Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Jesus Christ, could you be more misogynistic? Why do I have to stay home? If you’re such a family man, why don’t you quit your job and go to playdates, trips to the zoo, and join the PTO?”
“Done. I’ll tell Fletcher tomorrow. If he asks questions, I’ll refer him to you. And you can explain that I’m doing what’s best for our son without being a misogynist.”
“Stop being so ridiculous. We have a full-time nanny. Neither one of us has to quit our job.”
“So we have a full-time nanny. A house the size of a hotel. And more money than God. You’re worried about what exactly?”
She stands, cinching the sash to her robe. “I need to know you’re going to love him.”
“Define love, and I’ll let you know if I’m going to love him.”
She stops at the door to the bedroom and turns around.
I lift onto my elbows. “When you think of love, what comes to mind?”
Jolene shrugs. “My mom loves me.”
“How do you know?”
With a huff, she frowns. “She’s my mom. That’s how I know.”
“And you argue cases with that logic?”
“Fine, Milo. How do you know if someone loves you? And it can’t be that person saying it because people lie.”
Really? She’s telling me this?
“A look. A touch. Sometimes it’s just a feeling.”
“Should I feel this from you? Because I don’t. It’s been four years, and I don’t feel your love. We made a baby, and I don’t feel your love.”
“I donated sperm, and you donated an egg. Saying we made a baby feels like a stretch.”
“Many women use surrogates or adopt. It doesn’t make them any less of a mother.”
I chuckle. “Women who can’t carry a baby. You have no clue if you can carry a child.”
“Sorry. Did you want to make love to me and create a baby the old-fashioned way? Looking deep into my eyes and thinking just how much you cherish me? It would be a nice change to you fucking me from behind like an animal.”
I recline to my back and stare at the ceiling. “Sorry, did we fall in love when I wasn’t looking?”
Jolene deflates with a long sigh. “She’s gone, Milo. I am your life now. Our child will be your life.”
“It’s a business arrangement.”
“A child is not a business arrangement,” she snaps.
“Tell that to the nanny you hired.”
“Jesus … you are a bitter man. If she were here, she’d no longer want you.”
I clench my jaw, biting back all I want to say … words I’ve wanted to say since the day Fletcher kicked the shit out of me for loving the wrong Ellington.
“Milo …” Her voice softens. “I’m the only family you have. But in two weeks, you’re going to have a son. You can hate Fletcher and Pauline. You can hate me. But you can’t hate him. He’s an innocent life. I know you’re better than this.”
Click.
The door shuts behind her.
25
IT’S BEEN AWHILE
He cries all the time.
Probably because he heard his name: Benjamin Iverson Ellington-Odell.
I had to fight to have it be Ellington-Odell instead of Odell-Ellington. Iverson is Jolene’s birth surname, Greg’s last name, but Pauline wanted her to be an Ellington. I suggested we name him Archer, but Jolene refused to name our son after a man who died by lethal injection. Benjamin is Fletcher and Pauline’s dad’s name.
Ben has my blue eyes, and I think it irks Jolene, or maybe she’s pissy because she hears him crying. Leah, the live-in nanny, doesn’t have the magic touch at two in the morning. Jolene added a sound machine to our bedroom and threatened to ask the contractor to add insulation to soundproof it. Instead, she’s sleeping on the other side of the house, closer to Fletcher’s bedroom.
I don’t mind his cries. He has good lungs. He’ll be a strong man one day.
“Sorry, Mr. Odell,” Leah whispers while dancing around the nursery with him a little before four in the morning. “I’ve never dealt with one this colicky.”
I don’t know why she’s whispering; he sure isn’t.
“Let me.”
She squints. “Uh … let you what?”
“Take him.” I reach for him.
“You’re going to … walk with him?”
“Yes.” I take him from her arms and press him to my bare chest.
Leah yawns.
“Close the door on your way out,” I say.
“You … uh … want me to go to bed?”
Sitting in the rocking chair by the window, I kiss his tiny head. “Yep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Leah …”
“I’m going. I’m going. Wake me if you need anything. I mean anything.”
“Go.”
I feel her gaze on me for several seconds before she shuts the door.
Benjamin stops crying when I rock him while rubbing his back. He smells like baby lotion. It might be the best smell in the world. Or it might be that I smell manure all day. When I close my eyes, I imagine Benjamin is ours—mine and Indie’s. She’s been up all night rocking and nursing him, and I decide to give her a break. She’s in our bed because we sleep in the same room, in the same bed, and even though parenthood is exhausting, we still make love every day. We can’t keep our hands off each other. And every day, I stop by home around noon to check in on them. Benjamin’s in his carrier next to Indie. She’s in the garden, wearing a short floral dress and cowboy boots, a dirt smudge on her face. Long hair waving in the breeze. When she sees me, she grins, and I feel it in my bones.