I sink back into my pillows, waiting for my heart to slow down. Then I see Eddie still holding his cheek. “I’m sorry. Did I hit you?”
“It’s fine.” He smooths a hand over my hair, which is sweaty and tangled. “Bad dream?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I swallow the lump in my throat as the fear and emotions rush back. “I thought my mom was here. It was disorienting. I don’t really know where I was, but she was there, and she didn’t…she didn’t recognize me.”
Eddie doesn’t say anything at first, just kisses my hair and leaves his lips there. “This kind of thing happens to me when I’m really stressed. You can try to analyze it, but most likely, you just need some help. Figuring things out.”
The truth of his words cause a few tears to tumble down my cheeks. I don’t want to figure things out. I’m afraid to. I had a plan. It’s the right plan. Isn’t it?
He dips his head enough to look at me. “Just talk to me, please.”
I take a breath and then finally nod. “Tonight. Or last night. Whichever. Eve said something that…well, I don’t know what it means.”
I explain what she said about my pictures and all the theories about finding what you love and doing it. And how it’s making me doubt turning down the company audition. “But then there’s the studio… If I don’t open it—”
Eddie’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “Is this my fault? Because of what I said the other night? I shouldn’t have tried to make decisions for you.”
“I don’t think it’s that.” I brush a finger over his now-bruised cheek and then lift my head to kiss it. “I’ve never really let myself think about what dancing is for me. But Eve’s right—it’s never work for me. Even when it is, you know?”
He shakes his head but smiles. “I’m not sure I’m there yet. Too much was decided for me my whole life. I haven’t had a chance to think about what my version of dance is.”
Hearing him admit that doesn’t make things any easier. I know what I’m meant to do, and he doesn’t. I’m lucky and maybe throwing all that away. It seems cliché, but I think it’s true.
“You know what I think you should do?” Eddie asks, and I shake my head. “Talk to your dad about this. You’re keeping a lot from him, and I imagine that’s the biggest cause of your nightmare-inducing stress.”
I sigh. He’s right. I need to talk to Dad. But there’s one thing my dad can’t help me work out.
“Don’t think I’m pathetic,” I say, preparing to tell him what else is holding me back. “But I’m not excited about the idea of traveling all over the place with a dance company because I…I like being here. With you.” I turn my head, pressing my face into his shoulder. If Summer heard that, she’d give me a dozen different lectures.
“I kind of hate that part too,” Eddie says, stroking my hair again. “But I’m not going anywhere. You can dance around the world for five years, and I’ll still be here waiting for you to come back. So now who’s pathetic?”
I lift my head. “Yeah?” He nods, his hands lifting to touch my face. “Promise?”
“I promise. So give yourself some time to process without deciding yet.” He kisses me, long and slow, adding weight to his words.
My eyes flutter and then close. I fall into this trap door of heated kisses and lips on my skin. “Maybe this is your thing…does it feel like work?”
Eddie laughs, his mouth against my neck. “Uh-uh.”
“Well, there you go.” I turn my thoughts off for a little while while Eddie distracts me, and then I have a whole new thought. I press a hand to his chest and hold him back. “You know, you’re really good with my brothers. Maybe you’re a kid person? Or a teacher?”
“Hopefully, I’m a kid person,” he says, half-joking, half-serious. The anxiety of what’s to come returns to his face.
I feel guilty for bringing this back to the surface. I mean, he can’t do anything but wait, so for Eddie, there is no point in worrying or obsessing over outcomes tonight. “Okay, it’s my turn to distract you.”
“I’m in,” he says with a smile.
But while I’m working through the buttons of his shirt, I can’t help thinking, what will it do to him if he loses? If Mason—I’m calling him Mason, I don’t care what anyone else says—ends up with the handpicked, apparently perfect adoptive family?
I don’t want to think about that any more than Eddie does, but the reality is that it’s a likely outcome. It’s likely a judge will not see Eddie as the best option for this baby. For his child.
CHAPTER 49
Eddie
ME: Wtf am I supposed to do with your suit?
TOBY RHINEHART: Keep it. It’s my decoy suit. I don’t actually wear it.
ME: So…that kid I was planning on having? It happened.
TOBY RHINEHART: Whoa. Congrats man. I was messing with u the other night about dropping babies. I do know my stuff. Let me know if u need any help.
ME: Thanks. And wait…u were messing with me? Shit. I already sold that story…
TOBY RHINEHART: I’m working on my comedy. My agent doesn’t think I’m ready yet. Getting a little tired of ripping off my shirt and taking out bad guys.
ME: Yeah I feel so fucking sry for u.
• • •
I rub my eyes. They’re blurry from staring at my laptop for hours. The hospital waiting room changes every time I look up. I’m not sure exactly what I’m waiting for, but I just felt like I needed to be here. I even backed out of a job this morning. Shay Silver chewed me out for ten minutes but ended by mentioning something about canceling going well with my rebel image. Glad I didn’t mention the hours I’d planned to spend completing online quizzes for my parenting class. Probably not great for that image.
Finley hung out here for a while this morning, but she had a casting to get to and probably a dance class if I know her well enough. And I think I do. Now, anyway.
