“No.”
“Are they armed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see a weapon?”
“No.”
“Were you assaulted?”
“No.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No.”
“Is your apartment secure? You said you’re not sure if the intruder is still inside?”
“I locked the door,” I said, “but—” I swallowed. “I didn’t check the closets or anything. I left right away.”
“That’s good,” said the operator. “Stay in a public place. Officers are on their way. Don’t go back inside until they arrive.”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. My head felt light, like my brain was floating above my skull. My palms were clammy and cold. I tried to imagine what the note could say, who could have left it, and why I hadn’t heard anything, but my mind was a blank.
“Help is on the way,” the operator repeated. “Is there anyone you can call to wait with you until the police arrive?”
I thought of my sisters, but both lived on the opposite side of the city, and I didn’t want to worry them. I didn’t have any friends in the building besides Mrs. Finch, and I wasn’t about to drag her into this.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Officers will be there soon. Call back if needed.”
I nodded again, then hung up, knowing my sisters would freak out if they knew I hadn’t called them, but there was nothing for them to do, really. I stared at the lobby ceiling, trying to count the little holes in the acoustic tiles, but my vision kept going blurry at the edges. I tucked my knees up, perched on the edge of the bench, and focused on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. If I could keep myself from hyperventilating, then everything would be fine. Everything would be just fine.
2
ADAM
On autopilot,in the numb haze of the freeway, I found myself checking the rearview mirror for the hundredth time in so many minutes. Both girls, still out like miniature logs, wore the slack-jawed serenity of the truly exhausted. I could barely believe they were real, let alone mine. They’d passed out about eight hours into the drive from San Antonio to the Bay Area, not even stirring for the impromptu gas station dinner or my repeated (failed) attempts to get them to pee. I’d always heard kids slept like the dead, but this seemed like some kind of world record. Of course, their lives had changed just as much, if not more than mine, the past week.
My future flashed before me as I gripped the steering wheel and stared at the road ahead, the ribbon of headlights bounced off the rolling green hillside on the Grapevine. Returning to San Francisco to live in my childhood home wasnoton my bingo card. I sure as hell never imagined that I’d return as the father of five-year-old twin girls, who I had no idea existed a week ago, to live in the home I inherited from my estranged father after his death.
Once again, my eyes glanced in the rearview mirror and I saw that both my daughters were sleeping soundly in their booster seats. Booster seats. Add that to the list of things I was clueless about. Children who were five needed booster seats.
I hada lotof babysitting experience. Most of the people I served with were married with children, and I hated fucking going out. I’d much rather spend the night playing board games with kids than at a bar getting drunk and hooking up with random women I didn’t give a shit about and who didn’t give a shit about me, so that’s what I’d done. I’d done it so much I’d even earned the nickname Mary Poppins.
That being said, I still had no fucking idea about car seat laws. Being responsible for a child, or children, for four to six hours once or twice a week and then returning them to the authority of their parents was one thing. Being responsible for said child’s life, their well-being, their entire future was an entirely different ball game altogether. This was a game that I never wanted to play. It seemed I had stepped up to the plate without my knowledge.
Once again, I found my gaze drawn to the rearview mirror. The twins were still unconscious. Light from the screen flickered over their cheeks, painting their faces with alternating swaths of blue and gold, glowing like little cyber princesses in cryosleep.
“What the fuck is my life?” I mumbled under my breath.
Since discovering I was a father—a distinction that still felt like it belonged to someone else—I’d been making a herculean effort to clean up my language.
I couldn’t say it was going well. Twenty years in the Navy will do that to you.
The dashboard lit up, bright and insistent, with the name “Maddox Cruz” blinking across the console. I hit the button and kept my voice low, as if a whisper could rouse the girls from their sugar-and-screentime comas.
