Baby Makes Three

“The family stuff…” my voice trailed off, and I shook my head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t charge by the hour,” Aaron joked. “Is this about your sister?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Calista.”

I’ve tried to explain the strange dynamic between my sister and I before, and I was actually touched that Aaron remembered.

“She’s not doing too well. I don’t know if it’s drugs or alcohol or both, maybe. All I know is that I got a phone call a few days ago, telling me that my niece has nowhere to go if I don’t take her in.”

“Damn,” Aaron shook his head. “How’s the kid handling it?”

“She seems to be doing well,” I shrugged. “Better than she should be, considering the circumstances, I guess. But I don’t know, I guess I just feel in over my head. I’ve never really been around kids before.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron protested. “You’re great with Morgan.”

“That’s different,” I shrugged, and recalled the last time I had seen Aaron’s daughter, Morgan. “Spending a few minutes talking to a kid is a lot different than raising one.”

“You made quite an impression on Morgan,” Aaron said with a shrug. “She named one her Ken dolls after you.”

“Really?” I looked up, surprised. Aaron nodded.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly. “Fatherhood isn’t easy and things have been especially tough since everything that went down between Morgan’s mother and I.”

He was referring to his messy divorce from Morgan’s mother, a former supermodel whom Aaron had loved and adored, right up until he found her in bed with another man. The divorce had left Aaron cynical towards love, but had only strengthened his resolve to be a good father for Morgan. He talked about her all the time.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, “I always thought you’d be a good dad.”

“Why?” I ask, stunned.

“Just a hunch,” Aaron shrugged. “Some people seem like they’re cut out to be fathers and you always seemed like one of those guys to me.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I was surprised, maybe even partially flattered. But there was something about raising kids that also made me a bit nervous.

The idea of fatherhood has crossed my mind a few times, but after growing up and watching my family shatter, I never trusted myself to start a family. I didn’t like making promises that I couldn’t keep, and I felt like starting a family was the ultimate promise. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to make a promise that big.

“Maybe you’ll feel differently once you’ve met t

he right person.”

Immediately my mind went to Daisy. I remembered how stunning she looked the other night, her blonde hair in loose waves and her blue eyes reflecting the want that I felt for her. I remembered how she felt in my arms, how her lips tasted. I felt myself get hard just imagining how good her body would taste. I shifted around on the weight bench awkwardly.

Maybe I should have used more restraint that night. Maybe I should have held back, or kept things platonic between us. I was tempted by beautiful women on a daily basis, and I have no problem saying no. I don’t know what made Daisy Wright any different. I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my hands off of her. Why I felt so certain that I needed her. And I don’t know why watching her rush out of my apartment left me feeling so confused and conflicted.

All I knew is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since then.

I had to see her again.

8

DAISY

By the time Friday rolled around, I somehow rebranded Caleb’s dinner invitation as a ‘teacher meeting.’ You know, the sort of meeting that a concerned parent (or, in this case, emergency custodian) arranged with a sympathetic teacher (in this case, me) to discuss the academic future and developmental well-being of their precocious child (in this case, Emmy).

During my tenure at Bellamy Day, I have played the role of sympathetic teacher at plenty of these dinner meetings. I’ve listened compassionately as housewives fretted about their child’s pending admission to prep school. I’ve soothed absentee fathers who wondered why their kid had turned into a playground bully.

These meetings usually took place somewhere sterile and uninspired; over bento boxes on Lexington Avenue, or bodega sandwiches nibbled on a bench in Central Park. These ‘meetings’ definitely did not take place in a Michelin-star rated restaurant, and definitely not over a bottle of Jacques Selosse champagne that cost more than my monthly share of the rent payment back in Williamsburg.

As soon as I reached the doors of the NoMad Hotel to meet Caleb, all of my carefully crafted convictions of this being a strictly-business ‘meeting’ arranged to discuss Emmy’s well-being at Bellamy went straight out the window.