I’m working on finding the answer to a question on introducing solid foods when Ron Miller appears in the waiting room. “Back again?”
“Good news,” he says, plopping down beside me and holding out an envelope. “You’re a father. Congrats.”
I roll my eyes and take the envelope. Not that I’m not ecstatic that it came through in lightning-fast time for family court, but I’m not surprised by the results. It was just a formality. Although no one else seemed to believe me when I said I was sure. The thing is, Caroline and I were best friends. I know everything she’s ever done with a guy. And she knows everything I’ve done. There was never any question. Until this summer, when I lied to her about my decision, we’ve never kept any secrets from each other.
I skim the letter while Ron watches me. I’m a match. And a judge has granted me the right to notification. I sigh with relief.
“Normally, it takes three to six months for a custody or adoption hearing,” Ron says. “But you have a court date thirty days from now. That’s a big win, Eddie.”
He looks extremely pleased, so I work hard to hide my disappointment. “What happens for the next thirty days?”
I’ve already hired movers to take the baby gear from the Beltons’ storage unit to my new apartment next week when my lease starts. I don’t have furniture for adults yet, but whatever. Baby gear takes priority, and I don’t have to buy much. Sam seemed to have kept everything. Two of everything. I don’t even know what half that crap is—bouncy seats, high chairs, and changing tables. I did look up the crib model to make sure it wasn’t made with lead paint per my parenting class instructions. I also checked each item for recalls.
The grin fades from Ron’s face. He leans forward and lowers his voice. “The judge will allow the family Caroline chose to take the baby home. Temporarily.”
I knew this already, but hearing it now, in context, it’s hard to imagine. Do they have an apartment full of baby gear? Have they searched for product recalls?
What are they going to call him?
“So…” Ron says, hesitating, giving me time to digest. “If you want to see him, that’s also been okayed. In the nursery under the nurse’s supervision.”
I lift my head, staring at him. “I can see him?”
Ron nods, and I close my laptop and quickly stuff everything in my bag. I watch the nurses carefully, looking for signs of judgment or concern that I’m here. But I don’t get much on their end. One nurse fastens a bracelet around my wrist that has some computer chip in it so they don’t hand me the wrong baby. They read a long list of procedures and policies before allowing me inside the nursery with all the babies. I’m grateful that Ron takes off during this phase, because I’m feeling way too many things, and I don’t know if I’ll be cool or…not cool.
I’m instructed to cover my shoes with these plastic things and scrub my hands all the way to my elbows, and then I get covered in plastic as well.
There are five babies in the room right now. I’m pretty proud of myself for being able to pick out my kid without looking at the names on the bassinets. Regardless, my bracelet microchip thing is scanned and matched with the baby’s ankle bracelet microchip. He’s all wrapped up and sound asleep.
The younger of the two nurses stands on the other side of the bassinet, her hands clutched to the glass like I might make a run for it. But it doesn’t bother me. It’s good that they’re protective with these babies. I take my index finger and brush it along his cheek. His skin is soft.
“How is he doing?” I ask.
The nurse lifts a clipboard from the end of the crib and reads it quickly. “He’s early but no trouble breathing. His lungs are in great shape. He’s eating well. He’s a strong little guy.”
I shift the hat up a bit and brush my finger over the exposed hair. Ruby is right. He’s got my dark curly hair. His eyes are blue too, like mine. I saw them last night. But they could change. Caroline has brown eyes.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, watching him, doing nothing but barely touching his face and the bottom of his hair. And his ears. They’re oddly pliable, like clay. I notice all the other babies are in and out quickly, getting weighed or checked by a doctor and then taken back to their rooms.
The nurse must have deemed me trustworthy enough, because she’s been moving around the room, giving us some space. She looks up from her clipboard when I lean over the bassinet to snap a picture. I text it to Finley, and then I’m hit with a wave of sadness, realizing that I don’t have anyone else to send the picture to. I mean, I could send it to my parents, but that would only piss them off. I hesitate for a second and then do exactly that.
Another baby beside me is shuttled away, back to one of the patient rooms. “Has he been here the whole time?” I ask.
The younger nurse glances at the older one before answering. “Mostly.”
“It’s not uncommon in these situations,” the older nurse says. “For the mother to not want to see the baby. We’re taking excellent care of him.”
I nod, but I can’t help feeling guilty that Caroline is so torn she can’t even look at him. Guilty that he’s all alone. No family fawning over him. Then again, I can’t imagine my parents anywhere near a maternity ward. What were they like when I was born? Or Ruby? I can’t imagine my father in the waiting room, chugging coffee and eating cafeteria food.
He stirs, his eyes opening, one of his hands coming loose from the burrito wrap. I reach down and touch his hand before tucking it back in, pulling the blankets around him again.
“Nicely done,” the nurse says, complimenting my burrito skills. “You’ve done this before?”
I hear the questions behind that question. Yeah, I’m eighteen, and I’ve gotten a girl pregnant more than once. “I took a class. The teacher was a drill sergeant about the burrito wraps.”
