“Nothing small about it.” She bit her lower lip.
And all the blood in my body headed south with that look. Goddammit. This was a one. Time. THING. My head understood this. When would my dick catch up?
“So.” She looked me right in the eye. Her punky hair stuck up all over, and her eye makeup had smudged during our little romp, making her look like the world’s sexiest raccoon right now. Again, I couldn’t help grinning. She nodded toward the door. “Bye, then.”
“Oh, okay.” I clutched the door handle for a hot moment, then spun around. “I meant what I said before, if you need anything—”
She shook her head. “You just gave me what I needed. We’re done, Ian. We’re good.” She pulled her underwear up over her legs.
“I’m so embarrassed about how I left you at the doctor’s office. I acted like a total chicken.” When I’d gotten home, I couldn’t stop looking at the ultrasound photo. That was my baby. My child. I was going to be a father—I should’ve been more mature about the whole situation. I, the kid who’d been bailed on as a fifth grader, had bailed on my own child before the end of the first trimester.
She waved me off. “Ian, seriously. I expect nothing from you. I went into this whole situation assuming you wouldn’t want to be involved in any way. Fatherhood, relationships. That’s not who you are.”
My face flushed. Fuck, that made me sound so shallow. But she was right. She was giving me an out—again. I should probably just take it. “I can’t argue with that.”
She stood and checked her makeup in the mirror.
Erin was done with me, but I couldn’t just leave it alone. “If you want to screw again…at least I know I’m good for that.”
She patted my shoulder, like an acquaintance, like someone who barely knew me. “Thanks, but, like I said, one-time thing.”
She held out her hand and I shook it, as if we’d just completed a business transaction. Then she opened the door to the bathroom and left without a single glance back.
Chapter Seven
Ian
I barely slept that night. I kept picturing Erin walking out the bathroom door, turning her back on me. She didn’t care what happened to me, if she ever saw me again, whether I lived or died. It was, I imagined, the same impression I used to give my own one-night stands—when I was in the habit of having them.
Once again, Erin had flipped the script on me.
I finally hauled myself out of bed at seven, went for a run, picked up some doughnuts at Stan’s, and drove them out to Park Ridge to visit Tommy.
As soon as he’d gotten married, Tommy moved out to the suburbs—though he liked to maintain that Park Ridge was barely a ’burb. It had great restaurants, mom-and-pop stores, and a train station—not to mention a movie theater! It was walking distance to the city! (Meaning the Edison Park neighborhood, which, if that was “the city,” I was father-to-be of the year.) I rapped quietly on the door of his large red brick Tudor and waited. After a moment, Susie, her long blond hair up in a messy ponytail, yanked open the door, let out a relieved sigh, and said, “Ian. Thank goodness you’re here!”
Susie had never, ever looked so happy to see me before.
She ushered me in, plucking the box of doughnuts from my hand. Susie was normally perfectly put together, but this morning she’d thrown on a hole-ridden Marquette T-shirt and a pair of Tommy’s boxers. I followed her back to the kitchen/family room, where six-month-old Maeve lolled in her playpen, squirming and complaining.
“Where’s Tommy?” My eyes scanned the first floor of their renovated, open-floor-plan home. This place normally smelled like vanilla and oil soap, but a mustiness had set in. Clothes, books, and toys littered every available surface—from the floor to the tables to Susie’s rowing machine.
“Who the fuck knows?” She whispered the f-word. “He left this morning to go for a run.” Susie rolled her eyes. Tommy was a long-distance runner. He could be gone for hours. “He drove the car to the forest preserve so he could run on the trail up to the Botanic Gardens, but I need to get to the store. Maeve’s out of diapers.” She shook her head. “All the stores in walking distance are closed right now.”
“I can run.” I pulled the keys out of my pocket. Erin wouldn’t let me do anything for her, but at the very least I could give my best friend’s wife a hand. At least that would make me feel a tiny bit more useful.
“No.” Susie pulled out her ponytail and fluffed her hair. “I’ll go. You stay with the baby.”
