and open it. A gasp escapes my parted lips at the sight of two uniformed police officers with matching grim expressions on their faces.
“What’s happened?” I ask them, wrapping my arms around myself to brace for the news.
“Sorry to wake you, ma’am,” the older, robust one starts. “Do you by chance know Bianca Williams? This address was listed on her driver’s license.”
“Yes, she’s my sister. Why? What has she done now? Is she okay?” I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Miss Williams was taken to the hospital earlier tonight for a suspected drug overdose.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, resting the side of my head against the door frame. “Is she gonna be okay? Oh, no! What about the baby?”
When the two officers look at each other silently without answering me, I know it’s bad. “We can give you a ride to the hospital if you would like.”
“S-sure,” I say, blinking back tears. “Just, um, give me a second to change,” I tell them before shutting the door for a moment of privacy.
And then I give myself thirty short seconds to cry before I have to wipe away the tears and pull myself together to deal with Bianca’s newest catastrophe.
Chapter Three
Quinton
“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. Come on in,” I tell my parents, greeting them each with a hug when I open my front door bright and early Sunday morning.
In fact, the sun is so bright it’s making my migraine worse. The one caused by getting up every two hours or so last night because of the hungry, crying baby. Out of the four times I got up, Roxy left me all alone except for the first one. Still groggy from sleep, she found me in the kitchen and made sure I remembered how to fix the bottle before turning tail and crawling back into bed with Kohen.
And yeah, while I wish Roxy would have taken over and just let me sleep, I know the baby is my responsibility and not hers. Kohen and her left half an hour ago to go home and get ready to head to the stadium.
“You look like shit, son. Party too hard last night?” My dad asks with his salt and pepper eyebrows raised in disapproval.
“Ah, yeah. It was a two-person party in here all right,” I mutter sarcastically as I lead them into the living room.
“TMI!” my mom groans from behind me.
“It’s not what you think,” I assure her, waving my hand toward the baby, who is awake inside the bed thing I moved from the bedroom to the living room this morning. He’s lying flat on his back, just like Roxy told me to do when I put him down.
“Why is there a baby bed in your house?” Mom asks, tiptoeing closer in her jeans and Wildcats sweatshirt until she can peek over the edge of the bed. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaims before she reaches in and picks him up, a hand carefully cradling the back of his head. Guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised that my mom knows what she’s doing since my parents obviously raised me.
“Quinton, why is there a baby in your house?” my father asks, repeating my mother’s question as he inches closer to my mom.
“Last night someone dropped him off and ran, leaving me a note that says he’s mine. Until I get a DNA test, though…”
“You don’t know if he is or not,” my dad finishes. “This could be one helluva scheme for your money.”
“I don’t really think so,” I tell him honestly while scratching my head. “I mean, she didn’t even leave me her name. If she wanted money, why not wait at the door while holding him and demand child support instead of just…leaving him?”
“How could a mother do that?” my mom asks as she stares down at the baby in her arms, rocking side to side. “And what were you thinking, son?” she looks up and scowls at me with narrowed blue eyes, the same as the ones I see every day in the mirror.
“We don’t know for sure he’s mine,” I remind her. “But there was this one night back in January…”
“Quinton! I am so disappointed in you,” my mom says with a shake of her head, making me feel even shittier.
“Yeah, I know. Look, I really need to get a shower and head to the stadium to start warming up. Can you take him to the game and watch him until this afternoon?”
“Yes, of course,” my mom answers.
“There’s his bag with his bottle and diapers or whatever,” I tell her, pointing to the black bag on the floor beside the bed and car seat. “And Roxy said the bottom of that car seat thing has to be latched down in the backseat.”
“Have you been taking care of him all night?” my dad, who has been rather quiet, asks.
“Yeah. Roxy, our new kicker, showed me how to do everything and stayed over last night in case I needed her help. But Brady kept me up all damn night…”
“Brady? His name’s Brady?” my mom asks with a smile. “Oh, I love it!”
“It’s temporary,” I tell her. “For all I know, he already has a name and a father out there somewhere.”
“Or,” my mom starts. “He could be yours. Ours.”
“Well, he’s yours for today,” I tell her. “Have fun.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be a perfect little angel,” she replies.
I take her word for it and start down the hallway to grab a quick shower and get my tired ass over to the stadium.
“He looks like you,” she calls out, stopping me in my tracks. “Smaller, but the squinty eyes and pointy chin are yours and your father’s.”
