okay?”
The tough guy in me wanted to say yes, yeah, sure, I was fine. But Reagan knew me. I shook my head, and his eyes gentled.
“Go home, Javi. I’m locking up early. Text me if you need some time off, okay?”
I could tell he wanted to hug me, and I was glad he didn’t. Being touched was something I didn’t think I could handle just yet. He was right; I needed to be home.
But all I could think about on the drive was how large and empty my home was. There’d be no one there to listen as I unburdened myself. No one to hold me as I worked through the mass of toxic emotions that were already rising to the surface in light of that man’s attack on me.
It made me think of Gordo, once again—and to keep myself together I allowed myself one, small, dangerous fantasy.
One where I wasn’t going home alone, but to him.
Fate must have been listening in. When I pulled into my driveway, Gordo was outside, getting groceries from his car. Except from the look on his face, all scowled and pinched, it seemed more like an attempt to get groceries from the car. He had Giuliana in one arm and was trying to grab the handles of way too many bags with the other.
Seeing him struggle, my own shit dropped away, and the instinct to be helpful and useful kicked in. It was something normally reserved for the people I cared for and trusted, like Reagan and Dane, or Mike and the kids at the center. But here it was now. I parked my truck and dashed over to Gordo.
“C-c-can I help?” My body was so wound up from the fuckwad at the shop that there was nothing to do about the stutter besides accept it—but that didn’t stop the awful gut-twist of shame that always accompanied it from brewing in my belly.
Gordo didn’t seem to notice my stutter, though. He just pointed to the bags that he’d unsuccessfully tried to gather; I grabbed them and we made our way inside. I’d never been into his house before, but the stress that radiated off him kept me from looking around or noticing any of the details.
I followed him into the kitchen where he practically threw the few bags he was carrying on the counter. Just as he began to root through them, though, Giuliana let out an ear-piercing cry. It was relentless, the kind of baby cry that demands you leave your sanity at the door and accommodate the infant right then.
“Fuck,” Gordo cursed.
I paused, startled. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him curse before. It wasn’t an angry word, either, but said in the tone of the defeated.
“She needs to eat.” He stopped pawing through grocery bags to go to the sink, which was full of dirty bottles. He tore through the cabinet closest to the sink, where I could see tubs of formula and cleaning supplies… and an empty space where bottles presumably lived when clean.
“Fuck,” Gordo said again, his voice taking on a desperate edge.
Giuliana upped her efforts, her pitiful cries so piercing I felt them in my teeth.
“What d...d-d-do you need?” Jesus Christ, a kingdom for the ability to just say what I had to say.
“I don’t know,” Gordo replied, eyes wide with panic. “I need to clean and sanitize a bottle, she’s wet and needs a new diaper, I haven’t eaten in like eight hours, and why does all of this shit have to happen at once!?”
When he looked at me, his crazed eyes were filling with tears.
My heart began to crack, and years of practice and doing what needed to be done back in the foster homes took over without my say-so. “Go change her. I’ll d-do the b-b-bottles.”
“Are you sure?” Gordo asked, even as he began to move toward the stairs with Giuliana in tow. He didn’t bother to hide the doubt that skated across his handsome features, but he also couldn’t hide the relief.
“Yes.” No stutter that time. Confident.
He didn’t wait for me to change my mind, not that I would. As he went up to change her, I checked out the damage in the sink. There were bottles in various states of disarray lumped in the sink, but it was nothing to grab the bottle brush and dish soap. I scrubbed quickly, making quick work of cleaning them. Next, I placed them in the sanitizer. The work tugged at memories that I’d kept buried, and,