I tried to protest one last time, but Susie grabbed her coat and car keys and left the house so fast I felt a breeze. I spun around slowly, preparing for…I didn’t know what. For the baby to turn into a monster? For her to devour me in one gulp? I had never been alone with a small child before. I had a master’s in finance, but I had no idea how to act in the presence of a baby. Maeve lay on her tummy, in cobra pose. “So, you know yoga,” I said. “Impressive.”
She reached for a rattle at the other end of her pen, and then flipped onto her back.
“Show off,” I said.
Maeve grinned and shook her toy.
Quietly, slowly, so as not to disturb anything, I walked backward and perched on the couch. I perused the scattered books on the coffee table. What to Expect When You’re Expecting hid under one of Maeve’s knit caps. I pulled it toward me and flipped to four months. The baby—my baby, yeesh—now had fingers and toes. And eyelashes. They were probably able to yawn, make faces, and suck their thumb. Cool. Last time I’d seen the kid, it had looked like a maggot. Now it was doing actual things.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my text conversation with Erin. We’d only messaged each other that one time—when she wanted to meet for coffee to tell me about the kid, and I’d texted her back thinking she meant “Coffee? ;)”
What a dumb-ass.
She and I had left things unambiguous last night. Still, there was some niggling part of me that couldn’t just let it be. I couldn’t sever the tie completely. She was carrying my child. I didn’t understand yet what that meant to me, if it meant anything, but I had to keep the door open, at least slightly, until I figured it out. Maybe that wasn’t fair to Erin or the baby, but none of this was fair. It wasn’t fair that I’d accidentally knocked her up. It wasn’t fair that I’d been so hampered psychologically by my mom leaving that I wasn’t sure I could handle a life-long emotional entanglement like having a child.
“It was nice seeing you last night,” I wrote. Such bullshit. That was the kind of thing you said to an aunt you ran into at the grocery store, not your baby’s mother whom you’d just boned for the last time. I deleted the whole thing and tossed the phone to the coffee table, which startled Maeve, who broke into a wail that her mom probably heard two miles away at Target.
I tiptoed over to the playpen and glanced down. She’d balled her hands into fists, and her face had turned red. “Maeve?” I whispered. “Maevie?”
She kept crying and crying and crying.
Holding my breath, I leaned over the side of her pen and lifted her up, gripping her under her armpits. She looked right at me, scrunched up her face, and squealed, “Waaaaah!”
I laughed. I full-on laughed at a crying baby. More proof of my wanton jackassery. But I hadn’t been laughing in a mean way. She just looked so ridiculous and cute and angry. Maeve had to see it for herself. Bouncing her against my chest, I walked her into the powder room, flipped on the lights, and turned her around to see the mirror. “Look at yourself, Maeve. You’re a mess.”
She stopped crying for a split second to check out her reflection, then started bawling again.
I hugged her against my hip and swayed to and fro, still in front of the mirror. “You remind me of the babe,” I sang, and I kept going, performing a one-man rendition of the magic dance song from Labyrinth. My voice lulled her to calm. The girl was a David Bowie fan. I knew I liked her for a reason. I walked her back out into the family room and turned on the Bluetooth speaker Tommy kept next to th
e TV. I searched for “Bowie” on Spotify and pressed shuffle. Maeve and I danced to “Under Pressure” and “Heroes.” She had forgotten how upset she was and was now giggling.
I picked up my phone and took a selfie of us, me and my goddaughter. This wasn’t so bad, not bad at all. I was actually having fun with a six-month-old. Maybe I could do this, even part-time. I could be a sometime dad, give Erin the night off when she needed one. I’d be a glorified babysitter.
Feeling confident, I composed another text to Erin. “It was nice seeing you last night. Did you know our baby has fingers now? Isn’t that amazing?”
I pressed send before I could stop myself and started bouncing again with Maeve. This was fun! Being a parent was a breeze. I was already such a pro at it. Look at me absolutely crushing childcare. I was Ian Fucking Donovan: Venture Capitalist and Expert Baby Wrangler.
