Chapter 16
Tilly
It feels late when I wake up. Like I’ve slept all through the day, but in the best way possible. Like I needed that sleep like I need oxygen.
I guess I did.
There’s no one home. Blaise is out; Donovan must be with him.
It’s not unusual. The first few times it happened, it freaked me out, especially because Blaise didn’t take his phone with him.
I’d call him, and it would be sitting there vibrating on the coffee table.
But that told me he’d be back eventually, at least. Not that I thought he was going to vanish for all of eternity with my baby, but . . .
Well, I don’t know what. I’ve gotten used to his forever presence and the way he saves every single kind word he could give to me for Donovan instead, but at least he’s nice to babies. I don’t get it. I just accept it. Even if it hurts.
Even if I sometimes want him to be here for me, too, in a way that’s different from this co-parenting role he’s put himself into.
I give myself a few extra minutes in bed, just staring up at the ceiling and appreciating the opportunity to shut my thoughts down. But then I start to sit up, and my brain feels like mush again. This low-grade fever is killing me, I swear, every bit as much as the cancer did.
I had major surgery. As flippant as people get about C-sections, as quick as they are to treat it as an easy out from giving birth the natural way, it’s a giant hole in the abdomen.
Particularly giant in my case, so I figure I probably feel even worse than most women post-partum.
That’s probably why my eyes go damp when I think about how it’s for the best that Blaise took Donovan with him on whatever outing he’s on.
I shake my head to clear the negative thoughts, but my brain’s all sloshy. I force myself up onto my feet and stumble into the bathroom, having to grip the counter to keep myself upright as I take a look at myself.
I’m red and clammy. My fever might have spiked again. Crap.
I grab the bottle of ibuprofen and wash down a couple with a cup of water from the bathroom tap. That usually nukes the fever well enough. In the meantime, though, I strip down, turn on the shower but sit down for it, thankful that everything’s still looking clean since that crew came in.
I scrub my head, the sparse black curls no more than a couple inches long and spotty, but in these private moments, I live the fantasy that I still have a full head.
I’ve considered shaving it and rocking that look, but every time, I tell myself it’s going to grow in properly one day, and I won’t know if I’m not tracking it.
The water’s running cold by the time I get out of the shower, but my brain is feeling slightly better.
I brush my teeth and feel proud of myself for remembering that.
I haven’t done a great job of it lately.
Since Blaise and Donovan aren’t back yet, I go ahead and do some skin care stuff to feel a little more human.
I don a fluffy pink robe and wrap my towel around my head like there’s anything for it to hold onto.
And then, for full pampering, I pad out into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.
I hold it close to my face and inhale the steam, and it’s nice.
It’s as I’m sipping it that I realize the buzzing I heard when I first woke up and figured was my brain doing bad-brain things is actually my cell phone. I lug myself back to my bed and plop down in my nest before grabbing it from my nightstand.
“Shit,” I whisper at the wall of messages, both texts and phone calls. I must have slept through them, and there were so many they eventually started getting sent to voicemail.
It hits me then that I don’t know where Blaise is, and actually, I think he told me he was doing something today that would mean he wouldn’t have the baby with him. I just don’t know what it was to be sure he said that.
What if something happened?
What if there was an accident?
I feel nauseous all over again as I call voicemail, throwing the phone into speaker mode while I grab some clothes, getting myself ready to run out the door.
The first message is, “Hey Tilly, this is Keira! Keira Allore? I’m at the stadium, and I’ve got Donovan here.”
I pause my frantic change at that and sit down to catch my breath. Keira has Donovan, and she’s at the stadium, where Blaise undoubtedly is. This doesn’t seem to be enough to blow up my phone with a bunch of texts and voice messages.
Wait.
Keira shouldn’t have Donovan. I’ve met her three times total, and if she’s at the stadium, she’s working. She’s not my babysitter.
Blaise isn’t my babysitter, either. I can’t help but think that I’m dropping the ball terribly. This is my son, not his. If something did happen, how would that even be explained?
I’m a bad mom.
The worst.
