“Okay, buddy,” he said to Atlas, who looked up with eyes that were so much like Carly’s it kind of took his breath away.
What would she say to this decision? They hadn’t had time to talk about daycare. They hadn’t had time to be parents together. They hadn’t had any time at all.
Shoving that unwanted pain away, he grinned at his little boy, who somehow had become his whole world.
“Here’s the deal, boyo. We’re going into this chill place where there are nice ladies who are going to take care of you for a few hours while Daddy goes to the most important meeting of his life. You’re going to be charming and cooperative and not scream at anyone, just like we discussed. Any questions?”
Atlas blew a bubble and giggled.
“Good. Let’s roll, Atlas Lawson.”
Inside, a cheerful woman named Brenda checked them in, cooed over Atlas, and slapped a name label right over the sailboat on his tiny chest—ATLAS L., written in purple marker on a white sticker.
“Now we can’t possibly lose you, young man!” Brenda promised.
Lose him?Was that even a remote possibility?
“Let’s take him into our infant room.” She gestured for Jonah to follow. “Leave your bag in the cubby that corresponds to his number, and know that no one else can check him out without a phone call and written notification, and be sure his diapers are readily available on top, and…”
He didn’t hear the rest. He was stuck at the cubby that corresponded to…what number?
How was Atlas going to figure out the rules when Jonah couldn’t?
Eventually, they made it to the infant room, which smelled like baby wipes and Vaseline. There were five other babies in various states of consciousness—two sleeping, one crying, two staring at a mobile. The staff ratio looked thin. One woman was changing a diaper while simultaneously rocking the crier in a bouncer with her foot.
“This is Nora, the head of the infant room.”
“That sounds like a lofty title,” Jonah said, smiling at the woman. “This is Atlas, your newest?—”
“Best to put him right in that crib,” Nora said, tipping her head toward the last little jailhouse on the end.
Jonah’s heart dropped. His son would be one of six babies being managed by two women who didn’t know that Atlas hated having his left ear touched, or that he liked to be held upright after eating, or that he really couldn’t fall asleep unless someone sang “You Are My Sunshine” and the lyrics didn’t matter, just the melody.
He walked to the crib, seeing the vast emptiness and a sheet that was once white but was now the color of…parking lot cement. And looked about as comfortable. “He likes an elephant?—”
“No stuffed animals in the cribs,” Nora said. “Safety hazard.”
“Say bye-bye to Daddy,” Brenda said brightly, reaching to take Atlas from his arms. “It’s better if you go quickly, dear.”
Atlas looked at Jonah. Then at Brenda. Then back at Jonah. His face crumpled in slow motion—a sequence Jonah knew by heart—the chin wobble, the lip quiver, the eyes filling, and then the sound.
Not the angry scream from Broussard’s classroom. Not the frustrated cry of a baby who wanted attention. This was the confused, reaching-back-for-Daddy cry. The one that asked:Why are you leaving me? Where are you going? Come back. Come back.
Atlas’s arms stretched toward him, fingers opening and closing on empty air, and every cell in Jonah’s body screamed at him to take his son back.
“He’ll settle,” Brenda assured him with the practiced confidence of someone who said this forty times a week. “First days are always rough. Go on, Dad. He’ll be fine.”
Jonah walked out. He made it to the Honda, sat in the driver’s seat, and put his hands on the wheel.
He did not start the car. He sat there for six minutes—he counted—listening to the silence that Atlas’s crying had left behind.
He wasn’t failing his child. He was securing both of their futures.
Driftwood saton Harbor Road in a converted boathouse that had been stripped down and rebuilt with the kind of precision Jonah recognized from watching his father work. Clean lines, natural wood, big windows facing the harbor.
Although it was closed until four, the front door was open, and Jonah walked into the dim lobby with benches for waiting patrons and a sleek hostess stand. He poked his head into the dining room, instantly noting that the kitchen was visible through a pass—stainless steel, immaculate, tight.
A young man sat at one of the tables in chef’s whites, papers strewn around, a few menus next to him. He looked up and met Jonah’s gaze.
