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)
The realization hit me that I was probably going to take thousands of photos of her in my lifetime, but this was the very first one. It choked me up a little, although I would never admit it to anyone.
Of course, the next thing I wanted to do was send the picture to someone, because what good was it to have a cute kid if you couldn’t show her off? Emme was my first thought, not just because she was the only one of my friends who knew about Paisley, but because I genuinely wanted her to see the photo. Was it breaking my vow to text it to her? It’s not like I was asking for help or anything.
Paternal pride overruled my stubbornness, and I decided to send it.
First bath on my own. We survived. I think she likes my mad hairstyling skills.
I sent the message and the photo, hoping for a quick and friendly reply. It took less than 30 seconds.
Emme: OMG! She is the cutest thing ever. Great job on the bath. Things going okay today?
I had to text with one hand, so it took me a couple minutes to write back.
Me: Yes. Grocery store was a bit hairy and smelly, but all is well. How are you?
Emme: Oh dear. Hairy and smelly? I’m fine. Cleaning my apartment and making spaghetti sauce and meatballs.
Homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs. Jesus Christ, that sounded good. My stomach groaned with envy. Since Paisley had arrived, I was surviving on shit like chocolate-covered potato chips, dry cereal (since I’d run out of milk), raisins, lunchmeat, and cocktail olives. I hadn’t even had the time or energy to make a proper sandwich. But I didn’t want her to know that.
Me: Sounds good. Enjoy your dinner.
She didn’t text back. I set my phone aside and exhaled. It sucked not being able to be honest with her. She and I had never had to bullshit each other, and I didn’t like it. What I really wanted to say was, How about you bring that spaghetti over here and hold the baby while I pour you a drink?
But if she came over, I had a feeling I knew what would happen. I didn’t trust myself.
While Paisley took her afternoon nap in the swing, I made a few work phone calls and did laundry. I was folding some of Paisley’s things—they were so tiny in my big hands, it was ridiculous—when I wondered if I would have to move to a bigger place.
Fuck. I didn’t want to move. I loved this apartment. Everything about it said me. Except…I hardly even knew who that was at this point. Did the old me still exist? Did being a father supersede every other part of my identity? Did I have a right to live where I wanted to live without worrying if it was right for a kid? How often would she even visit? What was my life going to look like moving forward? Could I shift back and forth from old Nate to single dad Nate at will? Be one thing when she was with me and another when she wasn’t?
The walls started to close in on me, and I sank onto the couch, eyes closed. My stomach hurt. My brain hurt. How was I ever going to get used to the fact that nothing in my life would ever be the same? I didn’t want these problems. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be a father.
Then I thought of Emme. What had she said to me Friday night?
If you were really the alpha male you pretend to be, you’d take responsibility for this like a grown-ass man and not fall apart like the ridiculous boy I see in front of me.
Frowning, I got to my feet again. I wasn’t fucking pretending. And I wouldn’t fall apart.
After I had stacked Paisley’s clothing beneath the changing table and put away my own laundry, I decided to make the call to my mother. Telling her would not be fun, but the longer I avoided it, the more cowardly I felt. I needed to do something that would make me feel strong. Show someone I was accepting responsibility like a man.
Then I could tell Emme about it.
I glanced at Paisley, who was sleeping peacefully in the swing, picked up my phone and made the call. My mother didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me back, which, of course, she did after Paisley woke up and was just getting started on her nightly crying jag.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, shifting the screaming baby to my left arm so I could hold the phone to my ear with the right.
“Nate? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Hello? Hello?”
I rolled my eyes and spoke louder. “Hello, Mom. It’s me. Can you hear me?”