Nobody makes eye contact out here. People pass each other on the sidewalk with their heads down, shoulders hunched, faces worn thin by life. I know we’re lucky. Dad and Uncle Duncan came over from Ireland with nothing and built everything we have from the ground up.
The foundation building doesn’t have graffiti sprayed across the walls. There’s no broken glass glittering on the sidewalk outside. Dad makes sure of that. Mom says it’s supposed to be a safe haven. A place where people can breathe for a minute. A placefor hope. At least, that’s what she tells us. She reminds us all the time how fortunate we are, how giving back is the least we can do when we’ve been handed so much. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. And somewhere deep down, I’m just not built to feel it the way she does.
The office I use is just off the donation room, tucked beside rows of clothing racks and overflowing bins of shoes, coats, and folded sweaters. I stop long enough to speak with the director and explain why I’m there, then head down the narrow hallway toward my office. I keep one here because I hate working in unfamiliar spaces. Strange rooms come with strange noises, different lighting, chairs that sit wrong, and desks that feel cluttered even when they aren’t. Here, everything is where I left it.
The same desk.
The same chair.
The same lamp in the corner.
The familiarity settles something in me the second I step inside.
Mom’s request is going to eat the rest of my afternoon, and I still have several bugs waiting for me that should have been fixed hours ago. I’m already behind. So I sit down, wake my laptop, and get to work.
After I get the scanning program running, I have seven minutes to wait. Pulling out my phone, I text Declan.
Me:You taking care of the asshole from the shelter?
Declan:Yes. I have fucking plans for the homophobic asshole.
Me:Need help?
Declan:No. I’m not sharing.
Me:Fine. Asshole.
Since Declan claimed Xavier, he insists on taking every case that involves ridding the world of homophobic abusers. I haven’t been assigned a removal in weeks. It’s affecting my concentration. It’s as if I have an itch that I can’t reach. Conor suggests that I need to get laid. It’s his answer to everything. Everyone thinks he has a revolving door of fuck buddies, but I know the truth. I don’t understand, so I stay out of it. I hate being around people in general. Right now, that aversion is even stronger. I have no desire to play nice with some random hookup just to get my dick sucked. It always turns out the same way. They want more, and that is not something I’m willing to give them — or anyone. I only have bandwidth for my family, not outsiders. Xavier is the only exception. Not that I had a choice in him being part of the family, but he is now.
I’m just getting back to work when the office door pushes open. I know better than to leave it open. I look up, surprised to see a tiny human waddle in. I don’t have any experience with children. This one is very small.
“What are you doing in here?”
He has his thumb in his mouth and smiles at me around it. I see spit glisten on his hand and around his mouth. I hold back a shudder. He must be new to walking, given how wobbly his steps are.
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
Maybe he’ll answer if I ask simple questions, but I still don’t get a response. He just continues into the office, looking around briefly before heading straight to my side of the desk. I roll my chair as far back as I can. In hindsight, I should have shoved the chair and myself under the desk.
“You need to go back to where you were. You’re not allowed in here.” I point to the door.
For some reason, that makes him laugh. He comes right up to my chair and starts climbing into my lap. The slimy, chubby hand that had been in his mouth is now pulling on my slacks. I need him off me, but removing him would require additional physical contact, and that’s not happening. Wet spots are forming on my pants from where his hand is curling into them. I’m going to be sick.
I hold my hands up and watch in horror as he finally settles in my lap. He leans his head against the center of my chest, pops his thumb back into his mouth, babbles for a minute or two, and promptly falls asleep. The smell of baby powder and something else hits my nose. It would be pleasant if it weren’t attached to the baby sitting on my lap.
This is not a situation I’m fucking prepared for. I don’t want to move. What if he starts crying? What if his spit-covered hands actually touch my skin?
I hear someone yelling for an Ollie, and I’m pretty sure Ollie is who is sitting in my lap. But if I yell back, I might wake him up. Nope. They’ll have to come to me. I look down at his sleeping face. His face is cherubic with round pink cheeks. He reminds me of the babies you see in every diaper commercial ever made.
About five minutes later — though it feels like a lifetime — a man pokes his head into the doorway. I take in his appearance. His hair is dark blond, messily pushed back as if he’s been running his hands through it. Blue eyes so bright they seem to glow. But there are dark circles under them that don’t belong there, like he hasn’t slept in days. He reminds me of an angel from a painting, matching the baby sleeping in my lap. Innocent and pure, everything I’m not.
“Oh, my God! Ollie!” His voice is deeper than I expected. It resonates pleasantly in my ears. Where the fuck did that thought come from?
He rushes in but stops short of taking the baby. He’s smiling at me. He has fucking dimples. I want to press my finger into the dimple and see how far it goes in. His angelic face brightens even more when he smiles. I feel it in my chest, like a cord drawn tight. I have to look away from him. I glance down at the baby and then back at him.
“Is he yours?” I still don’t understand why he’s not taking the baby.
“Oh yeah, sorry about this. I only let go of his hand for a second. Why are you holding your hands up like that?”