Then Maeve scrunched up her face again. She turned beet red, but in a different way from when she was crying. Her eyes laser-focused on mine and she looked angry, possessed. For a split-second I considered calling my priest friend to come do an exorcism. But then a sound erupted from her that would haunt me for the rest of my days—a gurgling, bubbling, flatulent noise emanating from her rear end.
Maeve giggled, so I giggled, until I felt a warm wetness creeping under my left hand. “What did you do, Maeve?” I flipped her around. A brownish-yellow stain now covered the entire back of her green turtle-patterned PJs. “Oh, Maeve.”
I ran her upstairs to her bedroom and looked around. What was I even supposed to do in this situation? I’d never dealt with anything like this before. I’d left my phone downstairs, so I couldn’t exactly Google it. But Tommy was Tommy. He probably had an Echo in every room. I launched the Hail Mary pass. “Alexa, how do you change a diaper?”
From the next room came that gorgeous, life-saving robotic voice, “According to Wikihow…” and I breathed a sigh of relief. Alexa would get me through this. But then she kept going and going and going, step after step. Her instructions were more complicated than changing a tire on a semi. She wanted me to wash my hands and place Maeve on the changing table but keep one hand on her body while grabbing approximately one million tools and articles of clothing. I think Alexa incorrectly assumed I was an octopus. She used the word “genitals.” All of it went in one ear and out the other. The only step that truly mattered, I decided, was that I had to remove the loaded diaper and replace it with a clean one. That was the crux of the whole thing. I noticed a diaper holder contraption hanging from Maeve’s closet door, and I stuck my hand inside to hunt around. It was empty. No clean diapers. Because that was why Susie had been so eager to get to the store today…
Maeve was a mess. She was literally covered in her own poo. At the very least—for her comfort and my nostrils—I had to clean that up. I pulled a few wipes out of the warming container on the dresser. These flimsy pieces of garbage were not going to cut it. The girl needed a power washing.
We could do that.
From the guest room dresser, I grabbed the bathing suit Tommy kept for me to use in his hot tub. Now, how to put it on? I knew Maeve was just a baby, but she wasn’t my baby, and I definitely didn’t want to scar her for life. I placed her facedown, poo-up in her crib and shut the door as I pulled off my clothes in the hallway and threw on my bathing suit. There. I’d only left her alone for a total of about ten seconds. How much damage could she have done? I whipped open the door to Maeve’s room and found her on her back now, wiggling around, leaving a winding tire-track of crap all over her lime green microfiber sheet.
“We’ll leave that for your parents,” I said.
After carrying her into the guest bathroom and turning on the shower, I laid her on the bathmat and removed her dirty PJs and diaper, trying to breathe out of my mouth, and only when absolutely necessary. I grabbed whatever bottle of shower gel was available—something rugged and manly and smelling of pine, sorry, Maeve—and carried her into the state-of-the-art, multihead shower. Holding her tight against my chest—I would not drop my goddaughter in this shower—I aimed her backside at the nearest stream. Maeve giggled as the water hit her back and slid down her butt. With a washcloth, I wiped her off, all while singing more David Bowie tunes in her ear.
When she and I were both finally clean, I wrapped myself in a towel and used another one to fashion a sort of makeshift diaper around her bottom half. Cooing more Labyrinth music in Maeve’s ear, I opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall. Tommy stood there, stretching his hamstrings. He straightened up. “What…?” He pulled out his earbuds.
I handed him his baby. “You’re out of diapers. And I’m off the clock.”
Feeling utterly invincible, I picked up my clothes, changed in the guest room, and went downstairs. I checked my phone. There was no message from Erin, but I texted her anyway. “I just MacGuyvered a bath towel into a baby diaper. Pretty sure I can do anything now.”
She sent me back a thumbs-up.
…
Erin
From Ian: Are you opposed to baseball?
From Erin: As a concept?
From Ian: As fashion.
He sent me a picture of a onesie from inside some gift shop somewhere. Denver, I guessed, since this was a Colorado Rockies outfit.
“That’s cute.” I sent the text quickly and flipped over my phone as Katie led my one o’clock appointment into my office. Ian had been messaging me regularly for the past two days, since Sunday morning, sharing tidbits about pregnancy and fetal development. Most of which I already knew, but it was kind of sweet—or whatever—that he felt the need to show me his dedication to learning about my pregnancy.
