Chapter 2
My mysterious neighbor, James Bartlett, stands a head taller and barefoot, wearing black sweatpants and a well-worn, faded black T-shirt stretched to its limits across his shoulders. He looks white as a sheet, the bloodshot whites around his blue eyes a striking contrast. His black hair is a shaggy mess on top of his head, looking like he’s been running his hands through it over and over again.
And no wonder, with the tiny baby crying as hard as he is. Mom said James has been having a hard time ever since he became his nephew’s guardian. She’s been helping out as much as possible, but with as little sleep as she gets with her own newborn—my surprise little brother, Brady—I offered to come in her place.
I’ve never been this close to James, close enough to see how light and clear his blue eyes are, nor have I been inside his house. Mom said he’s a bit of a loner, and he doesn’t do a whole lot of talking when they cross paths sometimes, but he’s always been friendly in what little interactions she’s had with him since he moved in.
I’ve caught him looking at me a few times before, but we’ve never spoken. Still haven’t since his jaw dropped when he opened his front door and has stayed that way. Though I think I could stare at this mystery man who always seems to be just on his way out as I’m on the way in, the red-faced infant in his arms steals my attention.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,” I say as I step inside. I quickly close the door behind me to keep the heat from rushing out into the cool night and reach to take the baby from him. Not only is he red-faced and wailing, but his little fists are balled up tight, and his skin is warm to the touch from crying so hard. My heart breaks for the little man.
I look around the sparsely furnished, tidy home and find a dark gray couch in the living room to the right of the doorway. Without asking, I walk around James and the low, white coffee table to lay the baby on the couch.
“What’s his name?” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the baby’s cries. I unzip his navy blue footie pajamas and check his diaper, noting that it’s dry. When James doesn’t answer, I straighten and turn to face him, cradling the infant in my arms and gently rocking him side to side. “James? You ok?”
That snaps him out of whatever weird stupor he’s in—probably sleep-deprived exhaustion. Relatable. My daughter, Lainey, just finally started sleeping through the night, so I understand all too well how such little sleep can make you feel like a fried zombie.
“Grayson.” His voice cracks, and he closes his eyes and clears his throat. “His name is Grayson.” His voice is so much deeper than I expected, and I bite my bottom lip. Now is not the time to ogle my strange neighbor, gorgeous or not.
“Ok, Grayson, let’s see if we can figure this out.” I rattle off a list of questions, like when’s the last time he had a bottle? How much has he eaten today? Does he take a pacifier? Has his temperature been taken? James answers each question quickly, and I’m concerned about how little formula Grayson has had to eat.
When Grayson clutches the front of my tank top and turns his wet, tear-streaked face into my chest, rooting just like my daughter does, it hits me. “Was he breastfed?”
James scratches his head and creases his black brows. “I don’t know. Does that matter? I didn’t get much information before bringing him home.”
By now, Grason is screaming so hard that his chin is quivering as he continues to root, growing increasingly frustrated. Without consciously deciding to do so, I unclip my nursing tank and pull one side of the triangular fabric down. The baby latches onto my nipple like a pro, as I figured he would. His cries immediately subside as he takes deep gulps of milk. I had felt the telltale signs of a let-down as soon as I heard the baby crying when James opened the door, and it’s a relief now to have him nurse.
I coo at Grayson, running my fingers over his baby-fine dark brown hair as he nurses greedily. Nursing him will mean that I won’t have as much milk for my daughter in the morning, but at least I have breast milk saved in the freezer at home.
Keeping my voice soft, I tell James, “It can be hard to transition from the breast to the bottle so quickly. Poor thing must be beside himself without his mother.” I gasp at the reminder that this little boy no longer has a mother. Mom told me how James came to be his nephew’s guardian, and I feel so thoughtless. “Oh my god, James. I’m so sorry about your sister. You must be—” I cringe at seeing James’s expression.