“He looks like a baby,” I turn around and argue. “And wasn’t I, like, ten pounds and gigantic when I was born?”
“Yes, but you were also two weeks late. I bet you would’ve been this size if you had come on time. But you were stubborn even then,” she replies.
“Didn’t Quinton wake us up every hour to eat the first th
ree weeks?” my dad interjects.
“Yes, I believe so. My milk didn’t come in fast enough, so we had to use bottles,” she answers.
“TMI,” I mutter, slapping both of my palms over my ears.
Without a doubt, Sunday afternoon I played one of the worst games of my life against the Atlanta Lions.
My reflexes were so slow that I got sacked five fucking times. I only completed twelve out of twenty-seven passes with zero touchdowns through the air. It was a brutal game.
Thankfully, our defense was on fire, scoring on two takeaways from Atlanta, and then Roxy came through for us with three field goals, including a game-winning one. My team picked up the slack and seriously saved my ass today.
I feel like a zombie by the time my parents hand Brady back to me outside the stadium. They said they were sorry, but they can’t stay longer. Both have work and appointments they can’t miss back home up in Roanoke, yadda, yadda, yadda.
To make the day worse, as I’m driving us home in my Land Cruiser with Brady fastened in his car seat in the back, the foulest odor known to man begins to fill the car. I’m gagging before I get all the windows rolled down. And then I’m forced to pull over in a shopping center when I start dry heaving from my close proximity to what is obviously toxic waste.
Jesus, if they could bottle up this smell, it could be used as a deadly weapon.
Last night Roxy handled the one shitty diaper Brady had while we were putting together his bed, but I can’t call her tonight since she and Kohen are having dinner with her dad and her friend Paxton, who are here from out of town to celebrate her first real game. I’m fifteen minutes away from my house, and there’s no way I can drive any further without throwing up.
Not knowing what else to do, I glance around the shopping center, looking for a place to get down to business. That’s when I spot the purple sign with the word “Babies” in it.
Fuck yes.
With my head sticking out the driver side window like a dog, I steer the car toward the beacon of light that will hopefully be an answer to my prayers.
I pull the front collar of my t-shirt up over my nose and mouth before I throw Brady’s bag over my shoulder and then extract the stink-miester’s seat from the back to carry him inside.
“Hi, welcome to Babies & Company. Is there anything I can help you with today?” a young, bubbly sales associate in a purple shirt asks as soon as I walk through the door. She’s cute with long brown hair and a curvy body, eyeing me up and down like she wants to climb me. And any other day I would be throwing out cheesy lines, but I’m not up for playing games today. I’m not sure if it’s the god-awful smell or the fact that I didn’t sleep any last night because of the possible result of a one-night stand, but right now I don’t think I’d even get a half-stiffy if this woman was talking to me with her mouth full of my cock.
“Hey, how’s it going? Do you have, like, one of those table things to change him on?” I ask, hefting up the car seat.
“Well, sure, right this way,” she says, beckoning me with a hand before she turns around and heads toward the back of the store. “You look familiar,” she tells me over her shoulder. “Where have I seen you before?”
“Ah, maybe on the football field?” I offer, trying to keep up with her speed walking when all I want to do is pass out in my bed.
“Right! You play for the Wildcats, don’t you!” she exclaims in recognition. While some women are familiar with the various positions, usually I’m just “that football player” to most.
“Right,” I answer. “Quinton Dunn. Nice to meet you…”
“Kelsey,” she supplies as we turn down an aisle. “Didn’t you have a game today?”
“We did. Won it too,” I answer.
“Awesome, congrats!” she replies. “Okay, so here are the changing tables we currently have in stock. We have these in white, oak, cherry and espresso.”
“This one will work great,” I tell her, setting Brady’s car seat down in front of the first one we come to, a white one, to start unstrapping him.
“Good choice,” Kelsey says cheerfully. “It’s usually three-twenty nine, but it’s on sale this weekend for just two hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
I grab a diaper and the pack of wipes that are getting low and place them on the table and then lower Brady to the wooden structure as the sales associate continues talking.
“This one has three spacious drawers and a cabinet underneath, making it great for storage too. In fact, once he outgrows the changing table, it can be converted to a regular dresser…ah, what…what are you doing?” she asks when I start unsnapping the one-piece outfit Brady’s wearing. “Oh, whoa!” she exclaims, reaching up to hold her nose once she gets a whiff of his stink.
