The walk to the on-campus daycare is quick. It takes about five minutes, and I chat with Rose the whole way. I know she doesn’t understand the words I’m saying, but the tone is all that matters. And she’s already nine months old, which blows my mind. Soon she’ll be the one talking.
It’s cold, but not freezing and before I know it, we’re here. Rose’s daycare is run by the Early Education Department, and it's pretty awesome. Since I’m an employee of BU, I get a good rate at the childcare center, and it’s great that she’s so close. But still, good childcare isn’t cheap, so I try to minimize the hours she has to be here. We’re greeted by Katelynn, one of her teachers, and thankfully, Rose goes happily into her waiting arms. Rose loves it here, but sometimes drop-off is hard. I breathe a silent sigh of relief as I kiss my girl goodbye and head back to Drip. I leave the car seat there, as I always do, since we drive home, but I walk the empty stroller back to the coffee shop. No one pays me much attention. First off, it’s the middle of the hour, so most people are in class and the paths are pretty empty. And, unlike high school, college seems to be a place where nobody really cares what you do. Or maybe I just don’t notice anymore since I’m busy with Rose.
I went to four different high schools in three different states in the span of four years. One was inner city, two were rural, and one was suburban. But the one constant was the judgmental looks I’d get from everyone—especially the pretty, popular girls. Around them, I always felt extra self-conscious, like they were watching my every move to see if I measured up.
Maybe it’s because I’m not a student at BU, just a girl who works in the coffee shop, or, like I said, maybe I’m too busy with Rose to notice, but I don’t get the stares and looks like I used to. I don’t feel like I need to prove myself.
And that’s a good thing because as I head back to work, I lose the battle against the tears that have been threatening since Knox walked out. Tears track down my cheeks, no doubt bringing eyeliner and mascara with them. My cheeks and neck are red and splotchy—I can feel it, and my nose is sniffly and runny.
I walk into Drip, and right into Ian’s arms. He gives me the hug I didn’t know I needed, and if Theo thinks anything of this morning’s happenings, he doesn’t let it show.
“How’s Rosebud?” Ian asks. “Was she happy to see Katelynn? Or did she scream her little head off? It’s always a toss-up.”
“She was happy, thank goodness. Otherwise, I’d have started bawling in the baby room and not on the walk back.”
Ian hands me the box of super soft tissues he keeps in his office drawer, and I dry my face, and then step behind the counter to hang up my jacket and wash my hands.
I hear Ian sigh behind me, and I know he wants to pick up where we left off.
“What are you going to do?” he asks me as I start prepping another batch of dark roast.
“What can I do?” Pouring coffee beans into the grinder, I press the button, and concentrate as the machine whirs to life, effectively drowning out anything Ian might have to say. The grinder stops, and I remove the canister, letting the intoxicating aroma of coffee fill the air. “Ian, he walked away. He knew we had a child. He never asked about her, never even cared to know her gender or birthday or even hername.” Fresh tears threaten to fall, but I take a second to compose myself. “And then, today, he met her. He saw her sweet face, and the best he could do was mutter something and walk away?”
“I’m not excusing his behavior, believe me. Just...just give him a minute, maybe? It’s a lot to take in, I’m guessing, and I’m telling you, he looked like he was in shock. You told him—I know, but… something’s off. ”
“Yea, something’s off. His paternal instinct? His moral compass? God…” I brace my hands on the cool, stainless-steel counter, as if holding on to something will help me get a grip on what I’m feeling. “I wish I could believe he really was in shock, that somehow he was totally clueless walking in here and got blindsided by the vision of me holding a little girl who looks just like him. But I have those texts, Ian. I saved them, not as some perverse way of reminding myself that he didn’t want us, but as preservation—to remind myself that people aren’t always as good as they seem. It’s a lesson you’d think I’d have learned a long time ago, but I guess it takes me a while. It would be so easy to let myself be taken in by his smile, the way he laughs. I so stupidly fell for him at eighteen. I’m not much older, age-wise, but in the last year and a half, I’ve grown up faster than I thought possible. I can’t afford to fall for his tricks again.”
Ian’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes a quick glance, then puts it right back. “Willa, you know the very last thing I want is for you to get hurt. Look, it’s up to him now. Either he’ll cop to it and explain and let you decide if he’s worthy of your time. Or he’ll ghost you and you’re no worse off than you were. Remember, you always have me. And Mel and Phoebe. We’re here for you and Rose. Never doubt that.”
I nod because, if I try to talk, I’ll just start sobbing. It’s barely 11am and I’ve already ridden an emotional rollercoaster today. I get back to work. Soon, the coffee shop fills up with patrons, and the rest of my shift goes by in a blur of making sandwiches and drinks. It’s good, though; I can’t complain. I’d rather have my mind and hands busy with simple tasks than dwell on what the hell is going on with Knox.
* * *
Knox
By the time I make it back to our house, all my friends’ cars are parked in the driveway, except for Phoebe’s beater. I left my car on campus, figuring the walk would do me good.
It didn’t.
I froze my ass off on a bench by the fountain. That’s what I get for walking around in a hoodie in December. I watched from a distance and saw Willa walking along the path, pushing a stroller. It’s been eighteen months since we last saw each other. Embarrassingly, I had to ask the fucking internet how old my kid was. Jesus, how pathetic. The online pregnancy calculator said that since Willa and I had sex at the very end of May, Rose was probably born in mid-February, meaning she’s over nine months old.My chest hurts. Part of me wanted to run and help Willa. To tap in. My heart ached at the thought of how long she’d been doing this—all of it—on her own.
But I wouldn’t intervene. What the fuck do I know about babies? Nothing, except the common knowledge that the kid would probably scream her head off—and rightfully so—if a stranger hijacked her ride.
A stranger.
That’s all I fucking am to my child. God, it pisses me the hell off, which is probably what has me shoving the front door open and stomping into the house.
“Fucking hell!”
“You know,” Ty says calmly from the kitchen, “since you open the door and start yelling like that most days, it kind of loses its effect on days like today, when you need it most.”
I flip him the middle finger, but I take the beer he offers me, pretending to stumble backward in shock first. “Whoa, an alcoholic beverage from Ty Marshall, without a lecture, and before noon? Jesus. What have I done to deserve this?”
“You knocked a girl up,” Whit calls, unhelpfully, from his post on the couch. It’s then that I notice his shirt. It’s grey and fitted, but that could be said of half the shirts in his drawers. Across the chest in black scripty letters, this one saysBest Uncle Ever.
“What the hell are you wearing?” I ask, taking a seat across from him.
“It’s new. You like it?”
