Chapter 25
Ashlyn
“What did I tell you?” Demi asks as we walk into Flora Coffee Shop. It’s a sunny morning. If there’s anything consistent about California, it’s the weather. But honestly, I don’t hate it. Rain makes my hair frizzy.
“You tell me a lot of things,” I say as we get in line. I guess that’s another reliably consistent thing about California. You can always count on every coffee shop to have a line, no matter what time of day you visit.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she says, and I roll my eyes. “Dating a celebrity isn’t everything you hoped and dreamed, and that’s okay. No one would blame you if you walked away right at the height of it all. That’s what I did.”
And she did. When the time came for her to eliminate one of the final two guys on the show, she decided to pack her bags and walk out alone, leaving them confused and heartbroken.
Viewers lost their minds, but she held her head high, confident in her decision.
That is until she got home and swore off men forever.
“It’s not just that, though, Demi. I’m getting used to the limelight shit, as much as I hate to admit it,” I say as we slowly get closer to the counter. “It’s the baby. He was crying and cold and hungry, and it just broke my heart.”
I’m getting choked up just talking about it, and I know Demi can see it. “Have you ever thought about going back?” she asks.
“Going back where?” I ask.
“To Bumblebee,” she says, referring to the daycare I worked at.
“It doesn’t pay enough,” I say.
“And hit and miss paparazzi photos do?” she asks. “I’m not trying to be mean, Ash. I’m really not, but at least you enjoyed that job.”
“I enjoy photography too,” I tell her.
“Yeah. Photography as an art, not a scandal,” she says.
“Is there anything else about my life you want to throw under a magnifying glass?” I ask as we approach the counter. We both order two seasonal iced lattes and head outside to find a table.
“I’m sorry,” she says with a smile as she pulls her oversized sunglasses from her hair and slides them on her face. “Let’s talk about this baby. People are saying he’s yours.”
“I heard that,” I say, shaking my head.
“He’s not, right?” She asks, and I nearly choke on my coffee. “I’m kidding! But for real. He’s got custody?”
“For now,” I say as I stir my coffee.
“God, you really are living a reality TV show,” she says. “It must be nice being around a baby again.”
“I mean, I don’t hate it,” I admit. “It’s a little triggering, too. It’s like every time I hold a baby or even hear one cry; it’s a reminder of what I’ll never have,” I say.
“Awe come on, don’t say never,” she says. “You have to be hopeful.”
“Mitch and I tried for over a year and not so much as one false positive. Hope isn’t really in my vocabulary when it comes to the subject of motherhood anymore, Demi,” I say, but she just smiles.
“Well then, I’ll do all the hoping for you. And in the meantime, I think you should enjoy being around the baby and Zane. It’s not a bad gig playing girlfriend and nanny,” she grins.
Nanny. Right. What’s next?
* * *
The sound of the baby’s crying escapes through the windows, and I can hear him wailing even before I open the front door to Zane’s house. Normally, that would scare people off because normal people don’t want to deal with a screaming baby. I’m not normal, and I open the door eagerly.
“Oh good, you’re home,” Zane calls from the kitchen. “I need some help.”
I walk through the foyer slowly with my mouth hanging open.
Zane is usually very tidy, but this place is a mess!
I push past boxes of diapers and step around laundry baskets with clothes falling over the sides.
Oh boy, it seems Zane is in over his head here because this mess doesn’t resemble anything close to the house I walked in that first night.
When I round the corner into the kitchen, I am not prepared for what I see.
Zane is standing there in a pair of ripped blue jeans hanging low on his hips, no shirt, a burp cloth hanging over his shoulder.
Baby Bentley is in his arms, screaming his head off.
Zane just looks at me with a look of desperation on his unshaven face.
“He won’t stop,” he says over the wailing. “I’ve tried everything. Feeding him. Changing him. I don’t know why I bother; he just keeps throwing it up.”
“Is that the reason you’re not wearing a shirt?” I ask, taking the baby from him.
“Yeah, after being projectile vomited on three times, I gave up,” he says.
“Did you remember to burp him throughout the feeding?” I ask.
“Well, he burped, and everything came up with it,” he says, and I smile.
“I wonder if she nursed,” I say as I pat the baby on the back. “If he nursed, the formula could be upsetting his stomach because he’s not used to it.”
“What do we do if that’s the case?” he asks.
“There are ways we can buy breast milk,” I say. “But in the meantime, he’s going to need more things.”
He’s suckling on his own hand and making soft whimpering noises as he starts to doze.
“How do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?” I ask, still staring at baby Bentley.
“I love babies,” I say.
“That much is obvious,” he says. “I just meant you have such a way with him.”
And as nervous as I am about what I’m feeling, I smile.
After packing up a diaper bag for Bentley, we tuck him into his car seat.
We head to Darling a baby left on his doorstep was another. Now I’m being asked to pretend I’m actually Bentley’s mother?
Except it doesn’t feel like I’m playing.
Aside from helping foster parents at the daycare, it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to having a baby of my own.
Not only that, but it’s not just about Bentley.
I want to be around Zane, too.
I want to be a part of all of it.
“I’ll do it,” I finally say, and I can literally see his face softening in both relief and surprise.
“You will?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, absently picking the label off the beer bottle. “He needs someone.”
Zane nods with a small smile. “He does, and the more I think about it…so do I.”
My heart does a tiny flip in my chest. “I guess it’s lucky for the two of you I’m not going anywhere. Now, if you don’t mind, we've got work to do.”
A smirk tugs at his lips, and I can tell he wants to kiss me. But I hop off the stool before he can, swiping the screwdriver from him in the process and walk over to the changing table, fully aware that he’s watching me.