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Tyson called me out on it the other night. Accusing me of thinking of my other ex, instead of him. I couldn’t even deny it. Ty is a good guy and understands my dilemma, even if he doesn’t like it. It sure as hell didn’t stop him from fucking my brains out, which was a nice tension reliever. Sex is a wonderful balm for my nerves, even if the effects are temporary. At least it led to a good night’s sleep, which has been harder to come by since Cillian’s return to my life.
Cillian:
Can I call you?
Me:
Why? You talked to Sadie before she went to bed.
Cillian:
Please, Cole.
Ugh.
Me:
Fine.
“Wylder,” I say when I answer his call.
“Hi,” he says with a softness I haven’t heard from since that day at the office.
“Hi.”
“Will you tell me about the day Sadie was born?”
“Cillian.”
“Please, Isla,” he interrupts. “There is so much I’m asking Sadie directly. I know her favorite color is orange on rainy days and green on sunny ones. She only likes cold meats because she doesn’t like to think about animals getting cooked. Unless it’s Hawaiian pizza, she makes an exception for that. Her favorite song, currently, is about a horse by Little Nas something or other. But she can’t tell me about the parts of her life that she doesn’t remember. I need you for that. I’m obsessed with our daughter, Isla. I want to know everything.”
Before he left for Boston, he told her he would call her every night. I was sure he’d fail. He hasn’t, though. In fact, he usually calls several times a day. Cillian even resorts to calling my mom when she’s watching Sadie while I work. If he thinks of something he wants to know about her, he doesn’t wait to find out.
It’s hard to argue with him when he’s making that kind of enthusiastic effort.
“It was a Sunday. The night before I dragged Willa out to dinner because I had a feeling it was going to be my last chance for a while, and I was weirdly craving crab legs. I woke up early the following morning and the contractions I’d been having felt different. Timing them proved they were coming about every twenty minutes.”
“Did you go straight to the hospital?”
“No. I ate breakfast, even though they had told me not to do that. I didn’t want to have an empty stomach though; in case it was a long delivery.”
“What did you eat?”
I’ve told this story before, and nobody has ever asked this. They’ll ask about the pain, the discomfort, or prompt me in some way to hurry the story along to more about Sadie. But never about the small details.
“Eggo waffles. Two of them.”
“With peanut butter and maple syrup,” he adds.
“Of course.” I laugh. “Then I repacked my hospital bag. It had been sitting by the front door for so many months, I hardly remembered what was in it.”
“What goes in a maternity hospital bag?”
“Clothes for her to come home in. Clothes for me to come home in, diapers, baby blankets. Any necessary comfort items for staying at the hospital, headphones, cell charger, things like that. Personal care items like hairbrushes and deodorant. Pads because you bleed so much.”
“How much?”
“Why would you want to know that.” I wrinkle my nose.
