“Yeah.”
And that’s it. He doesn’t say anything else, and he ignores the tears that start flowing, no matter how hard I hold them back.
He had to pay for someone to come clean for me. Complete strangers went through every single article of clothing, every bill, every deadline that’s been missed. They dealt with a pile of dishes and the mold I’m sure was growing under the ancient bottles of shampoo that have lived, untouched, for over a year on the ledge of my bathtub.
Did they go through my pill bottles? Did they look up the names? Did they feel some sympathy for me over the cancer I struggled with for so long, and do I even deserve that sympathy when I was fully capable of cleaning up after myself but didn’t?
And it’s so easy in this moment to tell myself that I’ll start now. The baby stuff has been organized, theessentials now easy to find and accessible, but nothing has been assembled. It’s easy to tell myself that I will do it, but will I really? Am I really going to be able to take care of Donovan? If I’m not, what will everyone think of me?
How much will they hate me?
Tears run freely down my cheeks, but I keep myself quiet as Blaise goes through the stuff the hospital gave us and sets up a little changing pad on the recliner I scored from Goodwill a few years back but never ended up using.
By the time he’s finished changing Donovan’s diaper, I’ve fallen asleep.
It’s nighttime when I awake, but I couldn’t say how late it is. Blaise is reclining next to me in bed, his long, lean body stretched nearly the full length of the bed despite being propped up, Donovan drooling on his chest. His attention is fully on the TV as he sifts through the catalog of a streaming service, but I don’t watch the screen. I watch his face.
His face is everywhere in Wilmington, on product ads and promotional materials for the team. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t see him on a bus or a billboard. In the ads, no matter how he’s posed or what he’s selling, he’s got this impish look, like he’s getting away with something. No surprises, since everyone knows they’ve got a leash on him they tighten with every loophole he attempts to sneak through. The Juggernauts give him a more fun-loving, innocent vibe, bordering on buffoonery. There are enough intense, angry-looking guys on the team. Blaise fills in a different sort of all-American vibe. The future of America. The American dream, accessible to anyone, not just those in the right demographics.
But that’s not the Blaise that intrigues me. There’s enough trouble in my life without having to hunt for it. And I can make poor decisions all by myself.
There’s another side to him that’s shrewd. Observant. It’s widely known that Gabe is the one in communication with the coaches and making most of the decisions about plays, but Blaise is notorious for going off-script and is incredibly successful with it. He’s not lucky, he’samazing, and he’s not nearly so stupid or careless as everyone makes him out to be.
In the constantly changing glow of the television, his eyes dart around, taking in everything on the screen as he flips rapidly. He doesn’t read descriptions, just looks at thumbnails, but his concentration is hyper-focused, searching for something.
Donovan sighs. Barely. I wouldn’t have noticed if Blaise didn’t reflexively start patting his bottom.
He’s doing nothing impressive, just living his life, but this is where it’s painfully obvious that he’s someone special. And he’s lying in my ancient full-sized bed in my shitty studio apartment, surfing my 32-inch television while holding my baby, whose father’s identity is a mystery.
He finally settles on an obscure, older anime, a sweet fantasy drama geared toward middle school girls. It’s in Japanese and there are no subtitles on the screen, but I don’t need the captions to know what’s happening. Blaise settles back and continues to pat Donovan’s bottom, but the baby’s waking up and needs to be fed. He’s going to start to fuss.
“I’ll take him,” I offer.
I’m not surprised that Blaise doesn’t flinch at my voice. I’m betting he noticed the second I opened my eyes. “You need to rest.”
“I need to take care of my baby.”
“There’s a couple pouches of breast milk. I got it. Go back to sleep.”
“Blaise,” I say seriously, needing him to stop dismissing me. I resituate myself and reach for Donovan. “I need to take care of my child. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’ve got this.”
I don’t, in fact. But every mom figures it out. We have to. That’s life. If everyone else can do it, so can I.
My mother did it. For thirteen years before she ran off on us. And I know that doesn’t sound like a very good track record, but I’m 26. That’s half my life. That’s a long time.
He passes me Donovan, which is a victory on its own. And he’s careful with him but confident, too. He immediately pushes my arm down and configures it on my side so I can hold Donovan the way the nurses told me to, on the side he’s going to nurse from, instead of across my belly, so he doesn’t irritate my healing incision.
The way they explained it made me think they forgot my C-section was particularly gnarly because I was already scarred up there. I know to be careful.
Blaise holds Donovan there as I fiddle with my top and my bra, everything designed for ease while nursing but still foreign and cumbersome. He helps guide Donovan to my nipple, but he doesn’t actually touch me, so I think he’s doing everything right.
But he hates me, and I don’t know why. That’s why I want him to go, for the most part. He may feel beholden to Donovan, but he’s bored right now. Once the preseason stuff starts back up, he’s going to forget about us.
Once Donovan’s latched, Blaise crawls out of bed and heads into the restroom. He closes the door behind him, but everything about my apartment sucks, and since it’s just me,I never bothered to deal with the busted door latch. It pops right back open behind him, and he doesn’t bother to fight it. I keep my eyes on Donovan, thankful for the endorphins nursing brings and the way they soothe the worst of my unease, but there’s nothing to be done to block out the sound of Blaise urinating.
Or the groan of relief that comes with it. He must have been waiting for me to wake up, which I take as a good sign. If he really was confident with Donovan, I’m sure he would have settled him back into the car seat to use the restroom.
I hear the screech of the shower knobs next, which has Donovan fussing as much as I do. I get us settled, wishing I could reach the TV remote. Blaise left it on the far side of the bed. Between the baby and the healing wound, it’s out of range.
