“His name’s Donovan.” He shrugs. “I’ve already filled out the paperwork, so it’s too late.” And then he has the audacity to roll the baby down into his arm to cradle him and rub his little chin. “Isn’t that right, Donovan? You know that’s your name.”
“Blaise—”
“I’ve been thinking about nicknames. I don’t really like Donnie. And he could grow into Don, I guess, but I think we could have a lot fun playing with Van. Van-Van? Vinnie Vennie Van? Vantastic?” He tips his head to a coy, playful angle and drawls out, “Nova? That’s pretty cool, right?”
I’m tired. Anesthesia is exhausting. Surgery is exhausting. I’m actually thankful that the baby has had someone taking care of him instead of a nurse. Nurses are great, but it’s not the same.
So, fine. Donovan, it is. It’ll be a crazy story for him when he’s older, something light and funny. Happy.
I take some breaths, making myself feel my body again, playing with my fingers to get the circulation going in them. They tingle a lot, not so unfamiliar for me, but it saddens me now.
Blaise raises a concerned eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Can I see him?” I ask.
That makes his eyes widen. “You want to hold him.” Not a question, just a statement. He even shifts his hold on Donovan to hand him to me.
“I can’t. The anesthesia? I can’t really lift my arms.”
“Okay, yeah.” He tucks Donovan back into his arm, as natural as if he’s been holding babies forever. Then again, how many times did I see it referred to as a football hold? Of course it’s natural. It’s his career.
He pushes the blanket down. I had a bag right by the front door of my apartment all set to go. It was something I puttogether while I was on the phone with Joss, or else I’d probably never have done it. It has a couple cute maternity dresses that I could have been wearing right now if I’d just thought to grab it instead of fighting with Blaise, but I’m in a hospital gown.
God, no wonder he hates me. Was I a bitch that night when I took the tequila from Merrick in the hot tub? Probably. I’ve definitely had my fair share of irrational moments in this pregnancy. It was probably me.
He unties the top bow but only pushes it apart to expose my upper chest, then settles Donovan on me, keeping a protective hand on him so he can’t slip off, although he feels secure here.
He feels warm and soft and heavy, but the best kind of heavy. He’s little, lacking the chunky monkey baby fat, but he’s a month early. Really, I’m just happy that he’s doing so well that he’s not stuck in an incubator. There’s one in the room, and it’s clearly been used, but I don’t think Blaise would have been holding him if he wasn’t allowed to.
No, Donovan is perfect.
Okay, yeah. Maybe he is a Donovan.
“I’ve fed him already. Dr. Murray said we’d be able to tell when he’s hungry again, he’ll tell us in his own way, but he’s been super chill. We can give him another bottle or you can breastfeed, Dr. Murray said, whichever we want, but we’re supposed to call a nurse either way.”
His eyes never stray from Donovan as he relays that to me. That protective hand doesn’t just hold him; it spins a small, slow circle, calming him. I went out with the football wives a couple days ago, and I caught a peek at the men as their kiddos were passed off so the moms could get a much deserved break. Evan and Dom, their kids are a bit older, butLin and Wren’s is only a few months old. The way Lin looks at Isaiah, with wonder and love and just a hint of fear, like it’s so much to take care of him, such an enormous responsibility, is the same way that Blaise looks at Donovan.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Just the doctor’s words. And I’m supposed to call a nurse when you wake up, but—”
“No, I mean thank you for dragging me to the hospital. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t. And thank you for staying.”
He’s silent, leaving the words heavy in the air for too long for it to be comfortable. He’s not obligated to acknowledge it or make me feel better about being so stubborn, but I can’t say I wouldn’t really appreciate it right now.
Only once I’ve convinced myself that I’ve said something horribly offensive does he say, “Someone has to look out for him, right?”
He cares about Donovan. Perhaps loves. I don’t know what that means for us. I don’t know how fleeting his love might be. It’s breathtaking the way that Blaise looks at Donovan, but I have to think every father looks at his newborn child that way. They’re miracles, every one of them. It’s impossible a father would think otherwise, right? But the world is cruel, and for some fathers — mothers, too — the miracle seems to be a new car sheen that wears off. If that’s Blaise, it would make the most sense. No judgment on him, but Donovan isn’t even his son. He’s just the guy who gave me a ride to the hospital and got all tied up in this.
I tell myself to be thankful for whatever kindness I get from him, even if it ends once he gets the nurses.
But I want more.
“I’ll go get that nurse now.”
Chapter 13
Blaise