“I swear I didn’t feed him any rotten milk or anything,” I tell her as I pull my shirt over my face again and start undoing the diaper.
“Wait, you’re changing him, like, here?” she asks, sounding nasally like Fran Drescher since her nose is still plugged.
“Well, yeah. That’s what they are for, right?” I ask as I take a handful of wipes and try to mop up the brown mess, not without more gags and dry heaves.
“But, sir, you can’t…”
“Oops,” I say when some of the runny poo splatters onto the pristine white changing table.
“Oh my God,” the associate mutters when I pull the diaper out from underneath the kid.
Looking around the floor with my hand holding up the nasty, poop-filled diaper I ask, “Do you have a trash can around here? I can’t just leave him.”
“Sir, these tables are for sale, not for actual use,” Kelsey tells me belatedly.
“Too late now,” I tell her. “Can you watch him while I find a trash can, or do you want to take the shitty diaper?”
“Um, yeah, okay, straight back and to the left are the bathrooms,” she tells me, putting a hand on Brady’s stomach, not that he’s going anywhere or anything.
After I dispose of the hazardous waste, wash my hands and return to the changing table aisle, Kelsey has thankfully diapered and redressed Brady and is now holding him on her shoulder.
“Thanks for your help,” I tell her.
“No problem,” she says with a smile. “You do know that you have to buy this table now, right?”
“What? But I just used it once,” I argue.
“Yeah, and you got your son’s poop on it.”
She makes a valid point.
“Fine,” I exhale in agreement. “I think it should fit in the back of my Land Cruiser. Can you watch him while I pay and load it in my SUV?”
“Yeah, of course,” she replies with a smile.
“Oh, and do you have more of those butt wipes?” I ask.
“We sure do.”
“And that’s his last clean outfit, so I probably need some tiny clothes for him,” I tell her. “I mean, it could take days to do the DNA test and get the results back, so I probably need more of that milk powder stuff too.”
“Oh, so he may not be your son?” she asks with a creased brow.
“Not sure,” I answer honestly and then cringe. “And can I beg you not to tell anyone about any of this whole ordeal?”
“Sure,” she replies. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks, Kelsey.”
“If you want to take him up front to pay, I’ll grab some wipes, a few newborn outfits, and formula and meet you there. Anything else you need while you’re here today?” she asks.
“Do you have something to make him sleep longer?” I ask. “He woke up every two hours last night, and I really need some sleep.”
“Is he drinking from four-ounce bottles?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Does he finish them during a single feeding?”
“Oh yeah, like he can’t guzzle them down fast enough.”
“Then maybe he needs more at each feeding so he can sleep longer without getting hungry.”
More to eat equals sleep longer? He
ll yes.
“Oh my God. You’re a baby genius,” I tell Kelsey. “Let me get some bigger bottles.”
“Sure,” she says with a smile. “And babies like to be swaddled when they sleep, are you doing that?”
“What the fuck is a swaddle?” I ask her.
“I’ll grab some of those too,” she replies with a giggle.
“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver, Kelsey.”
“You’re welcome! Give me a few minutes to grab a buggy and load up; then I’ll see you up front to watch him while you load up,” she says before walking away.
I get Brady buckled into his seat, all the while feeling a little more optimistic about everything. In fact, Kelsey seems to know a lot about kids…
At the front of the store where the registers are, there’s only one other person in line, so I wait behind them while an older woman rings up a woman and her toddler.
“Hi, did you find everything you need today?” the older, rotund lady asks when it’s my turn.
“Yeah, Kelsey’s rounding it all up for me and said to meet her here,” I explain.
“Oh good,” she replies with a smile.
“Has she been working here long?” I ask.
The lady considers my question for a moment. “About a year I believe.”
“And did you do, like, criminal background checks and all on her?”
The lady looks confused, blinking her eyes silently at me for several seconds before she answers. “Well, of course. We thoroughly vet every applicant before hiring them. I can assure you that you and your son are safe when shopping with us.”
“And how much does she make, you know, like an hour?” I ask.
The woman’s jaw falls open in shock that I would ask something so personal.
“You’ll have to discuss Miss Kelsey’s wages with her directly,” she finally responds stiffly. Then the rest of the wait is spent in silence.
Finally, Kelsey appears with a shopping cart slam packed with baby goods and parks it behind me.
“All set, except for the changing table,” she tells me over the pile.
“How much do you make?” I ask her.