I’d kept the conversations a secret from Katie and Nat, though, because I wasn’t naive. I knew these texts could stop at any time, once Ian lost interest in the newness of being a dad-to-be and reverted back to full-time workaholic cad. Composing a message was easy. Actually showing up—and sticking around for the duration of an ultrasound—was hard.
“Erin,” Katie said, “this is Maria Minnesota.”
Feeling a bit frumpy, I stood and shook hands with the gorgeous tall young woman in front of me. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “You and Katie met at the gym?”
“We’ve been taking this cross-training class together. Your sister is strong!” Maria grinned at Katie, who blushed. That was the best possible compliment Maria could’ve given her. Katie’d been exercising around the condo for weeks—doing push-ups, lunges, squats, you name it—as her way of dealing with a year of being single. She told anyone who asked that she was in training for the inevitable zombie apocalypse.
“I told Maria where I worked, and she offered her services if we needed any help with fund-raising, so I snatched her up.” Katie, notebook in hand, perched on the couch in front of my office window.
I offered Maria a seat in front of my desk and returned to my own chair. “I’m sure you’ve heard,” I said, “our previous fund-raising chair had to step down suddenly after the Valentine’s Day party.”
Katie made a doing cocaine gesture, and then mimed locking her wrists in handcuffs.
“That was a huge shame,” Maria said. “Jennifer did a great job these past few years, but I think we need fresh blood and new ideas. I’ve run events for charities around Chicago, and I want to make this year’s Glenfield Gala the best ever. With my connections from food and travel blogging, we’ll be able to bring in huge sponsors, plus get donations and auction items from restaurants all around the city.”
“Sounds amazing, and I’m glad to have someone so experienced at the helm.” As school principal, I was a de facto member of the fund-raising committee, which was not remotely my bag. I could show up and shake hands, but planning galas and whatnot sat outside my realm of expertise. That was why I made Katie attend this meeting. She’d act as my assistant and run point, bringing me in only when necessary. “You’re an alumna, then?” I asked.
“No,” Maria said, “but my niece is in third grade
here.”
“Is Minnesota your real last name?” Katie asked.
I shot her a look. “What do you need from me?” I glanced at my Apple watch, which had buzzed against my wrist. There was another text from Ian. “Did you know the baby can hear everything? We probably should talk about what music you’re playing around the kid.” I wiped the smile from my face and ignored the text. I’d taken to answering only every third message, just to avoid looking like a huge chump when the texts eventually dried up.
“What I need from you is an idea of what exactly you’d like us to raise money for. It always helps to have something concrete to show people—like a STEM lab or a new gym floor.”
Katie wrote down a note with a flourish. “STEAM,” she said.
“Hmmm?” Maria asked.
“Katie’s just repeating my party line,” I said. “STEM is great, STEAM is better. STEM leaves out the fine arts.”
Maria nodded. “Perfect. That should be our focus, then—putting the ‘A’ back in STEAM.” She waved a hand in front of her, as if visualizing the poster. “I was a theatre geek, myself. I’d love to see the school raise money for music or the visual arts.”
“Or…” I scratched my chin, as both women looked at me. “It occurred to me at the Valentine’s Day fund-raiser that we’re constantly raising money for our school, to give our kids a leg up.”
Katie raised her eyebrows. “Which is the whole point of doing a fund-raiser for your school.”
“Yes, but.” I stood and started pacing. The people here knew my history when they hired me. I’d told them upfront that I was a bleeding heart who longed to see all children succeed. All children. “This school serves a very, very small number of kids in the community. We raise all this money to enhance the education of about five hundred kids.”
“That’s…kind of what the parents pay the big bucks for,” Maria said.
I pointed to her. “But they also pay for us to teach their children how to be good citizens. We throw all these fund-raisers, and I doubt the kids even know what’s going on. All they see is that—boom!—they have a new gym floor or—pow!—brand new army of foreign language teachers.”
Knocked-Up Cinderella Page 9
