Chapter 24
Emma
Jonas Rutherford is acting every bit the man I thought he was when I met him in Fiji.
I like it and I hate it.
He doesn’t get sick. Chandler doesn’t come back, which isn’t a surprise, since Chandler doesn’t tend to stop by often. The security team Jonas has with him is monitoring my house cameras from about ten minutes down the road, where his family is staying, but they’re not here .
He offers to hang out in the garage if I don’t want him to be around Bash, but that would be weird.
Also weird?
He YouTubes how to change Yolko Ono’s diaper, and then does it so I don’t have to.
So that I can rest and relax and worry about me .
Just me.
As if I can help being near enough to monitor how he’s interacting with Bash.
All of my initial hesitation after he watched Bash from afar at the cookout has evaporated. He was letting Bash come to him on his own time.
And now that he’s here, Bash is going to him all the time.
Jonas might be the only man outside of family and honorary family to have spent any time in my house since Bash was born, but I refuse to get worked up over the idea Bash will be hurt if he gets attached.
Bash has so many people in his life who love him.
And it kills me to face this, but I know he needs to get hurt sometimes. My entire life, everyone shielded me from getting hurt.
My mom dying was the one thing they couldn’t protect me from.
Losing her when I was in middle school made me cling even harder to people who didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want to be the reason anyone else left me or abandoned me or gave up on me.
Anyone else.
Not that it was my fault Mom died, or that I thought she left us on purpose.
My brain just went there. To that dark place of I could lose anyone, so I have to cling to everyone .
And it led me to almost making the biggest mistake of my life.
“Dat not dybobor,” Bash says early Monday afternoon in the living room.
I’m working from home in my office on the other side of the stairwell from the living room.
When I’m not napping, that is.
I do not bounce back like Bash does.
Jonas is hanging out and building stuff with blocks. We’ve had lunch, none of us have lost the content of our stomachs in nearly twenty-four hours now, and Bash is due for naptime very, very soon.
“It is too a dinosaur,” Jonas says. “Look. That’s its tail.”
“It no wings ,” Bash replies.
“Not all dinosaurs have wings.”
“ Do too .”
Uh-oh.
I start to rise, eyeball Jonas and Bash in the middle of a stare-down, then grab my phone instead.
Emma: Bash is about to throw a temper tantrum all over Jonas. Do I intervene?
Sabrina: No.
Laney: Is Bash safe?
Emma: Yes.
Sabrina: I repeat, do not interfere. Let him experience the full wrath of a toddler who, if I can tell time correctly, which I think I can, would be doing his pre-nap routine right about now if he were at daycare or alone with you.
Laney: What’s the temper tantrum about?
Emma: If block dinosaurs have to have wings.
Sabrina: You keep talking, and I keep not changing my opinion.
Laney: I’m so proud of you for texting us when we all know you wanted to go play peacemaker.
Emma: It IS naptime. Jonas doesn’t know that.
Sabrina: Maybe it’s time for him to figure it out.
Laney: Has he been around children before? Does he know they take naps?
Sabrina: He was around all day yesterday when Bash definitely took a nap. Remember? Emma was texting us yesterday that Jonas helped with the naptime routine? That was not long after this time yesterday, wasn’t it?
A crash in the living room has me looking up from my phone. “ Dat not dybobar !”
I should go in there.
Jonas doesn’t know Bash’s moods. His routines. The best way to handle temper tantrums.
Yes, he helped with the naptime routine yesterday, but also, naptimes during sick times are not the same as naptimes during normal times.
“Whoa, hey, that’s not a nice way to treat friends,” Jonas says. “I liked him. Now I’m sad.”
I hover halfway out of my chair.
“ Not dybobar !” Bash cries again.
“Okay. It wasn’t a dinosaur.”
“ Not dybobar !”
“Agreed.”
“ Dat. Not. Dybobar! ”
And I’m done being patient. Jonas hasn’t done anything wrong . He just doesn’t know what to do that’s right .
For Bash, I mean. In this exact situation.
I stride into the living room, unsurprised to find Bash writhing about on the floor shouting about dinosaurs.
Jonas shoots me a guilty look, like he thinks this is his fault.
“Bash, want to come snuggle Mama?” I say quietly as I squat next to him.
“Mama, not dybobar,” he sobs.
“I know. You’re tired. And it’s hard to process different perspectives when you’re not even two yet, much less when you’re not even two and tired. Come have snuggles and water and let’s read a book.”
“Not dybobar,” he repeats.
“Okay. You didn’t see the same thing Jonas saw. C’mere, Bashy-boo. Let’s have hugs. We’ll talk about the dinosaurs after snuggles and hugs.”