Tears burn my eyes as I fire a text off to Keira promising that I’ll be down as soon as I can — and assuring her that as much as Blaise made a mistake taking him, I do trust him with Donovan — and rush through getting myself together.
I take a couple more ibuprofen as well as one of the anti-nausea pills I have left over from chemo, and that gets me feeling good enough to drive down to the stadium, where the man at the gate doesn’t even check ID.
He shoos me right in as soon as I say my name.
I’m met at the entrance by another security guard, who gives me a quick nod and a warm smile as he says, “I’ll escort you to the office, Mrs. Sinclair, right this way!”
I appreciate the escort, but it seems like a lot until I register what he addressed me as. They think I’m the star quarterback’s wife. “Oh, Washington, actually. Miss Washington. Or just Tilly.”
“Right, sorry. There was some confusion about that.”
The security guard attempts to push the stroller I’ve brought, but I turn the offer down, needing it in my grip.
The stadium is mostly quiet in the parts we travel through until I finally hear commotion ahead.
It sounds like a bunch of guys chatting and going about their day, but it’s punctuated by yells that silence them momentarily before chatter ramps back up again.
But then a far more familiar sound cuts through, silencing everything.
A baby crying.
My baby crying.
There’s a staccato to it, that familiar cadence of Blaise soothing him with rapid but gentle pats. They’re enough to distract him down from wails to sobs, but he’s upset.
I push the stroller ahead of the security guard, following the sound, finally turning a corner and running into a group of players gathered around a charcuterie spread. They must have been the chatters, but they’re all looking nervously over their shoulders now.
I’m trying to hoof past them, trying to get to my baby, when a bout of the spins has my legs going wobbly.
I’m used to it after all the chemo, but I nearly flip the stroller I’m pushing as I drop my weight on it to balance myself.
It gets the players’ attention, and one of them catches me around the waist.
“Whoops, there we go,” the giant murmurs as he lifts me right up off the ground and settles me back on my feet, like I’m a Barbie doll and he’s trying to figure out how to balance me on my pink stilettos.
“Oh, thanks,” I whisper, grateful he keeps his arm around me. I think if he lets me go, I’ll tumble right over.
Just like Barbie in those damn shoes that never held her.
“No problem, uhh . . . oh, you’re Joss’s friend? Right? Tilly?”
It takes me a moment to recognize the giant, bronze-toned man with the cascade of glossy black ringlets, but he’s the sort who stands out. Kai Bodley. “Yep. I’m, umm, picking up my baby.”
He gives me a critical once-over, no doubt judging me for my horrendous parenting skills, but then he half-carries me to the office.
A group is gathered there. I doubt the small space would fit more than four people on any day, but two of the people are Gabe Shaunessy and Evan Allore.
They’re basically four people on their own.
Add to that a stern, official-looking man who’s about over this shit and Keira, who’s trying to vanish into a corner while also waiting expectantly with a diaper bag, and there’s hardly any oxygen in the room.
I know what a lack of oxygen truly feels like, and I hate it. But I push through.
And yep, just as expected, Blaise is vigorously patting Donovan, whose face is peeking over his shoulder enough that I can see the black fluff atop his head, the deeply furrowed brows, and the giant brown eyes, swimming with tears until he scrunches them tight to let out another lusty, bumpy wail.
The stern-looking man curses with, “These fucking stunts are over, or you’re fucking over, Sinclair!” as Gabe attempts to swoop in to pluck Donovan off Blaise’s shoulder.
Blaise isn’t having any of it. He spins away from Gabe in this incredibly poetic way that’s like a blur of the eye but somehow so smooth that if anything, it soothes Donovan.
Meanwhile, he growls back in a quiet but angrier tone than anything he’s ever fired at me.
“This isn’t a fucking stunt. This is my-my—”
The world stops as he stutters over his words, but there isn’t a word for it.
How can he possibly explain what this is?
There’s no term for the guy who saved a baby’s life because the baby’s mother was so incompetent she didn’t recognize that she needed to go to the hospital.
There’s no term for the guy who didn’t correct anyone who called him ‘dad,’ because it would have either embarrassed her or cut off his access.
There’s no term for the guy who’s helping out because a doctor told him to.