Chapter 7
SEVEN
Decon Moretti…
Claudia
“You’re still shaking,” Noelle says softly. She’s by the window, swaying gently with Savannah on her shoulder. “Trauma response?”
I glance up from the pump, “I hate that term.”
Noelle raises a brow.
“It sounds like there’s something wrong with reacting to something wrong.
” I exhale and check the bottle’s fill line.
“That wasn’t trauma, it was instinct. Being in a car while your baby’s—” I stop myself before saying father— “while the man who donated half her DNA pounds on the roof screaming, that’s not trauma.
” Noelle shifts Savannah to her other shoulder, quiet but listening.
“I didn’t freeze. I didn’t cry. I kept her safe.
That’s all that matters.” The pump’s suction slows, and I unclip the flanges, setting them aside.
“He doesn’t get to call himself a dad just because he finally grew a conscience—or a bigger ego. ”
“You’re right,” Noelle says softly. “He doesn’t.”
I smile faintly. “You’d make a good therapist.”
“No thanks. I prefer giving unsolicited advice over wine. Less pressure.”
That almost earns a laugh. Almost.
“Half of the job is listening and letting people sort their thoughts and feelings, offering advice or direction.” I switch breasts. “It’s being a decent human being, a friend, and not just commenting or hearting a post.”
Noelle smiles softly. “No thoughts and prayers?”
“I think people should use their socials for S’s and G’s only,” I smirk.
“Yes,” she whispers, yells, and smiles widely. “When my dad passed away, I posted a tribute in a way that he would have loved. Simple,” she smiles softly, “We’ll go on forever, Pa, cause we’re the people.”
“The Grapes of Wrath.”
She brushes her lips across Savannah's sifted little waves. “You’re so lucky to have a smart mom. Lauren, posted below it, are you drunk or having a seizure?”
“What a bitch.” I scoff.
“I was, in fact, drunk,” she giggles at my response. “All human wisdom is contained in these two words—wait and hope.”
“First, The Count of Monte Cristo, and second, genius response, drunk or otherwise.”
She sighs, “It spiraled a little from there, her response about me needing attention, and mine was I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”
“Sweet mother of sanity,” I shake my head. “This is the girl whose wedding you’re attending?”
She lifts a shoulder, “It’s my goodbye gift of sorts.”
“We’ll shrink that later if you want,” I say as I turn off the pump and get up.
“Appreciate the offer, but right now I think we all need to wind it down, not dial it up,” she says.
“Agree,” I say as I set the bottle on the little stand and start to clean up, but my thoughts wander — uninvited — to the other man I can’t seem to forget tonight.
Not Kyle. The one from before. The man behind the username IT-1.
The first message had popped up late one night, back when I was doing my internship, buried in case files and loaded up on caffeine.
IT-1:
You’re a shrink, right? Or something close?
(Attached: a photo of a stack of worn psych books — Bessel van der Kolk, Viktor Frankl, Daniel Kahneman — all the heavy hitters)
Think you could fix my head?
I’d laughed out loud—a dry, tired laugh — and typed back,
Me:
Depends. I usually require more information before recommending brain surgery over text.
He answered fast.
IT-1:
Guess that means I must talk about it, huh?
Me:
That’s the general idea.
IT-1:
The only girl I ever thought maybe I could love died last night. Car accident. Back home. I left that town more than a decade ago and never contacted her during my visits.
Even now, remembering it, my chest tightens. I hadn’t known what to say, so I typed carefully, professionally, and maybe too gently.
Me:
Guilt doesn’t mean you failed her. It just means you cared. You probably shouldn’t text strangers when you’re drunk, though.
He never replied that night. But the next morning I got.
IT-1:
Never text while drinking. Lesson learned. I’m fine. Really. Back to it, you’re stunning. When can we meet up?
I wasn’t one to meet up with anyone on those apps, it wasn’t safe, but I sure as hell did stay in contact with him while in the city. Maybe not my proudest moments, and absolutely not something I will share with anyone, but his filthy played well with mine, and yeah… so hot.
Now, sitting in this creaky old room with my daughter sleeping a few feet away, it hits me.
The freaking jaw line, that perfect nose that was even better because it had a scar across the bridge.
I’d fixated on that from the shadowy profile pictures on the app.
The tone of his voice in our highly sexual voice messages.
