I try the bottle again. The baby screams.
I try rocking him. He screams.
I try putting him down on the carpet. He screams louder.
The neighbors bang on the wall again. Hard enough to make the cheap drywall shake.
“Fine!” I snap at the baby. At the neighbors through the wall, at the whole fucking world. “You want to cry? Cry. See if I give a shit!”
I try to join in on the next raid but the little shit’s screaming gives me such a splitting headache I’m a blood splatter again in minutes.
I finally walk over, my footsteps heavy on the cheap linoleum, and pick him up. Not gently. Not the way Harper does it, with all that cooing and careful head support and soft words.
I just scoop him up under the arms and hold him against my chest.
He’s still crying, but quieter now. Hiccupping. His little fists grab at my shirt, holding on like I’m something safe.
“Yeah, okay,” I mutter. “This what you wanted? You happy now?”
His face is still scrunched and wet. But he’s not screaming anymore either.
I bounce him a little and pat his back with stiff, mechanical movements. Not because I care. Not because something in me shifts at the way he’s clutching my shirt like I’m his whole world.
She loved this damn kid the second it popped out at the hospital. She held him and cried and looked at me like I’d given her the greatest gift in the world. Like she was starting to love me.Reallylove me, and not just friend-love.
Sure, I might have stolen her love at first.
But now it’s real.
I can feel it and see it in the way she looks at me. Like she needs me.
The apartment feels quieter now except for the muffled TV through the wall. The ceiling creaks as the couple upstairs moves around. Everything settles back into the normal background noise of this shitty building.
And that’s when I hear it.
The key in the lock.
The door opening.
Harper’s voice: “Z? You here?”
Fuck.
I turn around just as she walks in. The look on her face does something weird to my stomach. Relief floods her features. Warmth. Her whole face lights up like the sun breaking through clouds, soft and tender in a way that makes me want to look away.
“Oh my God,” she says, dropping her bag by the door and walking over, her work boots leaving little scuff marks on the floor. “You’re so good with him.”
She thinks I’ve been holding him this whole time. She thinks I’ve been soothing him, caring for him and being the father she imagines I am.
Because even after all she’s been through, she still believes the best in people.
She’s such a good person she would never think to start asking questions about that night in the hotel. Or about the paternity test. About any of it.
And I protect that.
I protecther.
“Yeah, well.” I force a smile, adjusting the baby against my chest like I’ve been doing this for hours. “He was fussy. Just needed some attention.”