Tangled Series: Tied Part 3

"Rough day?" I ask.

"Not so much. He was just really cranky around six-it took me forever to get him down for the night."

I nod. Then tilt my head toward the hallway. "I'm just gonna go check on him."

Kate shoots me down. "No-no, you're not."

"I'll be really quiet."

"Drew-"

"I won't even touch him."

Wryly she points out, "We both know you're incapable of seeing James and not touching him."

Touche.

"And then he'll be up and I'll have to feed him to get him back down. And his whole schedule will be blown for the night."

I see the wisdom of what she's saying. Doesn't mean I have to frigging like it.

"I haven't seen him all day!" I had to run out the door earlier than usual this morning, to make a meeting with a client uptown. "It's not healthy for a baby to go days without laying eyes on the man who fathered him."

I don't know if this is a fact-but it sounds good, so I stick with it.

Again, Kate's not having it. "He's four weeks old. He needs a schedule more than he needs to see his daddy."

I frown. I think my feelings are hurt. "That's a f.u.c.ked-up thing to say."

She shrugs. "Doesn't make it any less true."

I sigh. And decide on a more subversive course of action. "Then I'll just go make that bowl of cereal."

Kate watches me as I get up. Then softly calls to my retreating back, "Stay away from the nursery, Drew-don't even look at the door."

I neither agree nor disagree. Even though Kate and I have been together for years, loopholes still apply. I enter the kitchen, grab the milk out of the fridge, and pour myself a bowl Lucky Charms. I take two bites and- Did you hear that? It sounded like a baby's cry, didn't it?

No?

Then I recommend you get your hearing checked, 'cause I definitely heard it.

I slip through the kitchen door and stealthily make my way down the hall to the nursery. The door is cracked a few inches-just wide enough to stick my head in. The night-light casts a warm glow on the dark wood furniture, rocking chair, and stuffed animals stacked in the corner. I listen. And all I hear is the sound of James's deep, rhythmic baby breathing.

Guess it wasn't a cry I heard, after all. But . . . since I'm here and all, it won't hurt to have a peek, right? Right.

Like a kid sneaking downstairs before sunrise on Christmas morning, I step softly into the room. I stand next to the crib and gaze down at my sleeping boy. An instant smile appears on my face. Because he's so G.o.dd.a.m.n adorable.

He's on his back, head turned to the right, one fisted little hand bent at the elbow above his dark-haired head. He's dressed in a cotton, feet-covering, dark-green romper. I can't resist running my finger across his plump, baby-soft cheek.

He doesn't flinch or stir. So I continue to look at him-and it's kind of crazy how entertaining it is just watching him breathe.

After I've had my fill, I take one step toward the door.

Then something f.u.c.king dreadful happens.

You had to have seen this coming.

Yep, James's head turns to the left, and his feet kick out and his sweet features scrunch up. Then-like a baby bird fresh out of the egg-he lets out a cry.

"Whaaaaa."

My eyes snap to the door, then back to him, as the second squawk leaves his lips.

"Whaaaaaaa."

"s.h.i.+t. Shhh," I whisper. "James . . ." I rub his belly. "Shhh, go back to sleep."

Of course, that does a whole lot of nothing.

"Whhaaaaaaaaa."

Screw it. I pick him up and bounce him against my shoulder. "You gotta be quiet, buddy. If your mom finds me in here, she's gonna lock up her p.u.s.s.y like a steel safe. It'll take me hours to crack that bad boy back open."

Technically, the safe is closed for maintenance anyway. We still have two weeks to go before the doctor will give us the green light. Until then, there's a strict "Thou shalt not pa.s.s" policy. I'm not even allowed to make her c.u.m with my mouth, or the ever-so-popular-with-teenagers dry-humping method. Roberta said her uterus needed to recoup, which means no o.r.g.a.s.mic spasming permitted.

That being said, you get my a.n.a.logy. My son, on the other hand, does not. Or he just doesn't f.u.c.king care.

"Whaaa, whaaa, whaaaaaaaa."

Then Kate's standing in the doorway, looking righteously p.i.s.sed off. "Kiss the pubic hairs good-bye, Drew."

I chuckle. "What? I heard him crying-I just got here before you."

It doesn't count as a lie if the person you're lying to knows it's a lie.

She lets out an exasperated sigh and reaches for the baby. "Give him to me."

I tuck him against me and turn my body, like a football player trying to keep the ball from getting s.n.a.t.c.hed in the pileup. "No, I got him. Go back to whatever you were doing."

"He won't settle down for you."

"And he'll never settle down for me if you're the only one holding him all the time." I kiss the top of his screaming head. "I got this, Kate. Go take a bath or something."

Isn't that what all new mothers want?

"Is that your way of telling me I smell?"

Guess not.

"No . . . I'm saying I stirred the s.h.i.+t, I'll deal with the stench."

Still looking unsure, she runs her hand down James's back. "All right. Just . . . holler if you need me."

I give her lips a peck. "We're good."

Finally she smiles, then she leaves.

Most men are inept when it comes to babies. Either from lack of experience or because they're afraid they're going to irreversibly screw something up. Give us an appliance that needs fixing, we'll take it apart, figure it out, and put it back together again, even if we're unfamiliar with it.

Babies? Not so easy to put back together.

