“It would be part-time anyway,” she says with a dismissive shake of her head. “And I need to get out there and interact with other human beings—with adults—or I’ll go crazy.”
“Or you can join, like, a mom group,” James suggests.
“What do you know about mom groups?” I ask him, an accusatory brow lifted in his direction
“Teeny joined one after she had Sadie,” he explains. “She liked it. Said it kept her busy and gave her a place to go every day during her long maternity leave.”
I eye him with a curious smile, and he winks at me. “I know things too,” he whispers.
“I’ve heard horror stories about those mom groups,” Sylvia tells us. “Like,Mean Girlslevel drama. I don’t need that shit.”
James pokes his chopsticks in Sylvia’s direction. “Language. You have a baby in the room.”
Tommy cackles, and I join him while Sylvia rolls her eyes through a smile she can’t seem to resist.
Katy’s bottle is now empty, and Sylvia shifts her from a supine position to her tummy laid over her chest. She starts patting at Katy’s back and an adorable little belch has us smiling fondly. I catch Sylvia eyeing her food as it grows cold right in front of her.
“I can take her,” I offer, and before she can refuse, I say, “Let me just go wash my hands.”
When I return, Sylvia is balancing her chopsticks between her fingers while attempting to keep them away from Katy’s reach.
“Here. Give her to me,” I offer with outstretched hands.
“You need to finish your food.”
“I’m done,” I insist. “You need to finish before your food gets cold…er.”
She smiles, gratitude evident in her sigh of relief. “Are you sure?”
I nod, and we start a gingerly played game of hot potato. Next thing I know, Katy’s in my arms, her wide eyes taking in her surroundings, and James’s attention has shifted from his own dinner to me. Me with a baby in my arms. I feel his hand wrap around the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally brushing at the nape of my neck. He tugs at the blanket so he can get a better look at her round face.
“Hi there,” he whispers.
She responds with the cutest little sneeze, and we both laugh.
We don’t say anything, but when we look at each other, I can see how bittersweet this moment is.
“You’re a natural.”
I smile at Sylvia with a suddenly intrinsic bounce in my hold. Something that feels intuitive. Maybe because I’ve seen mothers—in real life and on TV and movies—do a similar little up and down bobbing motion to soothe their babies. Or maybe it’s the simple act of holding a newborn brings this action out of me. Like ducking when there’s a loud noise or flinching when touching something hot.
“A natural,” I whisper to James, a gloating grin on my face.
We wash away the cocktail of mixed emotions, replacing it with something less tangy and more saccharine. Just as Katy’s lids fall heavy, and she drifts off right in my arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
James
NOW
I’ve never really noticedhow strategic waiting rooms could be. Who orders the magazines on what looks like a communal coffee table. If there was a reason the seats are a faux leather material instead of vinyl or polyester. Or whose job it was to pick the specific radio station that plays calming classical music over the speakers mounted in opposite corners of the room.
I’m tapping my thumb against the edge of the wooden clipboard in my hand. An intake form complete with my address, date of birth, and health insurance information. My knee is just as active as my thumb, bouncing from the heel of my foot. I’m the only one here, and I don’t know if that’s helpful. Maybe if there were someone there, I’d be a little distracted. Less focused on my anxiety and more focused on trying to keep my cool with a witness present.
“James Cohen?”
I look up.
