I hand her the bottle, but she bats it away, so I hold it up to her lips. Opening her mouth wide, she lets out a wail. Something stupid in my brain thinksopen mouth, insert bottle, so I do. And I squeeze it just a little to get a few drops in there. If she tastes it, she’ll realize what it is and calm down and eat. That’s what my head says. My daughter has very different ideas. She starts gagging and choking on the little droplets, so I lift her up, patting her back gently. “It’s ok, lovebug. Daddy is so sorry. So, so, so sorry. Daddy’s kind of a dipshit sometimes.” Rose stops raging, and I enjoy the momentary peace until she burps and spits up all over my shirt.
Holding her out in front of me, I survey the damage. Her little outfit is soaked, and the right side of my shirt is drenched. How does a tiny human produce that much vomit? She’s still crying, and I’m beginning to wonder if something is wrong, like emergency-room-visit wrong.
We’d have to change first. But there’s a brand-new car seat in my brand-new car, so that’s good. But I don’t have her insurance card. Jesus. Does she have an insurance card? Babies have to have medical insurance, right?
“What the fuck is going on here?” Whit says, surveying the situation. I didn’t even hear him come in.
“Don’t swear in front of my kid,” I tell him.
He busts up laughing. “Oh, only you’re allowed to swear in front of her. Cool. I’ll keep that in mind. Jesus Christ, why is she crying like that?”
“I have no fucking clue. I’ve tried everything. Nothing works. She just keeps screaming. I thought maybe she was hungry, so I tried to feed her. You can see how that turned out,” I say, glancing between me and my puke-stained kid. “And I thought maybe she’d feel better after she threw up? I usually do. But nah. Still pissed.”
Whit crosses to us and reaches his arms out for an angry little Rosebud. “Dude, she’s gross,” I warn.
He looks at me. “So are you. Go change your shirt. I’ll take care of Rose. Did Willa drop off stuff or am I her own personal stylist?”
“Diaper bag’s on one of the recliners. Everything you need should be there.” I call as I take the steps two at a time. I duck into my bathroom, carefully peel off my sweatshirt, and throw it in the sink. I look up into the mirror, and that’s when I notice there’s baby vomit in my hair. Guess I need a quick shower.
Five minutes later, I smell a thousand times better and head downstairs wearing a fresh hoodie and joggers. Whit’s singing, and I follow the sound of his voice to the back of the house. He stands there, holding a freshly changed Rose. They’re both looking out the sliding glass doors at some birds who’ve gathered on the feeders Booker’s mom set up.
Whit’s voice is soft and mellow as he croons to my little girl. She’s completely entranced—no more tears, no more angry face. He catches my eye and throws me a nod but doesn’t stop singing. It takes me a sec, but when he starts in on the chorus, I have to hold back a chuckle.
“Are you seriously singing ‘Every Rose Has its Thorn’ to my kid?”
“Uh, yea, and it’s working, so shut up. Rose loves Poison, ok. Just because you prefer grunge is no reason to get your panties in a twist.”
Rose fusses in his arms, so he keeps singing, changing songs to another 80’s hit nobody our age knows, but it definitely does the trick.
“Want me to take her off your hands?” I ask.
“Nah, we’re cool,” he says in-between lyrics. “Go ahead and eat if you want. There’s leftover lasagna, but don’t hog it all. I need to grab some before I head out later.” Rose starts smacking his lips with her little hand and he takes that as a cue to get back to the music.
I take him up on his offer and warm the lasagna in the oven. While I’m waiting for it to heat up, I take a quick video and send it off to Willa with the captionbeing serenaded by Uncle Whit.
She texts back right away with a string of heart emojis.
Willa:I just got here. My test starts in ten minutes, and I have to turn my phone in to the proctor, but I’m glad I got to see this first. Thanks for taking such good care of our girl.
Our girl... My heart swells when I read those words and I don’t pause to overthink it. Things are good. Sure, things with Rose got off to a rough start tonight, but they’re fine now. She’s chillin’ with Whit, and while dinner heats up, I’m going to start a load of laundry. I’ve got this all under control.
* * *
Two hours later,I can almost hear a deep, gravelly-voiced narrator saying,Knox did not have this all under control.
Whit left half an hour ago to set up for a party he’s deejaying over at Kappa. The minute he left, Rose started crying again. Willa won’t get here for at least another hour and a half, and I don’t want to bug her. She’s got an hour’s drive ahead of her, and I don’t need her racing here or worrying the whole time.
“I checked her temp—it’s normal. And I changed her diaper, so you’re welcome,” Phoebe says, walking into the living room holding my fussy little girl.
“Do you think something’s really wrong with her? Or does she just hate me?”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Ty says. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Uh, you sure about that? Because she looks pretty miserable.”
“I really don’t think anything’swrongwrong. But she’s in a strange place and her mom left. She’s gotta be a little freaked out, you know?” Ty says.
“She was fine when Whit was here,” I sigh, running my fingers through my hair.