The older nurse lifts an eyebrow. “I know where you went. Loretta’s class. That’s the best new parent program in the city.”
“So I’ve heard.” From Ron Miller. Over and over. Classes are expensive as hell too. Because my family is rich, I didn’t qualify for free tuition.
“Well, in that case,” the nurse says, “I think you can handle picking him up. If you want?”
“I haven’t officially graduated yet,” I admit. “I still have to take my final written test online.”
She narrows her eyes. “What’s your average right now?”
“Ninety-four,” I say and then add, “point six.”
She gives a satisfied nod and pulls a chair up behind me. Before I can ask if it’s okay to wake him up, he’s in my arms and even lighter than I expected. And warm. Very warm. I sink back in the chair, getting comfortable. He turns his head back and forth, disturbed by the movement. I hold my breath, trying to keep my body from stiffening. Part of me is afraid he’ll start screaming, being in the arms of an unqualified parent. But he quickly settles down and goes back to sleep.
“Is anyone going to name him?” I ask after several minutes.
“You can,” the younger nurse says, surprising me. “Unofficially.”
“Mason.”
“Family name?” she asks.
“Definitely not.” I glance up, and she’s writing Mason on the light-blue card taped to the bassinet. “How long do you think he’ll be here?”
The older nurse looks at Mason’s chart again. “I’d say he’ll be released in a week or so. The pediatrician is pretty careful with the early ones, but he’s doing so well.”
Only a week. I don’t think there is anything that can be done to push the court date up. It will be thirty days at least before he has a real home. I try not to think about that while I’m hanging out with Mason, long enough to get through one bottle feeding and two diaper changes, during which the nurse tries to ask me about circumcision, and I get light-headed and have to sit down again so I don’t drop the baby. I take a few dozen pictures, and while I’m parked in the rocking chair, an older couple comes in to visit one of the babies in a covered bassinet. They look like grandparents. They take as many pictures as I did. The woman cries a lot, and the nurse has to grab several tissues for her.
The whole time I’m watching them, all I want to do is tell Mason that he won’t be left alone any more. And that we’re going to get to know each other, to be a family, but what if I lose this case? What if the first words he hears are broken promises? I don’t want that.
So we don’t have a lot to talk about right now. Not yet anyway. And Mason doesn’t have any grandparents to cry over him. I’m almost glad he doesn’t get to choose who he lives with, because my side isn’t looking too attractive—no mom, no grandparents. But there’s Fin. And Sam. And Connor and Braden.
Around dinnertime, the nurses practically force me to leave. I grab food at the cafeteria and sit back down in the waiting room, setting up my laptop so I can graduate from that damn class. At least I’ll have that certificate to offer as a selling point. I have a dozen texts from Fin, begging for more pictures, asking me if Mason smells like a newborn. I sniff the front of my shirt, and sure enough, it’s got that baby scent. She must have forwarded pictures to Sam, because he replied to some text, cracking jokes about his wild hair “in the making.”
No response from my parents. Fuck them. Fucking assholes. Maybe I’ll blow up a picture of Mason to poster size and have it delivered to my dad’s office. I’ll write “Grandfather of the Year” on it.
Ron sent me an email detailing the judge assigned to the case and including some stats on his previous custody decisions. He’s ruled in favor of single fathers several times. According to Ron, I couldn’t have gotten a better judge out of the large NYC pool. I get brave and reply back, asking him about payment. He responds immediately with one line: Pay me when you’re a millionaire.
Shit. I forgot. I quickly compose an email to the lawyer in charge of my grandmother’s trust, and I include a picture of
the paternity results. I’m hitting send when a middle-aged couple enter the waiting room, an older woman trailing behind them. Lots of people have been in and out of this waiting room, and I wouldn’t have looked up, except that the woman is sobbing so loudly, I can’t possibly not look up.
Everyone in this waiting room thus far has been happy and celebrating. I imagine not all areas of the hospital are this way. Maybe they’ve wandered into the wrong place.
I try to go back to my online test, but I start picking up bits of their conversation.
“I can’t go in there,” the woman sobs. She’s being comforted by the guy with her—her husband? She is dressed casually, jeans and a plain purple top. The woman behind them is dressed in a business suit and high heels. She’s glued to her phone but occasionally pats the crying woman on the back. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“We don’t know,” the guy says. “We don’t have the whole story yet.”
“But we were supposed to take him home,” the woman says, finally raising her head. Her face is red and splotchy.
“You still can,” the business-suit lady says.
I pop my headphones in my ears so I can at least give them the appearance of privacy.
“But then what? We hand him back in thirty days?”
My whole body stiffens, my breath catching in my throat. Shit. They can’t be…
The business-suit lady ushers the couple to a couch and pulls a chair in front of them. I should take off, but I can’t. I can’t move. Because I know who they are.
This is who Caroline picked to raise our kid.
Mason, I think just as the woman says his name out loud.
“He named him. Not that I mind, but it just feels like he’s slipping away. He belongs to someone else.”
The man seems shaken up but holding together. He looks at the lawyer, his wife still wrapped in his arms. “What are his chances of winning?”