Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“You’re fucking irritating,” I say. “You do understand that Eira’s a human being, don’t you? She’s not a personal robot that will do everything I program her to do. She doesn’t work weekends. She needs time off.”
Why can’t Jacob drop this and let me be? I’ve done three weekends now. Okay, Eira helped with football practice, but other than that, I’d coped pretty much on my own. And honestly, I feel fucking proud of myself. But to go on the road with this show? It’s too much.
“Have you asked her if she’d be willing to come to Norfolk, given how important this weekend is to our family?”
I haven’t asked her. Partly because I know she’ll say yes. She always says yes if I need her help. I don’t want to take advantage. Beyond that, it would feel a little too much like we’re parents taking our daughter to visit Grandpa and Grandma. Eira is so competent with Guinevere, so loving and kind, that I’m sure people mistake her for the baby’s mother. And honestly, if I squint, it isn’t hard for me to see it in Eira too.
I know that’s a dangerous game.
And then there’s the living together. The late-night cup of warm milk and game of backgammon that has never been repeated.
Thank god.
The memories of that night are all too vivid. Her white pajamas, slightly see-through in the low lights of the kitchen. More than once I’d caught myself staring at the outline of her breast or the dusky pink of her nipple and had to make myself look away. It took everything in me not to stare between her legs.
Things could easily get complicated with Eira.
Inviting her away for the weekend with me and Guinevere isn’t going to simplify anything.
Eira comes into the kitchen with Guinevere, providing a timely interruption to this conversation and my thoughts. They look so at ease with each other. Our end-of-day routine is about to commence: Eira feeds Guinevere at six then hands her over to me in the kitchen at seven.
“Hey, Guinevere. Your uncle is here.” She grins up at us both. I know by the way her smile stays in place that she’s picking up on the tension between us, though she doesn’t say anything. “You want to hold her?” she asks Jacob. “She’s in a milky coma.”
I don’t look at Jacob. As much as I want to drop-kick him out of my flat right now, I don’t want to deny Guinevere time with her uncle. She deserves a big family, even if they’re as annoying as hell.
Jacob’s chest lowers and he turns and washes his hands. The thick tension between us is punctuated by Eira’s soft chattering to Guinevere. “You’re such a lucky girl with all these men wanting baby cuddles. This is what it’s like being a Welsh princess.”
Jacob dries his hands and scoops up Guinevere in a confident way that sticks in my gut. He makes it look easy. But it’s not. I’m still not as confident as he is just holding her. Taking her to Norfolk is a hard no. I don’t want to be surrounded by people with far more experience with infants than me, watching me fuck it up.
I’d rather just stay here. Take her to the park. Hang out.
“You two are fighting,” Eira says after she’s handed Guinevere to Jacob.
“We’re not,” I snap. “Jacob’s being unreasonable and I’m not giving in to him.”
“Oh, I see,” she replies. Her steady look calms me, like her gaze is the sun, soporific and sedative. “I’m going to make a coffee. Does anyone want one?”
“I’d love one,” Jacob says.
“Jacob, she’s not your servant.”
“It’s fine, Dax. Honestly. I’m making myself a cup. It’s no bother. Unless you’d prefer me to leave the two of you to argue in private?” She smiles and it trips me up. I smile back, and for a second it’s just the two of us in this kitchen. Then I remember I’m annoyed at Jacob.
“We’re happy to argue in front of whoever’s around,” Jacob says.
Eira looks away. Guinevere is totally out of it in Jacob’s arms. Milk coma central.
“Well, I’ll be out of your hair in a couple of minutes.”
“You’re fine,” I say. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Jacob says. “Mum told me to give you some stuff. It’s in my bag.” He nods at his rucksack in the corner.
I’m not sure I want to look, but I flip open the bag in any event and pull out a bunch of papers.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Jacob says.
I turn them over. Details of houses for sale. “From mum?” I ask. “Funny how they’re all in Hampstead.”
“It’s very family-friendly,” Jacob says. “Lots of good schools—”
“She’s four weeks old.”
“But you’re not nomads,” he says. “You don’t want to be moving every five minutes.”
“I don’t want to be moving at all.” He’s really pressing my buttons today. Why is he invested in me moving house? In how I organize childcare? Next he’ll be checking on the contents of my fridge.