You're not my type... but in case I'm yours.
I huff out a small laugh. Whit just gave me her number.
“...Zach?”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head to bring myself back to the moment. “I'm here.”
I smile, reading the message again. Of course she'd write something like that. I fold the paper back up and slide it into my pocket.
“You good?” Dave asks.
“Yeah,” I say easily. “I’m good.”
He keeps talking about everything else I've got to do this week, but I'm only half paying attention now, my mind drifting to other things.
“...and if they push for more appearances together, we’ll want to be ready for that,” Dave says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “That makes sense.”
I hang up and slide my good hand back into my pocket. The folded paper is still there. So is my phone. One person reached out today. The wrong one.
I flex my fingers. The ache shoots up past my wrist. I make a fist anyway.
I’ve never loved someone this quickly before.
One look at him, and it’s over.
He’s perfect. Completely, painfully perfect. Mike’s button nose, Olivia’s bowed lips, and a little sparkle in his eyes that’s all his.
My fingertips brush over his wrinkled cheek carefully, content and overwhelmed all at once.
I love him. Instantly. Completely.
I don't dare move to sit down, too worried that if I even so much as flinch, I’ll wake baby Harris, and it took us an hour to get him to this point. So I just stay beside his crib, rocking himin my arms slowly as I try to ignore the collapsing stripe on the wall.
Iput that stripe there.
Four millimeters off, and it's going to be the first thing Harris clocks when he develops object permanence. He's going to know it was me, and I'm going to have to live with that for the rest of my life.
“You're thinking about the seam, aren't you?” Olivia asks from the couch.
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“I'm looking at your son.”
“You can do both.”
“Okay. Fine. Maybe.”
I shift Harris slightly, and he makes this cute stuffy nose sound as he stretches a little.
He’s perfect.
Did I mention that already?
“You can sit down you know?” She says, pulling her hair up into a bun. “He's not going to wake up.”
