Page 7 of His Holy Chaos

Dave's voice again, from last night: "This kid is suffering. It's obvious. And it's been so long."

He's right. Under all that bravado, Jude looked like he just needed someone to hold him and tell him it was alright. My Daddy instincts started screaming, but I shook my head then, and I shake my head now. There's no way in heaven or hell that this would work.

I try to think of something else but the thought of him seems to linger. Dave definitely owes me one for putting me in this situation.

"Ridiculous," I mutter aloud.

Angel gurgles in response, her tiny hands batting at the air. I secure her sleeper, lifting her back into my arms. We return to the recliner, where I rock her gently, watching as her eyelids grow heavy. But as her breathing deepens toward sleep, my thoughts betray me again.

He was good at banter, and he loved every second of every word I said. I could see what Dave meant. He gave his complete attention to the conversation, even if we were strangers; he looked at me with those penetrating eyes, as if I were the only person that ever mattered to him. He laughed, nodded, getting drunk on my words. It reinforced me more than anything could. And he didn’t seem to be doing that in a manipulative or fake way; hell, maybe he couldn’t even be manipulative or fake at that time, as he was so drunk. It seemed that was truly Jude, completely unarmored.

The word flashes in my head again: devotion.

Jude's voice echoes in my memory. Boring Dom. Maybe not even a Dom.

I shift in the chair, annoyed. Brats know how to make my blood boil. Angel stirs slightly, and I force myself to relax, to focus on her again. I don’t even know what all this fuss is about. I won’t even see him again.

But who am I fooling? I want to see him again, there’s no denying.

The doorbell chimes at 6:00 AM. My mother. I ease Angel into her bassinet beside the couch and move to the door.

"You don’t need to come so early, Mom," I say, opening the door. I told her that many, many times, but she insisted.

“Nonsense,” she says, getting in the house. She’s a tiny chubby woman. Her brown hair is lighter than mine, but exactly the same as Angel’s. She’s our world. I don’t know how I’d have survived Sarah’s death without her.

"Angel is just drifting back to sleep," I inform her, closing the door with a soft click. "She took her full bottle."

She bends over Angel without touching her but with the biggest smile. I think no one loves Angel more than her, and that’s saying something as the amount of love I have for Angel is infinite.

"She's getting Sarah's chin," she says without looking at me. "Strong. Determined."

I nod, because that’s too much for me to bear now, so I just ignore it. I go to the kitchen to prepare coffee. She follows me and starts tidying up the house, even though the housekeeper is about to come at 8am. "The pediatrician says she's advanced for her age. Her grip strength especially," I casually comment.

My mother straightens. "She's thriving, son. You're doing so well with her." A pause, then the inevitable: "But you deserve more, you know. And so does Angel. It does you no good to be alone all the time."

I pour water into the coffee maker, focusing on the task rather than her words. "We have everything we need. The nannies are excellent and you're here every morning. I’m not alone. I have you. And her."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it." She moves to the fridge, opening it and arranging an old almond croissant on a plate for me. "Children need warmth, Ford. A house full of voices, of laughter."

"Angel laughs frequently," I counter, retrieving mugs from the cabinet.

My mother sighs, the sound that screams how much of a disappointment I am, a sound I’ve heard many times in my life, unfortunately. The coffee maker beeps, and I fill our mugs, grateful for the momentary distraction. "My life is precisely as I want it. Structured. Predictable. Safe."

I hear Jude’s words in my head. Boring.

"Is it really what you want?" She accepts the coffee, adding one teaspoon of sugar. "Or is it what you've convinced yourself to accept because it's easier than being vulnerable?"

Oh, wow. Mom, it’s not even seven am.

We eat quietly after that. She always knows how to touch my insecurities. Of course she does, she’s the one who put them there: I’m just like her.

The doorbell chimes again, 7:00 AM. The day nanny, Marianne, always punctual. After she leaves in the afternoon, the afternoon nanny comes, Theretha. And finally, the night shift belongs to Rose, but she’s only here when I can’t sleep at home. All of them incredible.

"That's Marianne," I say, using the interruption as escape. "I need to get ready for choir practice."

My mother touches my arm as I pass. "Think about what I said, Ford. I only say that because I love you more than anything. I’m tired of seeing you so alone."

I greet Marianne with relief, providing her with the usual detailed instructions for Angel's day while gathering my things to leave. She’s a young woman, in her thirties, with straight brown hair, always neatly arranged in a bun.