28. Rosie
28
ROSIE
I’m sweating.
Like literally sweating through my shirt.
I rip my hoodie over my head, thankful I’m wearing a tank top underneath.
Sammy’s already asleep upstairs, and I’ve checked the baby camera app no less than twenty times since he went down.
It’s safe to say I’m even more of a worrier than Daire.
He pulls a beer out of the fridge and holds it out.
“What’s this for?” I fan my pits frantically.
He smirks. “For you. I think you need it.”
He’s not wrong. With a sigh, I snag it and open the drawer where the bottle opener is.
When I tip it back and guzzle it, he snatches the bottle from my hand.
“Hey!” I wipe my mouth, glaring down at the wet spot on my white tank. “What was that for?”
“I wanted you to take the edge off, not chug it.” He holds the bottle hostage against his chest, even though I haven’t made a move to take it back.
“Can’t I do both?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
This video call is one I suggested, yet when my phone rings, I practically jump out of my skin, and when I pick it up off the counter with a shaky hand, I nearly drop it.
Daire gives me a look that I read as get your shit together.
I slide my thumb over the screen to answer and prop the phone up against the fruit bowl on the island so my mother can see both of us. “Hey, Mom!” I sound way cheerier than I feel.
Her eyes are narrowed, her nose crinkled. “What’s on your shirt?”
“Oh.” I look down, pretending like I’m just noticing it. “I must’ve spilled some soda on it. I’ll change when we hang up.”
Daire dips his head, his elbows resting on the island. “Hey, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Honestly, dear,” she tuts, “we’re family now. Call me Mom.”
“Um…” He shifts on his stool.
“Mom,” I interrupt, pressing a hand to his bicep, “he’s probably not comfortable with that.”
Talk about insensitive. It probably didn’t cross her mind that it might be an upsetting suggestion to someone who’s lost their own mother, but it’s still no excuse.
“Lydia works too. Rosie, darling, I’ve got the appointments finalized. The earliest I could get them scheduled is the first weekend in February. We’re set to visit four boutiques and…” She claps, her eyes dancing. “I had my dress pulled from storage so you can try that on too.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. At the same time, I see my face fall in the square in the corner of the phone screen that reflects my image. “That sounds… great.”
I should’ve known she wouldn’t listen to my pleas about not dress shopping. And her dress? I don’t want anything to do with it.
It’s actually beautiful—a timeless gown I admired every time I looked at my parents’ wedding photos when I was a girl. I thought she looked like a princess.
But my parents were married during her peak modeling days, and my mother was scarily thin. There’s no way in hell her dress would fit me, and the idea of what she might say when it doesn’t makes me want to throw up.
Like he can sense the tension radiating from me, Daire puts a gentle hand over top of mine where I rest it on the countertop.
“Let’s not talk about dresses right now, Lydia. We have something to tell you.”
Before either of us can utter another word, she lets out a shrill squeal. “You’re pregnant? Oh my God, I’m going to be a grandma. Do you know the gender? How far along you? I’ll need to plan a?—”
“Mom.”
“—baby shower and you two should?—”
“Mom.”
“—make me a list of all the things you want. Oh my, this baby is going to be?—”
“Mom! I’m not pregnant.”
“—so pretty.” She pauses, lips parted. “What?”
“I’m not pregnant,” I repeat, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear with a trembling hand.
Naturally, Daire notices. He marks the subtle shake and when I lower it, he tucks it beneath his with my other hand. “But Daire has a child, and we’ve recently gotten custody and?—”
“A… a child with someone else?” Her whole face falls like I’ve delivered the worst news imaginable.
Daire steps in, filling her in on the situation. For several minutes, I just breathe, so thankful I don’t have to rehash the whole thing. When he finishes, there are tears in her eyes.
She presses a hand to her heart when she says, “That poor thing. What a wonderful thing you’re doing for him. Taking him in like that.”
“He’s Daire’s son. There was never a question about whether we’d take him.”
“Yes, dear, of course,” she says in a dismissive tone. “You’ll have to call me again when I can see the little one. But I need to go.”
“All right, love you.”
She returns the sentiment and ends the call.
“I think that went well,” Daire says with a smile, his hands finally leaving mine.
I snort, even as my stomach ties itself into a knot. “That’s what you think. She’s pissed.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Less than thirty seconds later, the text comes through. I turn it around so he can read.
Mother Dearest: His first-born son should’ve been yours, Rosemary.
“She only calls me Rosemary when she’s feeling particularly pissed off.”
“That’s an archaic way of thinking.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrug off my annoyance and turn my phone off completely.
I’m in no mood to receive more texts like that.
“Your mom is a complicated creature.” He passes me the beer from earlier, and this time he doesn’t say anything when I chug it.
With a sigh, I set the empty bottle down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You’re telling me.”
I love my mom, I do, but she’s a bit much.
“Are you okay?” he asks, genuine concern creasing his brow.
My responding smile is genuine. It feels good to know that he cares enough about me to ask. “Yeah. I’m used to it.”
“What does she think is going to happen if you’re not the one bearing my first-born son?” He laughs outright at that, grabbing a beer for himself and another for me.
I’m not a huge beer drinker, but tonight, it’s just what I need.
“That he’ll inherit the majority of whatever portion you get of the Hendricks fortune.” I take a swig. “And that any kid I give you would get less.”
He cocks his head to the side, frowning. “Doesn’t she know that things can be split equally?”
“This is my mother we’re talking about. She’s a loony tune. God love her.”
“I’m sorry she makes you feel bad about things.”
