ONE
BROOKS CALLAHAN
I haven’t slept in thirty-seven hours. I can feel it, too. I’m on the brink of going a little bit crazy. I’ve seen videos of those sleep deprivation tests. Lack of z’s messes with the head, and I’m right in the middle of being messed with. But I have a three-month-old baby who is on her second-to-last diaper, and if I want any shot at sleeping in the next few hours, I need to have more clean diapers ready. I may be undergoing a self-taught crash course on this whole parenthood trip, but I learned one lesson real quick—there areneverenough diapers within reach.
“What do you think, Holly? Are you a size one? A five? You’re three months old, so does that make you a three?” A tiny spit bubble forms on her lips as her mouth contorts into the sweetest yawn. She’s tired, fed, and dry. I need to get us both home, stat.
“You look a little lost.” The voice of a woman is accompanied by a soft giggle, and I turn around, expecting to see someone who looks like my mom did when she was alive. Older, worn out, hungover perhaps. Instead, I’m instantly knocked back on my heels by a pair of green eyes, light brown hair, and lips that stretch into this awe-striking smile. Did I die just now? Is this an angel?
“Uh, sorry. I’m . . . exhausted.”
I laugh and shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose as I squeeze my eyes shut tight, working feeling into my face.
It strikes me that I may be hallucinating, so I crack a lid open, half expecting the vision to be gone. Instead, she’s still here—very real, very beautiful—and she’s smiling down at the now sleeping baby in the carrier hooked over my forearm.
“Shh, I think you finally lost her,” she says, her pale-blue-polished fingernail touching the curl of her top lip.
I’m briefly mesmerized. It’s lips like those that got me into this situation, though, so I shake my head, waking myself up by patting my open hand against my unshaven cheek a few times.
“Would it be weird if I just lay right here, in aisle”—I lean to the right to check the number hanging above the end cap where prune juice is on display—“fourteen. Good ole aisle fourteen. My favorite.”
The mystery angel laughs softly again and shakes her head.
“Not to those of us who know what you’re dealing with. First babies are the toughest. I went and had twins,” she says in a hushed tone. She holds up a finger and lifts on her toes to reach a package of diapers labeled 2-3, then hands them to me.
“You want to go by weight. She’s probably about twelve pounds, maybe thirteen. Next week, you’ll want the threes.” She leans her head to the right toward the red diaper packs with the bright blue number three emblazoned on them.
I exhale, and it spills out of me with enough force to send me back a step and force my hiked shoulders down to a normal position for the first time since Holly showed up on my doorstep less than a week ago.
It was just before midnight, and the knock at my door was loud enough to wake my ass after a full week of conditioning with the team. And there she was, with nothing more than a blanket, a couple of onesies in a plastic bag, and a note from a college one-night stand. Myonlyone-night stand. Ever.
“Thanks. I seriously have no idea what I’m doing.” I take the package from this kind woman, my hand brushing hers on the exchange, her cheeks flaring to a really sweet pink when we touch.
What is happening?I go years without a girlfriend, for obvious reasons, then let loose a little bit my senior year of college and bam—the universe makes me a single dad. And now this—the perfect woman—is actually upping my flirt game, and I am in no shape to act on any of it.
“You should get her home while you can still take advantage of this time,” she whispers, and winks.
I nod and smile with relief.
“Seriously, thank you again . . .” I hold out my free hand, the diapers tucked under my arm and the carrier clutched against my hip.
“Lindsey,” she utters finally. Thank God I didn’t have to come out and ask. I don’t know if I have the nerve in me. Again, not that I’ll ever follow up or do anything with this knowledge. But at least I’ll know what to call her in my mind later when I replay this and pretend things went a different way.
“Lindsey,” I say, my mouth forming an instant smile at the feel of her name on my tongue. “Good to meet you. I’m Brooks.”
“Oh, I know who you are. I’m sure I’ll see one of your games again soon. You better rest up if you want to keep that hitting streak alive.” Her cheeks redden. More flirting. Fuck me, why is this my luck?
“Right. Well. I’ll try. Got my hands full.” I lift my shoulders and arms, showing off the baby and diapers, as if I need to.
“Right. Well . . .” She waves with a flicker of her fingers, then turns her back to me as she heads down the aisle waving her own grocery list. Meanwhile, I spin on my heels and head to the register, calling myself a dumbass the entire way.
Got my hands full.
I shut my eyes briefly and take in a short breath, too tired to feel the full burn of embarrassment by my behavior. Besides, what could she possibly think about me? I made it pretty clear I wasn’t babysitting. And I’m a rookie making league minimum, which is less than a substitute teacher here in Oklahoma. I looked that up last night.
By the time Holly and I get back to my apartment, we’re both ready for a nap, though she got a decent head start. I crash hard and fast while I can, and neither of us stirs until midnight. After a fresh diaper and bottle of formula—and a protein bar for me—we’re both back in slumberland within an hour.
I can do this.