And there's all these perils we have to be mindful of-soft spots, necks that can't support heads, nasty-looking belly b.u.t.tons waiting to fall off . . . don't get me f.u.c.king started on the circ.u.mcision. Men aren't good mult.i.taskers, remember?

So for most, infant care is an activity best left to the mothers.

Most-but not me. Because I cut my teeth on Mackenzie. When she was an infant, I wasn't around for the nighttime routine stuff, but I learned a lot about everything else. If a man can change a baby girl's diaper, there is nothing he can't accomplish. So, because I have her infancy under my belt, and because I'm pretty much awesome at anything I do, I'm not intimidated by James's crying. It's not a fun part of fatherhood-but I can deal.

I s.h.i.+ft him from my shoulder to cradle him in my arms.

"Whaaa, whaaa, whaaa . . ."

"Hey, buddy, what's with the tears? You don't have to cry-I'm gonna have you back to sleep in no time."

I grab a pacifier off the dresser and tease it into his mouth. Whimpering, he gives it a few sucks before opening his mouth to screech because he realizes it's not the real thing. I catch it before it falls to the floor.

Then I sit in the rocking chair. "Yeah, I know it's not what you really want. And I don't blame you-your mom's b.o.o.bs are spectacular. But . . . you gotta take what you can get. And right now, this little piece of plastic is the next best thing."

I slide it between his lips again, and this time he doesn't reject it. He sucks rapidly and his eyes fall closed for a moment before he drags them back open-a sure sign he's exhausted but fighting it. I rock slowly in the chair and tap his a.s.s gently in a steady beat.

In a soothing whisper I tell him, "You want to hear what your old man did today? I set up a fifty-million-dollar acquisition for a man who invented a new app. He's kind of a tool. When you're older, you'll learn the world is full of tools. Anyway, this particular tool didn't think the deal was good enough, so Daddy had to explain to him why it was. First I showed him . . ."

You don't really want to hear the rest, do you? Suffice it to say, twenty minutes later, James was out cold. I kiss his forehead and lay him back in his crib. Then I go out to the living room looking for some quality time with my girlfriend. I find Kate on the couch, with a still-half-full basket of clothes next to her.

She doesn't acknowledge me right away-and she's not folding clothes anymore. She's holding a pair of baby socks in each hand, unnervingly staring off into s.p.a.ce. In deep thought.

Usually for guys, when our women are contemplating something serious? It's a bad sign.

Cautiously I sit down next to her. "The baby's asleep."

Her blank expression doesn't change. "That's good."

"Kate? You okay?"

Snapping out of wherever she was, she turns to me quickly and tries to blow it off. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Fine-a red flag if there ever was one.

I don't waste time with pleasantries. "f.u.c.k fine-what's wrong?"

She focuses her attention on the socks. "I just realized . . . this is my life now."

I try hard to decipher the hidden female message in that statement-and come up with zilch. "O-kay . . . and . . . ?"

"And folding clothes, dirty dishes, afternoon walks, naptimes, changing diapers . . . that's my life. That's what I have to look forward to."

"Well . . . changing diapers won't last forever. And in two more weeks I'll be able to make you c.u.m again in numerous, illicit ways-that's something worth looking forward to."

That gets a chuckle out of her, but it's halfhearted. "I'm a terrible person."

I rub her shoulder. "If you're a terrible person, I'm in some seriously deep s.h.i.+t."

This time her smile is a bit more genuine. "I love James, Drew. Love . . . isn't even a strong enough word . . ."

I nod, because I and any parent know exactly what she means.

". . . and I know how lucky I am. Lots of women would kill to be able to stay home full-time with their kids. I really am grateful for the life I have-but I never thought this would be all I'd have."

And the tears start to fall. Big ones.

In the days after James's birth, he wasn't the only one on a bawling binge.

Kate was a mess.

I thought I understood the havoc hormones can wreak on the female personality-but I didn't understand jack. Pregnancy hormones are a whole other animal entirely. She cried because James was beautiful, she cried because she loved me so much, and because of how much I love her. She cried when James cried, and when he slept or if he sneezed. She cried because she hadn't lost all the baby weight two days after he was born, the way those motherf.u.c.king evil, narcissistic celebrities make women feel they should.

Even though I'm accustomed to my son's crying jags, seeing Kate cry will never be something I'm okay with.

My chest tightens, squeezing my heart as she wipes at her cheeks. "I feel so guilty for missing work-for watching you walk out that door in the morning and wis.h.i.+ng it was me. How screwed up is that?"

I rub her back and tell her the truth: "It's not screwed up at all."

Kate looks at me with surprise in her eyes.

"I wouldn't want to quit my job, either-I'd be a miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.d if I couldn't go to the office anymore." Then I ask, "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"I thought it would pa.s.s, once I got used to being home-had a new routine going. But it's just gotten worse."

The strange thing is, I know just how she feels.

"To be honest, I'm not exactly thrilled with the arrangements we have now, either."

Thankfully, her tears have dried. The vise grip on my heart lessens. "You're not?"

I shake my head. "I'm missing all the good stuff. I go for days without seeing James awake even for a minute. It sucks a.s.s. Like the other day, when he smiled for the first time."

She tries to make me feel better. "That was just gas, Drew."

"Of course it was, because boys think pa.s.sing gas is funny."