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Surely that’s what this is, a gas bubble stuck in her teeny torso, and without the ability to understand the mechanics and whys of it, she’s traumatized.
Ironically, I don’t think she’s the only one. Maria’s face as she jumped out of bed, putting a pause button on our unexpected but well-appreciated activities, didn’t tell a story of a woman who was confident in her understanding of what was happening between us.
And I can’t say I blame her. Because I don’t really understand it myself. One minute, we were falling into bed with exhaustion, and the next, we were…not exhausted.
My dick, in fact, was all in prior to the distraction that came from the cries of this little girl. Thankfully, he’s old enough to understand that sometimes personal responsibility comes before pleasure. Although, the rest of the feelings and sensations in this situation are a little too complicated for him. Meaning? Fallout? Far past his pay grade.
And my brain, well, for the past decade and a half, it’s just as inexperienced with anything other than short-lived flings.
Izzy takes a big gulp of air before letting out another sob, and I pat at her back continuously. I hate watching her little face in pain when she can’t understand why.
I can hear Maria scrambling around in the kitchen with every bang and smash of the cabinets, and it makes me smile. She’s frantic—just like any mother would be.
She’s a mom.
She might feel strange calling herself that, but I’ve never seen someone with more unconditional love in their heart. Maria is a mother to Izzy, no matter the details of how that came to be.
As Izzy squirms, I lay her down on the ottoman of the rocking chair in her room and churn her legs toward her chest in an effort to find some sort of relief for her hurt. A trick my mom showed me when Lexi was about this age.
She fights the motion, but with every bicycle turn of her legs, her shouts ease a bit. In a sudden snap, Izzy releases a burp and two little baby toots in a row, and straightaway, all the pain in her features flees.
She’s crying still, disturbed by the whole experience, but she’s not in actual discomfort anymore.
Maria rushes back into the room with her bottle, and I scoop Izzy up and into my arms so that I can take a seat in the rocker.
I take the bottle from Maria, but not before catching her hand in mine and rubbing the back of it with my thumb. “She’s good now. Just a whole lot of gas trapped inside.”
“How did you know that’s what it was?”
“Happens to Jude every time he eats broccoli,” I tease, and Maria laughs softly.
“I actually knew from my niece,” I explain the real truth of my knowledge, while giving Izzy her bottle. She drinks eagerly as I offer the nipple at her lips, and the room settles into blessed silence. “When Lexi was around Izzy’s age, Winnie called me in the middle of the night at a complete loss over what to do with a baby who wouldn’t stop crying. Being a single guy with no kids, hell if I knew what to do either. But Wendy Winslow saved the day after getting dragged out of bed to come help. I swear, it only took her two minutes before she had it handled.”
“I’ve always thought your mom was a superhero for being able to raise all five of you by herself. Marvel should consider adding her to the lineup.”
“She did manage to keep Jude and Ty alive.” I raise my eyebrows in amusement. “A near-impossible feat, if you ask me.”
“Yeah.” Maria snorts, but her eyes are back to being fixated on Izzy. “I remember the crazy things they’d attempt back in the day. Absolute daredevils. It was terrifying.”
She’s not joking. Both Jude and Ty took many a trip to the ER for the consequences of their wild actions. Between the two of them, they’ve probably broken every damn bone in the human body.
Silence stretches between us, and the only sounds filling the room are Izzy’s little breaths between pulls of formula. Maria is still standing beside us, only now, her hands appear to be working an invisible weave in front of her.
She’s uncertain. Nervous. And I have a feeling it has everything to do with the moments leading up to Izzy’s late-night cries for help.
She fidgets with the material of her robe with her fingers, and I don’t know what it is about seeing her like this, but I can’t help myself. I have to break the tension.
“So…that was one way to end a…uh…make-out session, huh?”
Maria guffaws on a startle, her hand jumping to her mouth at the completely unladylike but cute-as-hell noise. “Uh…yeah… It was an interesting end to the…uh…make-out session.”
