“Excuse me? Mister . . . ahh . . .?”
“Sinclair,” I mumble to the tiny woman at the desk, also in a nurse’s uniform.
“That’s Blaise Sinclair,” Nurse Becky corrects with a wink. “I always wondered who Tilly’s sugar daddy was.”
“Baby daddy now,” the reception nurse giggles.
“Your boy is just the cutest little guy,” says Nurse Becky.
I want to backtrack, correct that baby daddy comment and see if I can get some information without making it obvious I’m not actually supposed to be here, but she complimented Donovan, and that takes precedence. “Isn’t he? Oh my god, everyone says he looks just like me, so obviously he’s the handsomest little man, but he isthehandsomest little man.”
“He was so good for Tilly yesterday.”
Yesterday?But I keep the thought to myself.
“Mr. Washington wasn’t having a good day, but he just lit up like he knew, you know? He didn’t know,but heknew.”
Oh man, I don’t know what’s going on, not fully, but enough of it hits me right in the chest that the anger that was building up over Tilly running off to this place just melts away.
Did Donovan meet his great-grandfather yesterday? Does the man have Alzheimer’s? Or dementia? Is that what Tilly’s been working through, while dealing with the cancer and everything else, too?
I don’t see any white men in the common area, so I guess Tilly’s granddad is in his room or elsewhere, but I’m glad Donovan got to meet him. I’m glad Donovan brought him joy.
“Mr. Sinclair?” the receptionist calls. “I have Tilly’s phone here for you. I’m glad you were able to come out and get it for her. She was pretty frazzled when she left, not surprised she forgot it.”
I nod. I think I thank them, but I’m not sure.
This is where the money’s been going. I have no idea how much a place like this costs, but I know you can live a long time with Alzheimer’s, so even a more affordable place can probably rack up a big bill quickly. I feel bad now about how rude I’ve been to her, but why did she have to blackmail me instead of just asking me for help? Did she really think so little of me after our night at Ani-Con that she didn’t think she could just be honest about needing this? She was pregnant with my baby. We would have figured something out.
I’m dazed leaving. I sit in the car, and Denny lets me stew in it for several miles of back roads before he finally asks, “Are you okay?”
My answer is interrupted by the buzz of my phone, and I grab it, assuming it’s Andy and I’ll be able to update them both at the same time. Poor Tilly. What she did wasn’t right, but if this is why she did it? I can forgive this.
Only, it’s not Andy. It’s Joss.
“Are you in labor?” I bark out, wondering if I’m near the training camp and can pick Gabe up. We were bused a couple hours out of Wilmington to separate us from distractions, only for Gabe and me to wreck that, but I have no idea what direction they took us.
“No. Or, not anymore. I had the baby. Gabe’s here. We’re good. Great. She’s so—but Donovan is sick. They don’t know what’s going on.”
Chapter 22
Tilly
Teagan Paige Shaunessy is born at 3:34 in the afternoon, just five hours after we arrive at the hospital and two hours after Gabe rushes in, like she wanted to make sure Dad was here for the dramatic part. Joss only has to push for about fifteen minutes, and she goes through it without any sort of medication. Teagan is a pudgy nine pounds, twelve ounces, with rosy cheeks and a cowlick of the palest peach. She’s absolutely perfect.
I’m so happy for them. This is exactly what it’s supposed to be. And it’s so goddamn triggering, but I can’t tell them that. I can’t tell them how robbed of this experience I feel. I can’t complain that Blaise was the one who got those first critical bonding moments, not me. I can’t voice my anger that Donovan, as much as I love him with every breath of my soul, never had that sweet chubby baby fat and is still in the bottomtwenty-fifth percentile in weight and is perpetually a few weeks behind on his milestones. I don’t know if anyone even realizes it.
And he’s miserable the entire time Joss is in labor. I keep apologizing, but Joss brushes me off because she’s a goddamn saint. She even tries to soothe him in the middle of a contraction. I can tell he’s irritating the medical staff. Several suggest that I leave, but Joss won’t have any of it. By the time Gabe arrives, I’m at my wit’s end.
Donovan was in his car seat for over six hours yesterday, and his legs are red and swollen. This is my fault. There’s probably a warning right on that car seat saying this is how long a baby should be in a car seat. A chart listing it by age. He’s been miserable, and it’s my fault.
When Gabe arrives, I don’t want to be selfish, but I can’t help myself. I ask if he could watch Donovan for a couple minutes while I use the restroom, and then I’ll take him so they can have their peace. I give myself fifteen minutes in that restroom to cry so hard I can’t breathe before pulling myself back together. It’s ridiculous, but when I walk out again, I’mhoping they think I’m just ridiculously constipated or something.
Instead, Gabe says, “I’m going to take this little guy for a walk, okay?”
He barely makes it back in time to do his coaching-while-holding-a-knee job, but he makes it. That’s important.
I pace around the waiting room until I get the news that Joss has had the most flawless birth ever, and then I take Donovan outside, finding relief only when he cries himself to sleep intermittently, just to wake up wailing until his voice begins to falter.
