Chapter 8
Jasper
One more hour, and I could head over to see Evie and Vincent.
Thankfully today’s shift had been easy. Just one slip-and-fall and now, a brush fire.
The reported fire was on Old Mill Road. It was a common occurrence this time of year.
Smoke had been seen near the ridge, a possible lightning strike, or, more likely, some careless campers.
Martin pulled the engine up behind the police cruiser, and we swung into action, checking in with Nolan, who was running point on the scene. As I approached, Nolan’s face fell.
Instead of a blaze near the tree line, we found a hundred pounds of fur and attitude.
“Motherfucker,” Nolan grumbled.
“Grab an extinguisher,” I said to Martin, focus on Betsy Ross, who was sitting next to a smoldering campfire like she’d clocked in for a shift.
Smoke curled lazily from a trashcan lying on its side. She’d probably knocked it over, and its contents had caught the embers of the dying campfire.
“Dispatch, this is engine one,” I said. “We’ve located the source of smoke. No active fire. Just some embers and a misbehaving bear.”
The line crackled. “A bear?”
“Affirmative. Betsy herself, one eye and all. Appears to be in good health and halfway through a family-size bag of marshmallows.”
Nolan approached, looking older and wearier than ever. “She’s tagged. The university tracks her. She’s probably broadcasting to some grad student who thinks she’s foraging naturally.”
Betsy looked up with her single golden eye, marshmallow smeared across her muzzle like shaving cream, and gave Nolan what I could only interpret as a slow blink of disdain.
“Just give me a reason to shoot you,” he muttered. His dislike of the bear was legendary.
Amusement rolled through me. She loved fucking with him.
Slowly, Betsy got to her feet and waddled toward the woods. On her way, she picked up the top of the supposedly bear-proof trash can and flung it in our direction.
For a second, I thought Nolan might draw his service weapon and shoot it.
When Betsy was out of sight, Chris extinguished the flames and we cleaned up the trash.
“Fucking bear,” Nolan grumbled. “I should make a rug out of her.”
“That bear has a hundred thousand followers on Instagram,” I reminded him. “Her life’s worth more than yours.”
With a shake of his head, he headed back to his cruiser. “And don’t I know it.”
I climbed out of the car, then ducked back in, gathering the coffee and food and the box of diapers under my arm.
Then, freshly showered, fed, and caffeinated, I headed for the front door.
As I eased my way up the steps, I couldn’t help but smile up at the sky.
I was enjoying the earlier sunrise and the long-awaited first rush of spring.
I’d worked two shifts in a row, so I’d been missing my little guy terribly. During my last visit, Evie had hustled me out after thirty minutes or so. While it was clear she didn’t want me here, Vincent shared my DNA, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
Slowly, I was wearing her down. She still kept me at arm’s length, but every time I came by, she treated me a little less like a visitor and more like Vincent’s dad.
Gabe had reminded me several times that I had rights.
Every time I saw him, he’d mention filing paperwork.
He was just waiting for my approval. But that seemed like overkill.
I hated confrontation. And when she was this tired and overwhelmed, shoving a stack of legal papers in her face would be a dick move.
We were still adjusting to being parents to a newborn. Why introduce legal proceedings now? I’d learned over the last few weeks that Evie needed to feel in control. So I’d let her adjust and get comfortable in her new role as a mother. Then we’d work the situation out together.
As I knocked, coffee balanced precariously and box of diapers slipping from under my arm, Vincent fussed on the other side of the door.
Evie appeared a moment later, wearing an old T-shirt stained with spit-up. Her normally neat hair was a mess, and the look on her face was one of pure exhaustion.
With a sigh, she stepped back and let me in.
The sink was full of dishes, the laundry was piled up everywhere, and the air smelled like a diaper pail.
Vincent, who was propped up on his mom’s shoulder, was red-faced, his little fists clenched tight.
“I just fed him,” she breathed, her body deflating. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
I put down the box of diapers and held out the coffee.
“Vermont-style cold brew.” I’d made sure that Evie got her favorite drink every morning.
If I couldn’t deliver it, Elijah, my nephew did.
He was usually with his moms at the coffee shop every morning before school.
Slipping him a few extra bucks to make sure Evie was taken care of was a no-brainer.
I placed a small paper bag on the cluttered coffee table, then straightened. “Pesto mozzarella egg sandwich.”
