Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Grayce is in her high chair, chubby fists full of Cheerios. Most end up on the tray or the floor, but she gets a few into her mouth and gnaws on them with her new baby teeth—two top center, two bottom center.
“Are those good, little beaver?” I ask, flooded with the love and joy I have for this baby. She’s literally what’s getting me through my pain.
There’s a knock on the door and I wipe my hands on a towel. Six p.m. on the dot. I’ll give him a bonus point for that as I appreciate punctuality.
I chide myself for smoothing my hair before reaching the door and when I open it, Atlas stands there, larger than life with a stuffed animal tucked under one arm. He lifts it sheepishly. “Got this for Grayce at the airport.”
“It’s cute,” I say, stepping back to allow him in.
He tilts the golden lion side to side, giving it a critical once-over. “It called to me. Or rather, roared to me.”
I refuse to let my lips twitch and instead head to the kitchen with Atlas on my heels.
He follows and I move to toss the fried chicken pieces in the sesame sauce. Atlas crouches in front of the high chair and wiggles the stuffed lion in Grayce’s view. With a Cheerio still stuck to her finger, she grabs at it while uttering a string of sounds that will soon become words.
“Those are some sticky digits.” He laughs, pulling the lion away. “Maybe we’ll save this for later.”
“Or,” I drawl, glancing over my shoulder at him, “you could clean her up.”
He freezes, fingers tightening on the toy. “Uh—what exactly am I supposed to do?”
I smirk to myself. “You’ll figure it out.”
There’s no doubt in my mind he’s not cut out for fatherhood and will be later advising me of same. I watch from the corner of my eye as Atlas hesitates, then sweeps uneaten Cheerios into his palm before tossing them in the trash. He grabs a paper towel, runs it under water and wrings it out. His big hands are clumsy but careful as he wipes her face and tiny fingers. “Okay. Cleaned. What else does she need?”
I frown because this doesn’t sound like a man who’s planning to say, Thanks but no thanks on your kind offer to be a dad.
“She needs a bottle,” I say, giving him a small taste of what it means to care for a baby.
He frowns. “She still drinks milk?”
“It’s infant formula. In addition to soft foods, that’s her main nutrition, but she’s almost old enough for whole milk.”
“Right. So, what do I do?”
Irritation bubbles within me, but I suppress it. I just need to let this play out so he’ll see he’s not cut out for playing house. “I have some bottles prepared in the fridge.”
“Doesn’t it need warmed?” he asks as he gets her formula.
“No. Just shake it well.”
He does, looking to me for approval like a kid being graded. “Do I, um… pick her up?”
“She can hold it herself.” My gaze cuts to Grayce whose eyes are tracking the bottle. “She’s smart and strong.”
“Of course she is,” he grumbles.
I busy myself getting the rice ready. Gray has an electric rice cooker that is a set-it-and-forget-it kind of thing, something I’ve come to appreciate since I started caring for Grayce. Simplicity and efficiency are my two best friends.
Atlas lifts Grayce out of the high chair and easily cradles her in the crook of his beefy arm. He looks a little too natural handing her the bottle, which she eagerly accepts, and rocks side to side on his feet as she drinks.
I settle back against the counter and feel a twinge in my chest. He looks right holding her—too right, and that doesn’t bode well for my future. But does it bode well for hers?
“Um, I think Grayce left a gift of gratitude in her diaper,” he says, nose wrinkling slightly. He pulls the bottle away, leans his face closer to her and grimaces. “Yup. Miss Poopy Pants in the house.”
“Here… let me have her,” I say, holding out my arms. “She just needs a change and then it’s bedtime. We can eat and talk after I get her down.”
Atlas smiles brightly. “Thank God you’re taking her. I was afraid you’d make me change the diaper.”
“Coward,” I mutter, heading down the hall, but I happily read into his disdain for poop to mean there’s no way he wants to take on the challenge of parenting a baby.
He trails after me and watches silently as I change her diaper. I zip her into clean pajamas, noting the way her eyes are already heavy from the full belly of formula. When I lie her in the crib, I plug my phone into the speaker on her dressing table and flip through a folder of MP4s. A pause, then her father’s voice crackles through the room, horribly off-key as he sings “You Are My Sunshine.”