Chapter 12 Georgie
Georgie
Weston is a good eater, but I’m an overproducer; my body is making more milk than Weston can drink. And one of my breasts hurts like hell.
When we have Weston’s next appointment with his pediatrician in a few days, I’m going to ask him if there’s anything I can do.
Since James has given me free rein of his house, I’m using the computer in his home office to look things up, and from what I’ve read online, I probably have an engorgement issue and possibly a clogged duct.
My research says that it’s best to pump after feeding Weston to get the milk out.
But breast pumps cost hundreds of dollars, which is hundreds of dollars too expensive.
Plus, if I pump, it will keep my level of milk production up, and I need it to go down.
I think. But maybe not. When Weston gets bigger, he’ll need more milk, so then I’ll need to produce more. So… maybe I should keep it up?
I am so confused that I want to cry. I want to ask my mom or grandma how they dealt with this when they had newborns, but Nana passed away and my mom… well, my relationship with my mom is complicated.
Actually, it’s nonexistent.
Maybe I should try Reddit. There must be a subreddit for clueless, single, first-time moms.
My forehead drops to the desk, and I give in to the desire to cry. I’m tired, emotionally spent, and I’m barely holding it all together.
It’s exhausting trying to adjust to life as a brand-new mom while also being the best possible houseguest-slash-fake-wife to James.
I clean up after myself. I make my bed, scrub the toilets, prepare meals, bake goodies, tidy up the house, do the laundry.
It isn’t like James asks me to do these things—hell, often, he asks me to stop working around the house—but I just can’t sit still because I’m afraid of getting kicked out.
But after a month, I’m running on fumes.
Last night’s lack of sleep, when I was already exhausted to begin with, has me feeling extra crappy today. And now with my boob hurting, I’m just… done.
It’s already almost lunchtime, and James still hasn’t returned home. I thought about texting him, but it’s not my place. We aren’t really married, and he isn’t beholden to me. Besides, I can’t allow him to see how jealous I feel.
God, I hate that I even feel jealous!
I have to get this crush under control.
Just then, the garage groans open with a whirring whine. I lift my head from the desk and swipe away my tears. After splashing cold water on my face in the bathroom, I go in search of James, hoping I can keep my frayed emotions together when I see him.
I find James in the kitchen, sweaty and shirtless.
Wearing only a pair of athletic shorts, tennis shoes, and a backwards baseball hat, he’s standing in front of the open refrigerator door, chugging a bottle of water.
My footsteps falter as my eyes drag over the sculpted muscles of his back and arms.
But when he turns around… my mouth waters. Literally. And when I swallow, it isn’t a quiet swallow. Oh no, it’s a loud, noticeable gulp as my gaze travels down the tanned, taut skin of his defined pecs to his washboard abs to the noticeable V-indentations that lead to his low-slung gym shorts.
Holy shit, the man is fit. I thought he looked handsome last night all dressed for a night out, but he looks so fucking hot right now.
James is eye candy perfection.
Yep, I’d gladly lick his lollicock.
“You feeling okay, Georgie? Looking a little flushed,” James grins.
I yank my eyes up, beyond embarrassed James caught me checking him out.
And embarrassed about how I look compared to him. While I’ve spent plenty of time taking care of Weston and doing chores around the house, I’ve spent exactly zero minutes on my appearance. I haven’t even showered today.
Hell, I can’t remember if I showered yesterday either.
Ignoring his teasing, I busy myself around the kitchen, scraping up crumbs from the counter and washing the cups stacked in the bottom of the sink. Anything to avoid looking at James again.
I glance at the clock above the stove and realize Weston will probably wake up from his late-morning nap soon. If I’m going to eat lunch, I should make myself a sandwich now. Maybe eating something will give me an infusion of desperately needed energy, too.
“Did you have fun last night?” I ask, a glutton for punishment. I’m too curious, and I… just need to know.
