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)
“You don’t have to—”
“For fuck’s sake, Maddie, just accept the help when it’s offered,” I grumble, running out of patience with her automatic denials.
She opens her mouth to argue, seems to think better of it, and rises from the chair. She wordlessly hands Grayce to me, who makes a sound of distress before settling against my chest.
She turns from me and before I can even sit down, my phone chimes. I nab it and see it’s a text from Drake. Pittsburgh Pediatrics, Dr. Klemmer. 9:30 a.m.
“We have an appointment,” I say with a wide smile.
Maddie’s head snaps to look at me over her shoulder. “What?”
I hold up my phone to show her the text, but she can’t read it from across the kitchen. “Brienne must have pulled a string.”
A dozen expressions march across her face—disbelief, relief, irritation, suspicion. The relief wins for a breath, then she folds it away and finds her spine. “I could have handled it,” she says, even though we both know she didn’t.
Not today. Not without waiting.
I decide to call her out.
“You didn’t,” I say, gentler than it reads in my head. “And that’s okay.”
Her eyes flash like flint. “It’s not okay to owe people.”
“We don’t owe anyone anything. This was happily done for us, and no offense, Maddie, but you need to be gracious when help is offered.”
Her face flushes as we stare at each other over the island. We’re both too tired to keep the usual armor locked in place and I can see her resolve crumbling. “Thank you,” she says, so soft I almost miss it.
“Anytime,” I answer, and I mean it.
“And I’m sorry I keep declining the help. It’s second nature.”
“That’s fine, just as long as you’re okay with me shooting that shit down.”
A small smile plays at her lips, and she ducks her head in a short but embarrassed nod.
“We need to feed Grayce,” Maddie says and then it’s on.
Two parents moving fluidly. Maddie pulls a bottle from the fridge and shakes it. I adjust Grayce in my arms and accept the milk, surprised she’s not insisting on feeding her. Something smug and warm lights up my chest at the trust.
Grayce locks onto my T-shirt with both hands, the softness of her pressed to my ribs, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“There you go, sunshine,” I murmur, settling the bottle into her tiny hands. Her lashes flutter, she sucks, and that small sound—contented, rhythmic—threads through the kitchen until the world shrinks to the circle of her mouth around the bottle and the rise and fall of her belly.
For two minutes, everything is simple. Then her foot finds the hem of my shirt and she tries to climb my sternum like it’s a tree.
“Ambitious,” I tell her, fighting a smile.
Maddie watches, arms crossed, the line of her mouth carved with slight worry. “We need to leave in thirty,” she says. “I’ll pack the diaper bag.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll change Grayce.”
Her eyes twinkle with what I swear might be humor. “I suppose I could let you do that.”
“Man… that is some major growth,” I deadpan.
And she actually lets a smile loose before pivoting into motion, efficient and precise, loading wipes and diapers and a spare onesie like she’s stocking a bunker for a siege.
♦
The pediatrician’s office smells like disinfectant and animal crackers. The waiting room walls are a safari—giraffes with eyelashes, zebras wearing Hawaiian T-shirts, and lions with smiles too friendly to be carnivores. A fish tank burbles in the corner, multicolored gravel glowing under a strip of LEDs. Grayce sits on Maddie’s lap, staring at the fish with serious interest, intermittently pulling at her red ear.
We’ve barely been waiting ten minutes when a nurse comes through a side door. “Grayce Donovan?”
“That’s us,” Maddie says as she stands with Grayce in her arms, and I stand right along with her. I’m not staying in the waiting room.
She smiles. “Come on back.”
We follow the nurse down a hallway lined with framed kid drawings in marker—dads with triangle bodies, moms with hair like spaghetti, lopsided houses with hearts in the windows. My chest tightens around the simplest possible definition of family.
We stop at a station where Grayce is weighed and measured, then are shown into the exam room, which is overly bright. The examination table is covered with a strip of crinkly paper, and a mobile of wooden birds turns over it slowly in the breeze of an air vent. We both take a seat on colorful plastic chairs.
The nurse turns to face us, clipboard in hand. “Okay, Mom and Dad, what seems to be the problem?”
My entire body buzzes as if I’ve been struck by lightning and I can tell by the stricken look on Maddie’s face, she’s as shocked as I am.
It’s the first time we’ve been called mom and dad, and I’m not prepared for the weight of it.