Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Sometimes, a girl’s gotta have some dessert.
After the walk, I fed her again and put her down for her nap. Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch reading the Five Tips article when Nate came in.
“Hi,” I said, setting the magazine aside. “How did it go?”
“Fine.” He set his bag down, took off his suit coat, and tossed it onto a chair.
I waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, I asked, “Did you tell your boss?”
“Yeah.”
“Was she surprised?”
He rubbed his face with two hands. “To say the least. But she was very understanding. Apparently there’s some sort of provision for paternity leave at our firm, which I had no clue about, of course. But it allows me time off and keeps my job safe.”
“That’s good.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Will you take off the whole month?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I think it’s a good idea. You need time to bond with her.”
“I guess.” He took his phone out of his pocket and started checking his messages.
Something was off. I could feel it.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” He frowned at his screen.
“You seem kind of upset.”
“I’m not.”
“Okaaaay.” I stood, hugging my magazine to my stomach. “Well, maybe I’ll see you later?”
He yawned. “Maybe. Guess I’ll change out of this suit before she wakes up.”
I waited for a moment, hoping he’d at least give me a hug or kiss on the cheek—something to acknowledge the change in our status. It had changed, hadn’t it? Or had last night been only a dream?
But he didn’t touch me. In fact, he didn’t even look at me.
“Thanks again for watching her,” he said, heading for the stairs. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s okay.” The apple fritter balled up in my stomach. “I’ll…talk to you later.”
He said nothing and disappeared into his bedroom, and I let myself out.
It happened, I thought, my stomach churning. I’m one of those girls.
Ten
Nate
Upstairs, I glanced at Paisley, who was still asleep, then fell back onto my bed, loosened my tie, and closed my eyes.
I’d never been so fucking tired.
Not as a kid, when I’d lain awake in bed, worrying all night about my brother, praying for a cure, a reprieve, a miracle. Not in college, when I’d pledged a fraternity and the active members kept us up twenty-four hours a day mopping floors, collecting beer cans, and doing their fucking laundry. Not in law school, when I’d study all night for days on end before an exam, then crash for twelve hours afterward.
But it wasn’t only physical exhaustion. I was worn the fuck out mentally and emotionally too. Word of my situation had buzzed through the office fast. Everyone had been shocked, both that I had a daughter and that I was taking responsibility for her. That kind of pissed me off—did they think I would be so callous as to turn away my own child? A ton of people had burst out laughing. You? With a daughter? A few people offered congratulations and advice, but more common were things like, Oh man. Wouldn’t want to be you. Or, You know your life is over, right? A few (male) colleagues expressed sympathy, saying shit like, “Dude, bitch had no right to do that to you,” which only made me angrier. An older attorney at the firm told me, “Welcome to fatherhood, eighteen years of sleep deprivation, feeling like a failure, taking the blame, and going broke. Least you don’t have to worry about all the damage your divorce will do.”
My God, by the time I left there, I was totally demoralized. My nerve endings were beyond frayed. I felt like my life was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing I could do to keep it together, or even keep it recognizable.
Paisley was one thing—how did fathers handle the constant pressure and doubt? Every second of the day, I was responsible for her. If anything happened, it was on me. As the days went by, I felt more confident with the routine, but Christ. When I thought ahead to eighteen years of this, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. For fuck’s sake, I’d be over FIFTY when she graduated from high school. FIFTY, worried about my teenage daughter out drinking or getting into someone’s car who had. FIFTY, waiting for her to get home after she’d broken her curfew. FIFTY, panicking about her hanging out with guys like me who’d only been interested in one thing at sixteen. Was it too early to think about sending her to a convent as soon as she hit puberty?
Fucking puberty. That was another thing. How was I supposed to handle that? What if Rachel was a total flake and never came back for her? For fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even called since Saturday morning! What kind of mother could she be? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that she’d simply abandoned my child in some random hallway. She could have knocked. She could have asked me for help. She could have done any number of things that wouldn’t have put Paisley in danger. Even if she did come back, how would I know that my daughter would be safe with her?