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He’s out of breath, panicked, and his hair wildly messy. I haven’t seen him for months, and the last time we spoke, he told me not to ask about her. He was pissed at me, and the small piece of information he did tell me was that she’s doing really well and traveling through Europe.
I know he’s hit it big, signed up by Platinum Records and currently world-touring. Hollywood agents were desperate to sign him up. Flynn Beats—his new stage name—is killing it in his career.
“You need to clean your shit up,” he barks.
I’m stunned at his forwardness, yet confused by my ‘shit’ needing to be cleaned up.
“What are you talking about?”
He bends down, reaching behind the duffel bag, and lifts a dark carrier by the handle. I stare, close my eyes, then open them again to finally figure out it’s a baby carrier.
“She’s yours.”
There’s a baby inside. Small, wrinkly, and wrapped in a white blanket. The baby looks like some alien from outer space.
What the hell did
he just say to me?
“She’s yours.”
“She’s yours.”
“She’s yours.”
“Dude, are you fucking listening to me?”
Inside, my brain is a mess and refusing to compute the information. Closing my eyes, momentarily, I try to slowly process this information and ignore the heat trapped underneath my robe, causing me to hyperventilate.
There’s a baby—yes.
And Flynn is telling me it’s mine.
Not possible.
“I said, are you listening to me?” Flynn repeats, harshly.
“I’m listening,” I yell back. “But what the hell do you mean she’s mine?”
“Yours.” Flynn lowers his gaze toward the baby, quiet and non-responsive. Moments later, through a thickening voice, he explains, “Milly gave birth three weeks ago. The baby came early or something. I thought she was doing okay, but she’s just ran off. Came to visit me yesterday. It’s because Mom’s not doing the best, and it’s all fucked up.” He begins to sob, panicked and gasping for air. Watching a grown man brought to tears is enough to hold my attention, but I don’t know how to comfort him.
“If I don’t show up for Coachella today, I’m fucked. I can’t take care of this baby.”
It’s like someone switched on the information overload. My mind can’t keep up, spitting out random questions in order to piece together this fucked-up puzzle.
“What? What do you mean Milana is gone?”
“Gone. Exactly that. She wrote me a letter…” He grabs a scrunched-up paper from his pocket but doesn’t read it out loud. “Take care of her, please. I can’t cope… my sister… my mom… I don’t know how to take care of a baby.” He pushes the carrier into my chest, and with quick thinking, I grab onto the handle before he lets go. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just take her, I need to go. I’ll be back tonight, and we can talk more.”
I stare down at the baby again. My stomach is churning from the sheer panic of taking care of this baby that’s supposedly mine.
As he begins to walk away toward his car, I shout anxiously, “You can’t leave her with me!”
Flynn stops in his tracks, turning around to face me. “She’s your daughter, Wesley, not mine. There’s no greater love than that from your own father, trust me, I know. So, if you want to do something right for once, take her, now, when she needs you the most.”
He turns back, only for me to yell at him one more time. “Wait, what’s her name?”