As she looked from me to the bag, eyes wide, I picked up a burp cloth from what looked like a clean pile of laundry and threw it over my shoulder.
“Here.” I reached for Vincent. “Let me take him so you can caffeinate and eat.”
She took a step back, her expression one of alarm. “I’ve got it,” she snapped. “You don’t need to drop in with treats, thinking you can fix everything. That’s not—” Her voice cracked and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m just so tired, and he’s always crying.”
Stomach clenching in sympathy, I squeezed her shoulder. “Evie, it’s okay.” I ducked, catching her eye, hoping she could see that I only wanted to make things easier for her.
Eventually she nodded, and I scooped Vincent out of her arms.
“Take a minute,” I told her, picking up the sandwich and shoving it at her. “Sit down and eat something.”
As she shuffled across the room, I got Vincent over my shoulder, massaging his back and dancing around the room like he preferred. He was angry, poor little guy, and according to Evie, he’d just finished eating and was in a fresh diaper.
“He keeps spitting his binky out,” she said from the kitchen island, where she sipped her coffee, her eyes closed.
With even breaths, knowing if I got worked up that would only upset him more, I continued dancing around the room. While I bounced and rocked and shushed him, I flipped through the tips I’d learned from the newborn videos I still watched regularly.
When the one the group of dads I follow had talked about recently came to me, I laid him down on his back on the couch and cycled his legs like he was riding a tiny bike. Around and around. Up and down, back and forth, I gently moved his chubby little legs.
At first he cried louder, but remembering the encouragement the guys in the video gave, I continued. And after a moment, Vincent ripped one of the loudest farts I’d ever heard. And I spent most of my days in a firehouse.
I was grinning down at him, half stunned, when Evie broke into laughter. It quickly turned hysterical, and I started to laugh too.
Vincent stopped crying and watched me with interest.
“Wow. Respect, son,” I said, my eyes blurred from happy tears.
When I offered him his binky and cradled him in my arms, getting comfortable on the couch, he settled quickly.
Evie walked over, still giggling. “What the hell came out of him? He only weighs eleven pounds.”
I shook my head. “Something unholy.”
Her smile dropped, her shoulders sinking. “You make it look easy,” she said softly. “How did you learn that trick, with the legs?”
I patted Vincent’s back. “One of those baby YouTube videos. Since they don’t move around a lot yet, gas gets trapped in their tummies. Cycling the legs helps get it out.”
Impressed with myself, I sat a little straighter and gave her a smile. “Eat your breakfast. I’ve got him.”
Rather than a high five to celebrate this parenting win, I was met with a quivering lip.
And then she was sinking onto the couch next to me, her body convulsing with sobs.
“I can’t do this.” Her shoulders shook, her words garbled. “I’m a bad mom. I’m a bad person. I fucked this all up from the start.”
“Evie.” I shifted Vincent to my other side so I could take her hand. “That’s not true. You’re doing great.”
“Yeah,” she huffed. “Great for the dumbass who didn’t even know she was pregnant. Vincent deserves better.”
As she cried, face buried in her hands, I plucked a clean washcloth from the pile of laundry beside me and handed it to her. Jenn had warned me about crashing postpartum hormones, and since Vincent was now a month old, this seemed to be right on schedule.
I put my free arm around her and squeezed, wishing I knew how to convince her of how incredible she was. First-time parenthood was hard as hell, even for the people who planned for it. She was making the best of it, and it was okay to ask for help.
Not knowing how to formulate an argument she’d buy, I just hugged her to my side.
Finally, when her breathing slowed, I said, “You’re an amazing mother, and I’m the lucky bastard who gets a front-row seat to watch you shine.”
The thought that this woman doubted herself ate at me. She was so capable, so resilient. Her entire life had changed in a few short weeks, and here she was, rolling with it all remarkably well.
“I’m stumbling,” she admitted.
“And I’m happy to stumble right alongside you,” I assured her. “Between the two of us, we will figure it out. And we’ve got the whole town if we need them.”
She shook her head violently. “I don’t want to lean on anyone. If it doesn’t last, it’ll only make things harder.” She let out a shuddering breath. “And nothing lasts.”
That comment hit me square in the chest. I wasn’t going anywhere, and I’d told her that.
But telling her again right now wouldn’t help.
So I tucked the information away, saving it for another time.
If I wanted to stay in her and Vincent’s lives.
Then I would have to prove that I was all in using small, steady actions that wouldn’t scare her off or push her away.