“Jessie?” I ask desperately.
“I’m here. Sorry. I’m, um … you want me to come over?”
“I promise I’ll explain when you get here. I really need someone. Please. I’m begging you.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Instantly, there’s a sliver of relief that forms in the pit of my stomach. Though the screaming baby prevents any type of real relief.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you!”
“Sure. Uh, where do you live?”
I don’t know why that makes me stop in my tracks. “You don’t know where I live?”
She sighs audibly. “No, Walker. Not every woman in the city is obsessed with you. Some of us couldn’t care less about things like where you rest your head at night.”
“Hilarious. I live on Park Avenue—432. Penthouse on the ninety-first floor. Please,” I beg as the baby continues to wail.
I am starting to wonder if something happens to a baby if they cry too long. What if I hurt her?
“Hurry,” I add.
“I’m coming, Walker.”
The phone goes dead. I throw it on the couch and look down at my daughter. I’m the worst father in history. Not even five minutes with her, and she’s hated every second of it. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to be around me either.
Ten minutes later—the longest ten minutes of my life—a knock at my door has me nearly tripping over my own feet to get to it. I open the door, breathing heavily. Jessie stands in front of me in jean shorts and a yellow tank top.
Even with a screaming baby in my arm, I notice how good she looks. She always does.
“Thank God you’re here.” I open the door all the way.
She follows me into my place as I lead her to the kitchen where every bottle and its pieces are scattered all over the counter.
“How do you feed a baby formula?” I ask as I grab a handful of items and let them fall back down. “What is all of this stuff?”
“Walker …” Jessie ignores my question and stares at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. She would, too, if she were in my position. “Why do you have a baby in your arms?”
“She’s … my daughter.” The words feel strange to say out loud.
Her eyes bug out of her head. “You have adaughter?” She starts to stutter over her words. “H-h-h-how? When?”
I’m in no mood for these kinds of questions. Now is not the time.
I look down at the baby. “Jessie, can we talk about that later? Why won’t she stop crying?”
She rolls her eyes—rolls her damn eyes at me like I’m the problem. “Give her to me.”
I obey and hand her over. She places her against her chest and tucks the baby’s head under her chin, where I was holding her like a football. She doesn’t exactly stop crying, but it’s definitely not at the decibel it was when she was in my arms.
I feel irritated by that.
“Okay,” Jessie says calmly. “Read the back of the can. How many scoops to ounces?”
What the hell? How does she already know about that shit? She must have babysat a lot. This is not common knowledge.
“Two scoops to four ounces. How much is four ounces?”