Jonas is watching me. I have no idea if he thinks I’m being an asshole for not telling Bash it’s not nice to wreck his friend’s toys, or if he thinks I’m an angel of patience for not losing my shit right back.
Bash flops onto his stomach and army crawls the six inches to my knees then holds up one chubby little arm, a silent plea for me to do the rest of the work to pick him up and cuddle him.
I’ll talk to him about being nice to friends after his nap.
Experience tells me if I try now, he’ll go straight back into angry-land and he won’t sleep well.
He’ll hear the lesson better after he’s had his basic needs met.
I get the little guy settled upstairs after three more books than usual for our naptime routine, then head back downstairs despite wanting a nap myself.
Jonas is squatting in the middle of my living room, picking up the blocks. He eyes me warily as I hit the bottom step.
“Sorry about that,” he says quietly.
I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault. He has few enough reasoning skills when he’s not approaching naptime.”
“Did I do anything wrong? If there’s something I can do better next time?—”
“Parenthood is an experience in continuously feeling like you’re wrong.”
He looks down at the blocks, then back up at me. “It was too a dinosaur. Want to see a picture?”
I feel my eyes widen and a roar of are you seriously still arguing with a two-year-old? start to bubble up in my chest as he cracks a grin.
“Kidding. It was a really bad dinosaur. I sent the picture to Begonia and she asked if Bash made a couch out of blocks.”
I sink into the fluffy recliner that saw many, many hours of me attempting to breastfeed Bash, followed by many, many more hours of snuggles and bottles. “I do not have the energy for you today.”
“Take a nap. I’ll do your work.”
“I’d love to see how you handle the quarterly tax estimation mess my new clients got themselves into before calling me.”
“Easy peasy. Just send the IRS all of the money—like, all of it—and straighten it out next year.”
My eyes are sliding shut. They shouldn’t be. I don’t have time for this.
But life hasn’t exactly been a bowl of cherries lately.
The blocks quit knocking together, and I hear what sounds like the lid snapping shut on the block container, and then the container being deposited back in the corner.
“You need anything?” Jonas asks quietly.
“Just to get up and do my work.”
“I meant food or a blanket.”
“No, thank you.”
A chicken is deposited in my lap, and then the couch cushions squeak close by. “If you change your mind, I’ll be right here.”
I believe him.
Also, he brought me my chicken. He brought me my pet chicken, and now she’s snuggling me, and everything about this feels so natural and right.
And that’s terrifying.
“Do you seriously not have any work you have to do right now?” I murmur.
“Canceled nearly everything if I can’t do it remotely. Except…”
“Except?”
“The press will start to spread rumors that I’m in rehab or something if I don’t make an appearance here and there.
So I’m doing podcast interviews again. And there’s a charity dinner in New York late next week that I haven’t canceled yet.
It’s after my camping trip with your family. I won’t miss that.”
“Charity is important.” I love this recliner. It fits my body like it was born with me.
“It’s just an overnight thing. If you won’t be mad at me for leaving?—”
“I’m not in charge of your life.”
“If we were doing this parent thing the traditional way, I’d ask. So I’m asking. And I’ll be back by the next morning. Promise.”
There’s a swirly black darkness behind my eyelids that accompanies a contented hum from Yolko Ono in my lap.
I like it.
Means sleep is close.
Since Jonas got to town, I haven’t slept enough.
“Your brother and his wife have to leave eventually,” I murmur.
I can’t see him, but I can feel him watching me like he doesn’t understand exactly where that came from.
I don’t know if I understand where it came from.
Do I mean Jonas will leave when his family does?
I don’t know. My brain is fogging.
“Maybe,” he says. “Hayes is pretty happy in secluded houses. With maternity leave, camp isn’t expecting Begonia back until next spring. Plus, Hayes bought the house. I can live in it solo even if they leave.”
Oh.
That’s what I meant. That he wouldn’t have a place to stay without attracting more attention if his brother leaves.
But his brother owns the house.
And he said they can stay until next spring.
That’s months.
Months and months.
And I have his phone number. I have phone numbers for various members of his family.
Begonia even insisted I take Keisha’s phone number.
Yes, that Keisha.
Jonas’s cousin, Keisha Kourtney. The pop star that Zen fainted over when they found out Keisha posted about loving their kombucha on her socials.
“What project are you working on now?” I ask.
“Just my podcast. Easy to do that virtually from here.” His voice is getting huskier. Maybe dreamier.
Or maybe that’s my ears settling deeper and deeper into that state between awake and asleep.
“Nothing else? No movies?”
“Couple options. I mean, beyond starring in a biopic about an online adult entertainment star. Want to hear about them?” he asks.
“Mm-hm.”
I don’t hear another word he says.
But I feel his voice wrapping around me like a solid, safe hug.
The same way it did in Fiji.
I think I’m in trouble.