His sharp jaw has dropped again, and his eyes are rounded and locked on his nephew nursing at my breast. My pallor must be the complete opposite of his as heat rushes to my cheeks in mortification at what I’ve done—just whipped my tit out and started feeding Grayson, who is very much not my baby.
“I am so sorry. I-I didn’t think before I started nursing him. Should I…?” I start to pull Grayson from my chest, and he begins to cry again in distress when he’s forced to unlatch.
Once again, James snaps out of his shocked stupor, and he rushes to say, “No, don’t stop. It’s okay. I’m just a little…I didn’t mean to stare.” His eyes drift up to the ceiling, and red colors the tips of his ears like he’s the one embarrassed. “You…I didn’t know you had…milk.” The way he says it comes out like a question instead of a statement.
“My daughter is still nursing, so yes, I have milk.”
He breaks his stare with the ceiling, dropping his eyes back to meet mine, his brows shooting up to his hairline. “You have a daughter?”
“Yeah. The little girl with blonde hair? Always squealing? She’s only seven months old, but she keeps me on my toes.” I laugh, though in truth, it scares the crap out of me, and I have to watch her like a hawk. I wasn’t prepared for how early she learned to crawl or how fast she could be. She finds it hilarious when I have to chase after her the minute someone opens the front door, which is about every five seconds with the number of people living at our house and all their friends.
“Oh. I thought she was your sister.” He tilts his head and looks at me appraisingly like he sees something different about me. It’s more curious than judgmental, but I still feel my hackles rise. There’s been no shortage of jeering and downright insults thrown my way at school for being a teen mom, and I have to temper the familiar defensiveness I feel simmering just under the surface of my skin.
Before I can say something that I’ll probably regret later, the baby unlatches and whimpers. He’s drained one side, and he must still be hungry, so I unclip the other side of my tank top and bring him to my full breast.
“Is there somewhere I can rock him while he nurses?” I ask without looking up, not wanting to see any judgment in case I misread his expression before.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry, I didn’t think to show you. Um, follow me.”
I smile a little when he stumbles over his feet, and I follow him down a dimly lit hallway on the right past the living room with a little blue whale night light plugged into the wall. There’s a matching night light inside the room he leads me into on the left side of the hallway. It’s as sparse as the rest of the house, with just a crib, an old-school wood rocking chair, and a few plastic bins full of diapers and clothing.
I take a seat in the chair to the right of the door, gently rocking it back and forth. I keep my eyes focused on Grayson, whose eyelids are starting to drift closed. His fist clutching my tank top strap starts to loosen until it eventually drops. I may not be looking at James, but I’m fully aware he’s standing in the doorway, silently watching us.
After a few more minutes, Grayson falls sound asleep on the breast, no longer nursing as his lips part and his breathing evens out. I carefully maneuver him to my shoulder to burp him without waking him, then check his diaper. He’s a little wet, so I lay him on my lap and motion to James to hand me a diaper and wipes. I change him quickly, then move him to his crib, laying him on his back gently, hoping he won’t wake up the minute I set him down. I also don’t want to risk waking him up by trying to redress him in his pajamas when he needs his sleep so badly.
James does, too, by the looks of him. I tiptoe out of the nursery behind him and follow him back into the living room, where we can talk. His feet are dragging, and I’m sure he’s had little to no sleep these past four days. Been there, done that.
“I can’t thank you enough…?” he begins to say over his shoulder and stops abruptly after turning around, and I realize he doesn’t know my name. I’ve been in this man’s house for over an hour, have been living across the street from him for almost a year, and he doesn’t know my name.
“Shayla.” I’d laugh at the breathy way he repeats my name back to me, except he makes this weird kind of strangled noise in his throat and goes slack-jawed. He seems to do that a lot.
But when I realize his eyes are glued to my chest, hardly blinking, I gasp and bring my hands up in front of my breasts, which I had forgotten to cover up after nursing Grayson.
“Oh my god! I am so, so sorry. I can’t believe—” I spin around, giving him my back while I re-clip my nursing top and adjust my now depleted girls, then sheepishly turn back around with what I’m sure is a flaming red face.