She clears her throat. “Is this what you needed my help with?” she whispers, her green eyes turning back to me.
I can’t seem to find the words to reply, so I just nod my head.
“What about his mom?” she asks, her voice so soft you almost can’t hear it.
I run my hands through my hair for what could possibly be the ten-thousandth time in the last handful of hours. Ever since I got the call.
“Listen, I know you both have a lot to talk about, but I think this guy is gonna need some din-din soon,” my friend says, as he adjusts the baby in his arms and transfers him to mine. It still feels completely foreign to hold him, my supposed child. To be responsible for his everything.
“Hey, thanks, man,” I tell him as I try to move the baby without waking him up. It doesn’t work, though, and I can already tell he’s about to let one of his loud ear-splitting wails fly.
“No worries, Cruz. Wish I could stay and help, but I gotta get on the road soon,” Fish says, glancing back to where Lena seems to stand like a garden statue. “You gonna be okay?” he asks not-so-subtly, his eyebrow shooting up.
“We’ll be fine,” I reassure him. Though, I’m not sure that’s true. I definitely wouldn’t have made it this far without him, and the fact he’s leaving is another cause of worry. I haven’t even told Lena why I need her help yet, and all I can do now is pray she doesn’t run screaming from my house and fly back to Kansas. “Thanks for, well, everything,” I tell him, following him toward the front door.
“Call me if you need anything. If I don’t answer, I’ll call ya back as soon as I can,” Fish says. Before he opens the door, he glances over his shoulder. “Nice to meet ya, Lena. Be gentle with my boy here.”
I glance back just in time to see her wave and flash him a small smile. She may be uncomfortable, but she’s always polite. Plus, except for his ex-wife, everyone likes Fish. He’s a likeable guy. He’s trustworthy and a damn good friend too, which is why I asked my second big favor in under twenty-four hours, and that was to retrieve Lena from the airport and bring her here.
The first, you ask? Well, we’ll get to that shortly.
When Fish leaves, my son decides he’s hungry and not willing to wait for his food. I lock the door and turn to head to the kitchen. I pass Lena, who’s still standing in my living room, watching my every move, and say, “Make yourself at home. I’m going to grab a bottle and then we can talk.”
Fish set up the counter with everything the social worker brought last night, so I head over and try to juggle the now-crying baby and open the container of formula. First thing I do is knock over the clean bottle. My frustration level reaches maximum capacity as his screams grow more insistent. I haven’t felt this out of my league since the first time I got behind the wheel with the Colton Donavan watching from the pit box.
Suddenly, I feel her presence. Lena steps in and reaches for the baby bottle, her arm brushing against mine, and I’m not the least bit embarrassed to say that touch affects me. Specifically, in my pants. She grabs the bottle of water and glances my way. I realize what she’s asking immediately. “Four ounces.” I move the baby to my shoulder like Fish showed me to do and gently bounce him. He’s not having it though, and the longer it takes to get the boy some grub, the more upset he becomes. With quick and steady hands, Lena pours the water into the bottle. The moment she sets the jug down, I tell her how much formula to add. As soon as she has the bottle ready, I grab it, mumble a quick thanks, head to the living room, and sit on the rocker recliner.
Awkwardly, I adjust my son, his little mouth opening like a baby bird in a nest. I place the bottle against his lip, and he latches on like a champ, greedily sucking his food in massive gulps. “Slow down, little man,” I whisper, watching as he gasps for air. He lets a cry fly as I shift him in my arm and put the bottle back against his lips. This time, he slows