He had a hint of an accent when he was turned on, which I will never admit was in my mental highlight reel when I was in my second trimester, horny and very alone.
The shape of his stunning brown eyes that I didn’t know the color of then, and only tonight am piecing together that they’re also the ones that met mine at the bar the night I waited for Kyle, and he’d asked if I knew what I was getting into.
That man at the bar whose warning I ignored was Deacon Moretti, and he’s the same man who took a hit to the head tonight defending his friends, his team, and indirectly, me and my daughter.
Noelle breaks the silence. “You okay?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About him?”
“About a lot of things.” Filthy things. Things that I must clear my head of now as I hold out my hands, “I should put her down to sleep?”
Noelle pouts out her lip. “Of course.”
I snuggle her a bit, whisper our little prayers, kiss my girl, and lay her down.
“You just prayed with her,” she states. “My mom and dad both said that same prayer with me every night.”
“I picked up prayer from one of the homes I lived in,” I say as I swaddle Savannah.
“So, you’re a believer?”
Lord, please forgive me that this conversation is happening while I am thinking of Deacon Moretti and his filthy mouth.
“It was comforting to me. Then I dug a little deeper into it, wanting to understand why I felt that way. Read some passages that said though the father and mother have forsaken me, the lord will receive me, then ever the learner, I deep dived into Christ's teachings, and” I nod my head. “Yeah, I liked what I read, how it made me feel like I was part of something bigger, and that, regardless, I had a father who loved me. Even as I went through college, even when the doubt was there, as seeds were planted, I could never shake the fact that almost every other major religion acknowledges His existence in some way. For a long time, I was convinced we all called God by a different name. I still think that’s partially true. Those who adamantly deny Him actually believe in God by rebuking him, refuse to acknowledge Him. Atheists have an inherent moral code. They know what’s right and wrong, fair and unjust. These things can’t exist in a purely material universe made up of chemicals and compounds.
So, when atheists argue about morality, they implicitly acknowledge a moral source, and that source in any language is God.
To me, denying Him is more bout ego and pride, and not wanting to be accountable to something, which is human nature, free will.
” I bend and kiss Savannah, “And any lingering doubt was erased because this sweet little one. She may be dust, but she’s also divine because she came with a soul, and clearly even the world hasn't been able to manufacture them.”
“Big pharma is slacking,” she jokes.
“Oh no, they aren’t, they're working overtime trying to manufacture what was already perfect.” I pick up the bottles of expressed milk. “Don’t even get me started on what’s in baby formula.”
“A glass of champagne?” Sofie asks as she returns from delivering the guys’ blankets and pillows. Her eyes catch the breast milk, and her nose scrunches up. “It looks like watery cum?”
“Ohemgee, Sofie,” Noelle says with shocked laughter, and yeah, I am giggling too. “How come it can’t just look like freaking milk?”
“Because it came out of Claudia’s perfect tits.”
“Perfectly natural tits,” I smile proudly, as if I made them.
“Where do you think the milk you buy at the store comes from?” Noelle laughs.
“Almonds.” Sofie deadpans, walking over to the bed. “This is going to be cozy.”
“I can sleep on the floor.” I offer.
“Um, hell no,” Sofie huffs. “We’re snuggling tonight.”
“I’ll get rid of the highly offensive booby juice,” I say as I grab it up.
“That’s titty cum to you, young lady,” Noelle snorts, and Sofie laughs. Noelle shushes her, “We have a sleeping baby.”
“She’s not waking up until she’s hungry,” I assure them.
Making my way past whoever’s buried under all those blankets, I pad softly toward the kitchen.
I’d planned to dump the milk and crawl into bed with Sofie and Noelle, but the sink is full of glasses, mostly wine glasses.
A sigh escapes before I can stop it. It’s a small thing, but waking up to dirty dishes has always been one of those quiet irritations that needles at me.
Old habits, I guess, control what you can.
I set the bottles on the island behind me and set to loading the dishwasher.
I rinse each dish one by one and put them in, keeping the noise to a minimum.
The air purifier hums from the corner, that steady ocean-sound whirs from yet another housewarming gift from Sofie, who swore would “change our lives, and keep the air clean. She wasn’t wrong; the thing could drown out a thunderstorm, and it smells so crisp and clean in here now.
Dishes, something is soothing about doing something small and useful when everything else feels uncertain — the clink of glass, the scent of soap, the soft hush of the machine when I start it after it’s loaded.