Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Next on the rotation were Tina and Tiffany, the most unlikely yet perfect couple. Tiffany was hot-pink velour sweatsuits, bleached blonde hair out to there, acrylic nails and bright pink lipstick. Tina was heavy metal, tattoos, short, cropped hair, no nonsense, no bullshit.
Tiffany doted over Mabel, and Tina did the same but with less enthusiasm. She then declared she was going to cook us freezer meals—since I had discovered they were the ‘thing’ for new mothers—and demanded Kane and I go nap.
I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t nap in general, let alone with two strangers—albeit nice ones—in my house, one of them holding my baby.
“Nap,” Tina ordered. “No lip. We’ll be up when the baby is hungry or I’m just tired of the screaming and cooing.” She tilted her head to Tiffany.
I was going to argue, but the weight of my exhaustion made that seem impossible. Kane took my hand, just as exhausted but able to hide it a little better.
“Come on, Chef. They’ve got this,” he said, though I saw his eyes linger on Mabel protectively for a beat.
I knew it was just as hard for him to leave Mabel.
Blanche was there, Mabel’s constant protector. We knew she’d never let Mabel from her sight.
The logical part of me, Avery Hart, chef—the part that was quickly disappearing—let Kane take my hand and pull me upstairs. We needed all the rest we could get in order to be decent parents.
“I’m not going to be able to nap,” I told Kane as he got us into the bedroom where I slipped off my clothes as he pulled off his tee.
“Give it a go, Chef.” He pulled me into bed with him.
I relaxed into his arms, letting them settle around me. Moments later, I was out, only to be woken by Kane’s lips at my ear two hours later.
Tiffany had brought in a whining Mabel to be fed. The freezer was stocked, the house smelled of Tiffany’s perfume, and the place was spotless.
Then they left.
Then next was Calliope.
I’d seen her around the bakery a handful of times but hadn’t interacted with her a whole bunch. Although for some reason, I gravitated to her somewhat more than the outspoken and extroverted Fiona or the feminine and shy Nora. She always wore a slash of red lipstick, sharp eyeliner accentuating her dark eyes, hair slicked back into a bun, showing off angular features. And she was always in black with high heels, looking like she was going to a high-powered business meeting instead of walking around a small coastal town in Maine.
When I heard she’d been in New York until recently, I understood why I was drawn to her. The no-nonsense attitude, the slight chill, the overall confidence. She reminded me of who I used to be.
I didn’t know much about her other than that she was Rowan’s sister—the resemblance was uncanny—and she had worked on Wall Street before moving to Jupiter.
She was the last person I wanted in the rotation because it shoved an uncomfortable truth in my face… That I’d never be like her, or even close to being like her, again.
But she arrived at our doorstep one Saturday evening.
“You’re going out,” she declared, stepping her red-soled shoe through the doorway. “Where’s the baby?”
I pointed to the living room where Mabel was in her $300 baby swing she barely tolerated for longer than five minutes, watching fruit dance along the screen of the TV.
I was vaguely embarrassed about this put together woman coming into our house, seeing me with Kane’s tee and boxer shorts on at five thirty in the afternoon, my kid in front of the TV.
I’d told myself I wouldn’t expose Mabel to screens—there was all sorts of research to show that it wasn’t beneficial to kids under the age of two. But I’d found something the studies didn’t mention: it gave me five minutes of respite. I could enjoy a hot coffee, breathe, use the bathroom, sit on the sofa and stare into space.
Those fruits were the best thing ever invented.
“Good, great, she’s distracted.” Clearly, Calliope didn't have judgment over the TV being on. Kane was sitting on the sofa, watching out daughter with that tender look on his face.
Calliope pointed to both of us. “You’re going out,” she repeated. “Go get ready. I’ll sit with her.”
I sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t expect that of you.” What I didn’t say is that I couldn’t leave my daughter with a stranger. I’d barely left her with my mother.
“You’re not expecting anything. I’m telling you you’re going out,” she said. “And I know you don’t know me, I don’t have kids, but they’re pretty foolproof at keeping alive at this age. For short periods anyway.” She shrugged with a mischievous glint to her eye. “I’m an aunt to about a thousand of the little fuckers and have babysat them all without major bodily injury. You can call Nora for references if you wish, or you can get ready, go out, have something to drink, or have sex in your car on the beach. Whatever tickles your fancy.” She waved her hands. “The most important thing is you get out of this house and away from singular identities like mother and father and have a couple of hours as whoever you feel like being.”