I place the bag on my kitchen table. With my one free hand, I look to see what’s inside. Diapers, wipes, clothes, empty bottles, and a big can of something. I lift it up and read the front. Formula.
Is she hungry? How do I even feed her this stuff? I open the lid to find a bunch of powder inside. Powder. What am I supposed to do with that?
I try to read the instructions, but nothing is getting through to my brain as her screams become louder. I can’t think, can’t focus. Her face is now red, and her tiny hands are squeezed into fists, like she might actually punch me if I can’t get my shit together and figure out what she needs.
Sweat forms above my brows as my hands begin to tremble. Okay, I can do this.
I take a deep breath and read the can. Two ounces of formula per four ounces of water. What the hell is even an ounce?
I stare at her, then at the can, then at her. She’s in complete hysterics now, like she knows she was left with the most incompetent person on the planet.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her desperately. “I don’t know how to be your father.”
My heart thunders in my chest. My throat tightens, making it hard to breathe.
I need to call someone. I can’t do this alone right now. My parents would freak out if I told them about this. Just another thing to ruin their image.
Eva. My baby sister. She would know what to do. She has one of these of her own. Shit. I can’t put this on her. Roman told me she was struggling with adjusting to the lack of sleep, not getting nearly as much as she needs.
This is the last thing I want to put on her.
I open my phone and scroll through my Contacts, all while the screams hit levels I didn’t know were possible.
But all I see are clients. Business associates. Friends. Hookups. None of these people will do.
Then I come acrosshernumber. I only have it because she’s my sister’s best friend and we connected while Eva was in the emergency room a while back.
But she does know babies—I assume. She must at least know more than I do.
Does she hate me?
Yes.
Does she have reason to?
Yes.
Do I have any other option at this point?
No.
I click on her name, Jessie Turner, and place the phone to my ear. I try to bounce the baby up and down as I walk around the room.
She answers on the third ring. “Walker?”
“Jessie …” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God you answered.”
“What’s going on? What’s that noise in the background? Is that a baby?”
“Yes. I need your help.”
“Is that Addie? Are you at Eva’s? Oh my God. Is everything okay? They wouldn’t let you babysit, would they?”
I take serious offense to that. Why wouldn’t my sister trust me to babysit my niece? Then I look down at my own daughter, wailing in my arms.
“No, Jessie. I’m not watching Addie. I just …” I struggle to get the words out. “Can you come over?”
There’s a moment of silence. I look down at my phone to see if I lost the call.
