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My eyes open upon the captain announcing our descent, five hours later. Jesus Christ, the exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks. My body aches all over, and even when I stretch my arms above my head, I can’t remove the stiff neck or painful lower back that irritates me.
It’s very early in the morning, the sun only just rising behind the mountains. I haven’t even thought of a plan. I’m running low on diapers and formula. Katerina needs feeding and a bath. Fuck, I’ve forgotten how often Em said I should bathe her.
Flynn texted me the address of Phoebe, Milana’s best friend, suggesting I visit her first. If anyone knows Milana, it’s her.
A driver is waiting on the tarmac, and as soon as we’re cleared for exiting, I make my way to the car and direct him to the nearest open drugstore.
“Yes, sir. It’s about five miles from here.”
I had no idea babies could sleep for long stretches, but remember Em’s advice, “You need to feed her every four hours, even if she’s sleeping.”
I whip out the bottle, carefully measuring the formula while sitting in the back of the car. The water is reasonably warm, this black insulated bag that houses her bottles is a godsend.
I’m desperate to get to Phoebe’s house, but know that Katerina needs feeding and she’s my priority. Pulling her out of her carrier, she squirms with an odd expression, then lets out a long-winded fart which sounds airy and runny.
Fuck. Here we go again.
I swear, this kid shits like twenty-four-seven. As soon as she’s done, the last diaper comes out, and I’m changing this gross yellow shit that looks revolting. The bile in my throat rises, and I’m dry heaving trying to clean her up. Goddammit, it’s so fucking difficult. What do I know about cleaning girlie parts?
Fuck, I swear, this is not as easy as Em makes it out to be.
To make it all the worse, it’s gotten onto her onesie.
I changed her outfit, taking a good ten minutes to figure out what button goes where, my frustration mounting as her cries sound louder. Finally, I’m done and shove the bottle in her mouth, welcoming the silence.
After a full feed, burp, then burp again, she’s settled.
It fucking wasted an hour.
I ask the driver to mind her while I quickly duck inside the drugstore. The as
sistant who’s young and notices who I am, offers some advice on different brands. There’s no time for this bullshit, so I purchase what she recommends only to be asked for a selfie. I decline, telling her it’s for personal reasons. My biggest worry is the paparazzi tracking me down right now.
I don’t want anyone scaring Milana away, and the paps are ruthless disgusting pigs.
She appears embarrassed, cheeks flushing red and barely making eye contact after that. And unlike my normal behavior, I pull her into a hug, kiss her cheek, and say, “Thank you.”
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks, opening the door for me.
I read out the address that Flynn texted me.
“And quick, please.”
***
“You must be Phoebe.”
Her face tightens, arms folded with an irritated stance as she blocks the doorway. Milana never described her. Quite ordinary with ginger-colored hair and bright green eyes. Much like Milana, there is an innocence about her. I bet the woman has never been laid. She has that prissy, uptight look about her. The pajamas she’s wearing have unicorns all over them, it’s a dead giveaway.
“Yes. And you must be the douche who knocked up my best friend.”
“Kinda harsh, considering it takes two to tango?” I smirk, not appreciating the label.
“Yeah, it also takes two to parent—”
Quick to intercept, I grit, “If you know you have a kid.”
“Oh… c’mon, Wesley,” she drags, raising her voice, with a matching cold stare. “You would have told her to abort the baby. She doesn’t fit into your lifestyle.” She uses air quotes around the word lifestyle.
