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I laugh.
Bel doesn’t. “Let us just be with you, Beau. Whatever mood you’re in, I don’t mind it. All I know is when I’ve hit one of my lows, it helps to have people around. The loneliness, often that’s the worst part of it.”
Fight, a voice inside my head says. Fight for her the way her dickhead husband never did.
I wish I could.
“Sounds nice,” I say.
My mood persists. I half expect Bel to leave, rolling her eyes at my moping, my quiet.
But she stays.
The baby keeps us busy, which helps. I get a first-row seat to life with a four-month-old. Lemme tell you, it ain’t for the faint of heart. If Bel’s not nursing Maisie, then I’m burping her. If we’re not changing her, then I’m putting her down for a nap. If she’s not napping, she’s screaming, and then the whole rigamarole starts again.
It’s chaos. It’s hard. More than anything, it’s exhausting. I can only imagine how much the monotony of it, day in and day out, takes that exhaustion to an unfathomable level.
But part of me enjoys it all. The chaos. The action.
Maisie’s little coos and smiles.
“Thank you,” Bel says, flopping on the sofa after our seventeenth attempt to get Maisie down for an afternoon nap. “For your help. I know you didn’t sign up for this today. I can do it on my own—”
“Stop.” I put a hand on her leg because I can. I can touch her the way I’ve always wanted to. “I like it. Learning your schedule. I like staying busy. It’s nice having people in my house. The only other time that happens is Sunday supper.”
“You and the fam still do that every week?”
“Yep. How about we put on Men in Tights and have some wine?” I tilt my head toward the kitchen. We went down to my cellar earlier, mostly so I could show it off to Bel, and she picked out a couple bottles of red to bring upstairs.
“I’ll have a sip or two.”
I open the best bottle, a fruity Amarone from Italy, and give us each a scant pour in the enormous crystal wine glasses I like to use for special wines.
Handing her one, Bel smiles. “Cheers. To parenthood. Have you ever been so glad to be childless in your life?”
I touch my glass to hers and smile back. “She’s looking more and more like you these days. Big blue-green eyes. The dimple.”
“The smile is pretty cute.”
“So are the giggles.” I settle on the sofa, intentionally pressing my leg to Bel’s, and sip the wine.
It’s good. Very good. Flavorful and juicy. Bel must agree, because her eyes roll to the back of her head as she sips.
“You and the fucking wine. I’m ruined for life. I can never go back to my cheap grocery store shit after this.”
The offer to send her home with a few cases of the good stuff is on the tip of my tongue. But that’s an unwelcome reminder she’s eventually going to leave.
I don’t want to think about that. So I don’t.
Instead, I invite her to Sunday supper tomorrow.
I’ve already shown Bel everything. The farmhouse. The way I touch her. The reasons I shouldn’t. What’s one more thing? Letting her leave is going to kill me, whether I invite her to Sunday supper or not. And I want to see her with my family.
I want my family to meet Maisie, too.
One perfect night, when our worlds and our families overlap. One night when I can pretend they’re all my family, the one I was born to and the one I created.
Bel's smile is a little shy. “I’d love to.”
“You can’t judge me for the things my siblings say. Or do. That’s my only condition.”
“Beau, I’ve been judging your siblings for the things they say for over fifteen years now, and I’ve stuck around. You have nothing to worry about.”
We talk and we flirt, and she even lets me finger her, teenager-in-a-back seat style, at the tail end of Maisie’s nap. We sing along to Aladdin (the animated version, we both agree the live-action one is garbage in comparison) and comment on George Clooney’s perfect salt-and-pepper look in Ocean’s Eleven.
I order dinner from the barn. Grits this time, the best in the South from Rodgers’ Farms on Wadmalaw Island in South Carolina. They’re topped with short ribs done in this pecan-bourbon sauce that is out of this world, with a side of collards and a dessert of homemade vanilla bean ice cream sandwiched between Bel’s favorite chocolate chip cookies.
We eat it on the couch like the sloths we are, Maisie watching us from her makeshift play mat on the floor.
I realize, halfway through my ice cream sandwich, that while I’m not feeling great, I am feeling much, much better than I had been earlier.
Having people around, not just around in the general sense, but around, in the house with me, helps.
