What I don’t accept is the fact that, instead of getting dressed so he can go home, Blaise lies down next to me again.
“Uhh, I don’t need a bumper for Donovan. I promise I won’t drop him that far. Really, I got this from here.”
“Doctor says you’ve got a long recovery with that C-section. Says I gotta keep an eye on you. Doctor’s orders.”
I choke on a laugh once that all sinks into my brain. “Blaise, she said that because she thought you were Donovan’s father.”
I swear he glares at me like this is the most offensive thing I could have said. He then closes his eyes like he genuinely plans on falling asleep right now. “Still doctor’s orders.”
“That doesn’t count! You’re not the patient. You don’t have to listen to doctors.”
He opens one irritatingly beautiful caramel eye and scowls at me. “Easy for you to say. Not listening to doctors ruins players’ careers.”
Not sure why that triggers me — other than the hormones getting a hold of me because that’s just life — but I try to swallow a sob and end up hiccupping. He might be right, but I’ve almost died too many times now, regardless of my doctors’ orders. My dad is going to die in the next five years, that’s basically a certainty, and doctors can’t do anything about it. So doctor’s orders don’t mean a whole lot to me.
Donovan isn’t going to have grandparents growing up. And if the cancer comes back, he might not have a mom either.
I messed up. I messed up so bad.
Blaise sits up when my breathing starts to go rocky. He starts to grab Donovan, and I’m not upset at him for it, but I shoo him away because I have to be able to take care of my baby even when I’m not spiraling. I have to figure this out. “I’m fine,” I choke out even though I’m clearly not. “I just . . . I need space. Can you just not be in my bed? I can’t breathe.”
He nods slowly, but he watches me like a hawk as he takes a pillow over to the sofa that’s an entire foot too short for him and lies down there.
Chapter 15
Blaise
I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
Thankfully, Donovan is easy. He’s 24-7, but he’s easy. If he’s upset, he’s either hungry, bored, smelly, or sleepy. His fancy car seat came with two strollers it snaps into, both a normal one for walking around and a jogging stroller with big tires. With a bag of diapers and wipes and milk — plus a bunch of extra blankies to keep him as padded as possible — I can keep him happy for a good three hours while getting my cardio in. I wear big, obvious headphones and run at a fast enough clip that people who recognize me accept my passing wave and taps on my headphones, my mouthed apology, when they try to say anything. I go different routes at different times, early in the morning and late at night, so no one catches aroutine.
Don’t need anyone selling my shit to the sports gossip columns, not before I figure out how I’m handling this disaster without cluing Tilly in on what I’m doing until it’s too late for her to skip town with my mini-me and our money.
The internet saved my ass with the burping, and diaper changes are hit-and-miss, but I’m really getting the hang of this. And even the worst of the diapers? Yeah, they’re a chance to take him in the shower with me, which is challenging but feels better to me than cleaning him in the sink tub like a dirty dish. I don’t know what it is, but it’sright.I’ve never felt so good about who I am as a person and where I fit into the world at a cellular level as I do just holding my son.
Myson, despite Andy’s renewed insistence I get a paternity test, now that I’m not so overwhelmed anymore. According to him, it doesn’t matter if my name went on the birth certificate that I smuggled away the moment it arrived in the mail, so Tilly wouldn’t see that I’m listed or that his full name is Donovan Orin Washington Sinclair.
Fine, I lied about having already done the paperwork when Tilly first woke up, so when I did do it, I included her dad’s name. But sure, I’ll get a blood test.
I’ve actually got a pretty good handle on the baby stuff. A better handle than I thought I’d have two weeks into fatherhood. What I’m completely messed up about is Tilly.
Iknowshe’s an awful person, an absolute snake, and she’ll ruin my life all over again the second I give her a chance, but I keep forgetting. I see her looking so goddamn happy while she’s nursing Donovan or so sad when she’s lost in her thoughts. Or, shit, whenever she tries to move around the apartment, attempting to cook food or change Donovan or just clean herself up, aching and I swear feverish, sometimes holding onto her bonnet like it’s the only thing keeping hertogether and if I ever see whatever rat’s nest she probably has for hair underneath, she’ll expire. All that stuff, just existing with her and tag-teaming Donovan, and I forget that I hate her.
Sometimes, I even forget that we’re not a couple, that she’s not a woman I fell in love with and married and had a kid with, that we’re not just in a rough spot right now because new babies are so exhausting it’s hard to remember that we’re more than Mom and Dad, we just gotta find our new happily ever after. That the reason I’m sleeping on the sofa is she’s hurting on every level and needs space to herself as much as she needs me to take care of her.
She needs me.
But she’s a snake.
And today, I need to be a quarterback.
She’s sleeping fitfully, Donovan fussing next to her, when it’s time for me to start heading over to the stadium for the first day of mini-camp. It’s a big day, the very first time the coaches really get to work on what the roster’s going to be. Some of us are definites, but honestly? Even I’m questionable. If I don’t look my best and show that I’m here to work, one of the greatest quarterbacks of the last decade is right there warming the spot for me on the bench.
The stadium’s a half-hour stroll, but I can make it in fifteen minutes if I run. The problem is Donovan isn’t going to be settled in fifteen minutes. Whatever he needs right now, it’s a half hour, minimum. And I swear Tilly’s running a fever.
She says she’s fine, that this is just part of the recovery from a C-section and mood swings are normal, too. I get that, but she’s not fine. The doctor told me to take care of them, and neither of them will get taken care of if I leave Donovan here.
The solution is obvious enough.