“It was fine. Going out wasn't as fun as it used to be. Josh got hammered, so I had to take care of his drunk ass. Then, as payback, I made him go to the gym to work out with me this morning.” James eyes me. “You never responded to the texts I sent. How’d everything go on your first night alone with Weston?”
“You texted?” My heart beats faster than a hummingbird’s wings, and my cloud of melancholia lifts.
He texted! He didn’t ignore me, and he wasn’t out with another woman. He stayed with Josh!
“Yeah, twice,” he says, taking another swig of water. “Once last night to tell you I was staying at Josh’s, and again this morning just to check in.”
“Oh, I must not have gotten them yet. My phone is a little slow sometimes,” I chuckle. I wonder whether I need to buy more minutes. Since no one ever calls me, I might have let the coverage lapse without realizing it.
“So, how’d you do last night?”
“Fine. Like clockwork, Westie Bestie woke up every three hours.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help out.”
“Thanks, but unless you grew a pair of milky magnums, there wasn’t anything you could have done last night to help.”
Did I just refer to my boobs as milky magnums?
Then, to make matters even worse, I gesture toward his bare chest. “Nope, still no milky magnums for you, so you’re safe from nighttime boobie duty. Ha ha!”
Boobie duty? WTF, Georgie?!
James’ grin only grows with each asinine word that slips from my mouth.
OMG, shut up, Georgie. Shut up!
Wanting to change the subject as swiftly as possible, I search for a safe topic. “I made chicken salad. It’s in the fridge if you’re hungry. Or if you want, I can make you a sandwich.”
I always offer to make James food because if I don’t, the man eats like a child. If left to his own devices, he would eat cereal for every meal. Specifically, Lucky Charms. But he picks out all the marshmallow pieces and eats only the cereal. So weird.
And even weirder? I’ve fallen into the habit of eating his discarded marshmallows because I’m incapable of wasting food. When you grow up dirt poor, you learn not to let food go into the trash can.
James is quiet, watching me with a half-smile as I toast four pieces of bread.
Then, I lay the leaves of lettuce and slices of tomato atop the bread and spread on a hefty layer of chicken salad before topping each sandwich with the remaining slices of toast and cutting them in half.
Placing a sandwich on a plate, I hand it to James.
“Thanks, Georgie, but, you know, you don’t always need to cook for me.” He watches me as he takes a big bite, which is followed by a quiet groan. “Damn, forget I said anything. Keep cooking for me, please.”
I laugh. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
I take a bite quickly followed by another.
It really is delicious, and it reminds me of happier times.
For most people, middle school and high school are the awkward years, dealing with puberty and hormones, but for me those were the best days of my life.
It was the first time I had stability and someone who cared for me as a parent should.
As I often do when I think of her, I touch the locket around my neck. God, I miss my Nana. I would have loved for her to have met Weston.
James wipes his mouth with his napkin after finishing his sandwich in record time. “Hey, just wanted to let you know Josh is coming over. He said he was gonna shower and then head our way, so he’ll probably be here in a few minutes.”
“Okay, great. If he wants to stay for dinner, we’ll have plenty of food.
I’m making lasagna tonight.” I smile even though I don’t feel like smiling, remembering how Josh treated me when we met.
I don’t relish the idea of a repeat performance, but James’ relationship with his brother is much more important than my feelings.
Especially because their relationship as brothers transcends time. My relationship as James’ fake wife does not.
“I’ll steer clear so you two can have more time together.”
I stand, knowing it’s time to feed Weston given how heavy my breasts feel.
The burst of energy I felt at finding out where James was last night was short-lived because it takes all the strength I can muster to trudge out of the kitchen.
I cannot remember ever feeling this tired before.
How do women have big families? I’m not sure I could survive going through this again.
In the living room, I pause, bracing myself against the couch for a second to catch my breath. A light sweat has broken out across my body as I accept the fact that I feel like shit.
“Hey, are you okay, Georgie?” James stands in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room watching me with concern.
