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“C’mon, Liam, let’s go change you,” Amelia says, holding out her hand. She glances at me over her shoulder. “You come too, Daddy.”
Good.
It’s good she’s here to stop that train of thought in its tracks.
Thoughts like that are why I’m in this pickle in the first place.
Speaking of pickles. I get up, squirming a little at the not-so-good feeling in my pants. I don’t care that Amelia called me daddy—not my kink—but I do care that I’m suddenly aware of her sweet, summery scent, and how it’s suddenly making the inside of my house feel like summer too, the air still and a little too warm and full of possibility.
Liam is still glued to the TV. Amelia carefully wraps her hand around his and starts walking toward the bedroom, where Beau suggested I set up a changing station. When Liam doesn’t budge, she gently tugs on his hand. “How about we go outside after we change you?”
That gets Liam’s attention. “Oss-ide?”
“That’s right.” Amelia smiles warmly at him. “I bet you like to play outside, don’t you?”
“Oss-ide,” he repeats, and by some miracle, he follows Amelia.
I turn off the TV and follow, lowering my voice when I say, “How?”
“How what?”
“How’d you get to him to listen?”
“Kids his age love going outside.” She looks down at him. “It’s kind of like a magic bullet—take them out there, let them run around and play, and everyone’s happy.”
“Noted.”
“Bonus points for the water table y’all bought. He’s going to love that.”
Liam is still wearing his shoes, a gray pair of scuffed-up sneakers, and I’m struck by the quick pitter-patter sound of his stride. Watching those little knees work, his hair flopping in time to his steps, my chest hurts.
He is really fucking cute.
The changing table is set up opposite my bed in the master. Despite it being the most expensive one I could find, it still required an obscene amount of time, patience, and beer to assemble. Beau’s presence—his silent judgment—was the only thing that kept me from totally losing my shit and abandoning the project altogether.
He and Annabel gifted me something that’s apparently called a diaper caddy, filled with diapers, wipes, and every kind of diaper cream ever manufactured. The caddy sits on the table beside the little changing pad thing Beau warned me needs a plastic cover, lest literal shit get on it and ruin the thing.
I’d laughed at the idea of baby shit then. But now that I’m faced with the very real possibility of the very real mess I’m about to make—where do I even begin?—I sway on my feet, feeling seasick.
The three of us look expectantly at the table, Amelia still holding Liam’s hand.
“You said you wanted to participate,” she says at last. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
I tug a hand through my hair, face burning. “It’s not that. I’ve never—this is embarrassing, but I don’t know how. To change a diaper, I mean. I’ve never done it before.”
“Really?” Amelia’s brows snap together. Liam makes a run for the door, but she reaches out and grabs his hand. “But you have a two-year-old niece. You’ve never—”
“No. I’m not proud of that fact. It’s just . . . I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”
“How Maisie’s a human being who pees and poops?” She looks at me like I have something stuck in my teeth: equal parts wonder and disgust.
A look I absolutely deserve.
“How do you not know how to do this?” she continues. “You’re one of five children. You have, like, thirty-eight first cousins.”
“Um.” I scratch the back of my head, the heat in my face becoming acute. “Toxic masculinity? An unhealthy sense of entitlement? General laziness?”
The furrow in her brow deepens. “Down with the patriarchy.”
“Amen.”
“I’m serious,” she says, and my blood jumps at the flicker of passion in her eyes.
“I’m serious too.” I unbutton my cuffs and start rolling up my sleeves. “Patience, remember?”
“I do, yes.”
“I have no excuse, and I’m sorry. But I want to change that—I want to participate—so from now on, things will be different. I’ll be different. Teach me, please. You know I’m a fast learner.”
If she picks up on the innuendo I’m laying down, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she looks at me for a long beat. Maybe I’m imagining it—definitely imagining it, we’re in the middle of a diaper change, for crying out loud—but something in her eyes changes. Gets softer.
Hotter.
But then she looks away and scoops Liam into her arms, giving his side a tickle and making him laugh. She sets him down on the changing pad.
“Grab a diaper,” she says, opening the plastic top of a packet of wipes. “A lot of kids his age don’t like getting changed. If he starts wiggling around, just do your best to keep him contained.”
“You make it sound like we’re dealing with a nuclear disaster.”