“About myself, you mean?” I set my bottle down and laugh humorlessly. “The worst part is she doesn’t even mean to be cruel. At least if it were purposeful, I could blame it on jealousy or pettiness. But she’s not a shitty mother. No matter what she says, her goal isn’t to make me feel bad. She’s just… Her way of thinking is twisted. I don’t know whether it’s from how she was raised or a consequence of being in the modeling industry for so long.”
“Still, I wish she didn’t talk to you like that.”
Elbows on the island, I rest my chin in my hands. “I’m used to it.”
He grunts and rounds the island until he’s standing at my side. “That’s what you always say.”
“Because as sucky as it is, I am.”
We’re watching each other silently, both still processing the conversation, when Sammy wails from upstairs.
I tip my beer in Daire’s direction. “Parenthood calls.”
Without hesitation, he jogs out of the kitchen. He doesn’t need my help. I could stay down here, sipping the rest of my beer, but I don’t want to. Sammy might not be mine, but he’s already got me wrapped around his chubby little finger.
I didn’t know I liked kids this much.
Not until him.
As I hit the top step, Daire opens the door to the bedroom and disappears inside.
“Hey, little man,” he croons, scooping the screaming baby into his arms. “What’s wrong?”
Sammy continues to scream, not at all consoled by Daire’s hold. It’s pitiful seeing him like this, and we’re two idiots who really don’t know what we’re doing.
“Want me to take him?” I step up to his side and hold my arms out for the baby.
Daire passes him to me, and he instantly nuzzles into me, his wails turning into sniffles.
“He likes you more than me.” Daire doesn’t sound disgruntled about it. If anything, he’s amused.
I poke my boob. “I think it’s because my chest is squishier than yours.”
His laughter warms me as I sit down in the rocking chair. “Can’t say I blame him.”
Smoothing my finger over Sammy’s cheek, I smile down at him. “Did you have a bad dream, little one?”
Teary blue eyes look up at me. My stomach is heavy—this little guy doesn’t know how much his life has changed in the past few days.
“Do you think he misses his mom?” I whisper.
Daire sits on the floor in front of us, crossing his legs. “Probably.”
“Poor little guy.” Gently, I rub my finger over his eyebrows in an attempt to help him back to sleep. “Could you find a pacifier for him?” The small table to my right, where we usually keep one or two, is empty.
He hops up and looks into the crib, then he tries the changing table and the dresser, opening drawer after drawer.
“How the f—” He catches himself with a shake of his head. “How did we manage to lose every single one in a matter of days?”
“I don’t know.” I rock Sammy carefully. “But obviously we have.”
He gets down on his hands and knees, peering under the bed. “Ah, here are a few.” He pulls out three. “I’ll go clean these.”
He hasn’t been gone more than ten seconds when Sammy’s stomach makes the worst rumbling noise I’ve ever heard.
And then he poops.
I gag at the smell. It’s awful.
An instant later, a warm and wet sensation crawls up the arm I’m cradling him with. Bile rises in my throat as I realize he’s had a major blowout that his diaper clearly can’t contain.
Nope. No. I can’t do this.
Gagging, I stand and hold him straight out from me. No wonder he woke up.
“Daire,” I scream. “I need you.”
After a heartbeat, I hear his feet pounding up the stairs, and then he comes running back in from down the hall. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He pooped.”
He gives me a confused look, his nose wrinkling at the smell. “Okay?”
“Look at his back.” I gag again, holding the baby out to him so he can see the massive poop stain. “It got on my arm,” I whimper. “I have poop on my arm.”
Daire takes Junior from me, probably worried I’ll drop him.
I wave my arms as tears burn my eyes. I can’t stop gagging.
“It’s on me. It’s on me. It’s on me.”
Jesus, I’m hyperventilating now. This is pathetic, even for me, but there’s poop on me.
“Bathroom, now,” Daire commands.
I don’t even call him out on his bossy tone. Frankly it’s the exact thing I need to kick my ass into gear.
“Breathe,” he reminds me, flicking on the bathroom light.
He ushers me to the sink and turns on the water, then he grabs the bottle of hand soap. He squirts what feels like half the bottle into my palms and then puts a couple of pumps on my arm.
“I can’t touch it.” A whimper escapes me.
Daire sighs, holding a fussing Sammy to his chest. “My hands are a bit full, Rosie. You’re going to have to do this one yourself.”
I toss my head back and close my eyes. Chanting “ew” the entire time I wash up.
After I’ve scrubbed for a solid five minutes, I still don’t feel clean. I’m definitely going to be taking another shower.
“Can you start a bath for him?” Daire asks when I turn the sink off. “I think it’s the only way to get him clean.”
“Him and me both,” I grumble.
I turn on the faucet and wait for the water to heat, then make sure it isn’t too hot.
Miraculously, we get Sammy out of the pajamas and diaper without making an even bigger mess. Both go in the trashcan, and I tie up the bag and set it outside the door.
“You made some kind of mess, little man,” Daire croons, letting the warm water running out of the faucet clean Sammy’s backside. “That was nasty.”
When he’s mostly clean, Daire finishes up by setting him in the bath support inside the tub and giving him a full bath. Sammy’s eyes are heavy with exhaustion, and he’s almost asleep by the time we get him out.
While Daire dries him off, I run into the bedroom and pull out a fresh diaper and footie pajamas.
Five minutes later, the little guy is back in the crib, dreaming away.
Easing the door shut behind us, Daire loops his arm around my shoulders and tugs me into his chest. “We make a good team.”
My stomach flips. “We do, don’t we?”
“Yeah, baby,” he presses a kiss to the top of my head, “we do.”