Blowing out a breath, I nod and smile. Fake it till I make it.
“Yeah, just tired. After I feed Weston, I’ll put him in his swing and cycle the laundry. Then, I’ll get started on the lasagna.”
James crosses the room to stand next to me. His warm hands slide over my shoulders. “Georgie, you need a breather, darlin’. Feed Weston, and then I’ll watch him so you can take a nap. Forget about the laundry and the lasagna.”
“But what about your time with Josh? And I need to make the lasagna because we’ll need dinner,” I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.
Sweeping my bangs off my forehead, James tilts my head to look him in the eye. “Georgie, feed the baby and then take a nap.” Unlike my voice, his gruff tone doesn’t lack conviction. “I can’t make the lasagna, but I can order takeout.”
“Okay,” I relent.
A quiet knock on the door announces Josh’s arrival. At least he didn’t ring the doorbell this time. Not having the strength to make nice and play the role of the polite faux-housewife, I motion my head toward the hallway that leads to Weston’s nursery. “I’ll grab West while you greet Josh.”
James stares at me for a long second before nodding, and I push myself down the hallway, placing one foot in front of the other. It feels like I’m running a marathon, not walking fifty feet through an air-conditioned house.
Opening the nursery door, I take in the room.
The queen-sized bed has been pushed to one side to make room for the dark wood crib, which sits off-center between the two large windows.
James brought in an old wooden rocking chair from another room, and it now occupies one corner, serving as the spot where I usually nurse Weston.
A dresser topped with a changing pad holds all the essentials: a basket of fresh diapers, wipes, and diaper cream.
The space is a cozy, slightly cluttered blend of guest room and nursery.
Weston must hear me approach because he stirs, little noises bubbling up as he squirms. He’s wriggled free of his swaddle again, tiny arms flailing in jerky motions as he cries. He’s my sweet little ninja. More often than not, he escapes from his swaddle by the end of his nap.
“Oh, baby boy, Mama’s here,” I coo as I scoop him up and carry him over to the rocking chair. As we sit down, I pull my shirt over my head and unsnap my bra.
Weston latches onto my nipple, but when he does, a searing pain shoots through me. I gasp with a flinch. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will myself to breathe through the pain, hoping it will lessen.
I thought having him nurse on my sore breast would help with the engorgement, but it doesn’t.
After enduring another few moments of torture, I decide I can’t suffer through the pain for another second.
Sliding my finger between my breast and his mouth, I gently help Weston unlatch and move him to my other breast.
With a sigh of relief, I’m able to continue the feeding without being in utter agony, but my mind is whirling. What do I do about my sore breast? It’s so painful. Can I wait a few more days to ask Weston’s pediatrician?
What other choice do I have? I can’t afford a visit to an urgent care clinic, and I don’t have health insurance to cover a doctor’s appointment for myself.
Maybe I should take some ibuprofen? It should help with the pain. That might be enough to control the pain to the extent that Weston could nurse on my left breast.
Shit, am I allowed to take ibuprofen while breastfeeding? I can’t remember.
When Weston slows his feeding, I grab a burp cloth off the arm of the chair.
Placing the cloth over my shoulder, I pat Weston’s back until I coax a burp out of him.
Then, I change his diaper and zip him into a clean onesie.
This one is light blue and says Outlaw’s Littlest Fan across the front.
Hayes and Annabelle brought it to the house last week along with a whole slew of other things for him.
While he’s still lying on his diaper changing pad, I grab my bra and shirt off the chair.
But when I go to slide on my bra, I notice red splotches on my left breast. When I touch it, I wince.
It’s hard and warm to the touch. Those aren’t good signs.
Skipping the bra altogether, I slide my T-shirt back over my head.
With Weston in my arms, I pad across the house in search of James. I feel kind of bad handing the baby over to James so I can sleep. Weston is my responsibility, not his, but I don’t have the strength to keep going.
James is right. I need a nap.