More Than Need You (More Than Words 2)

capture sunshine and bend rainbows if he thought it would make you happy.”

Keeley doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “One thing I do know? I don’t belong here. Mom and Phil plan to do Mardi Gras in New Orleans at the end of the month. They invited me to come along, but I feel like a third wheel who sits around with a long face and occasionally mooches food.”

“I doubt you’re that sad.” I scoff. “I have an idea. Come home and get your things out of storage. You’re supposed to sing at Gus’s hole-in-the-wall on Sunday night, right?” When she gives me an affirmative murmur, I go on. “So come crash at my place. See Maxon and hear what he has to say. Sing on Sunday. If you still want to leave come Monday, then I’ll get you another plane ticket to Phoenix—or wherever. But at least you’ll have your stuff and some closure.”

“When did you get so smart, Mr. Reed?”

“Well, a few years ago, I met a really cool chick who was answering the phones for this worthless therapist who was supposed to be helping me sort through my personal issues…”

She laughs. “Well, that girl was in need of a good friend, too. I just don’t know why you had to have a hot brother she’d fall for?”

“Maybe…you were meant to be, like, my sister, huh?” I suggest. When she tries to poo-poo that, I lay out the truth. “Without you, Maxon and I wouldn’t be speaking. I’d have no chance at all of winning over Britta or my son. I mean, it’s still slim, but it’s more than I had. Thank you for helping me figure out how to be happy again. Maybe it’s time for me to help you.”

“You’re entirely too silver-tongued, Griffin Reed. All right.” She sighs. “I’ll come home and see how I feel after the weekend.”

Gotcha. I’ve heard Maxon’s plan, so I know that by Monday, she’s going to be so thrilled the last thing she’ll ever want to do is leave.

I smile as we ring off, then answer some emails from my phone. About midnight, I’m winding down and ready to find my pillow when I hear screaming.

I rush down the hall and fumble in the dark, stumbling into Jamie’s bedroom. The boyish space is illuminated by one low-glowing nightlight. I spot the little guy wearing a furious expression, fists clenched, in the middle of his room.

Apparently, he climbed out of his crib. He’s big enough, so I’m not surprised.

I drop to my knees in front of him and hold out my arms. He backs away and shakes his head. It’s like a dagger in my heart. But I’m pretty much a stranger, and he’s a little kid. I need to remember that.

“Hey, buddy.” I try to soothe him in a soft voice. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Mama…” Tears stream down his face.

“She’s sick. I’m here. What happened?”

He points at the crib and begins crying in earnest again, then picks up a stuffed animal at his feet. He flails his arms angrily, and the bear flops above his head, then swings against his leg a few times before I pluck it away.

“Let’s not hurt the bear. Come here, big guy. Let’s talk this out.”

This time, I manage to pull him into my lap and hold him. I try to convey calm and give him a sense of security. But I’m fully aware that I know nothing about easing a toddler’s imaginary fears.

Across the room, I spot a rocking chair of some sort and lift Jamie, settling him against my chest as I sink in and glide in gentle strokes. It doesn’t take long before he sticks his thumb in his mouth, then lays his head on my shoulder and drifts off.

I’m in his dark room, cleverly decorated in blues and woodsy accents, and I’m surrounded by his toys, his scent, his presence. He’s done nothing but go to sleep, as small children do. Yet it’s a profound moment.

I really am a father. This boy is my son. And what’s happened between us is a small, fragile start. But it means everything to me to feel his heart beating against me, have his deep breaths heat my neck, to know he trusts me enough to simply relax in my arms.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever imagined. I’ve spent thirty ridiculously self-absorbed years on this planet being angry at my father for being an unfeeling asshole and my mother for being the sort willing to sell her kid out for a modicum of power. I took for granted my brother, my woman. I plowed through so much pussy and threw away phone numbers the next morning without even remembering their names or caring about the time I spent with them. I’ve done too many things I’m not proud of.

But in this moment, I’m overjoyed because somehow, somewhere along the way, I did this one thing right. If I’ve contributed nothing to society except Jamie, then at least I gave my best.

Now that he’s good and asleep, I should set him in his crib and leave him in peace. But I don’t want to let go. Just another minute.

Silence seeps around me, broken only by the sounds of my son inhaling and exhaling. He’s limp weight in my arms. I’m not doing anything exceptional except holding him.

Yet it’s so moving I feel tears sting my eyes.

I see the fork in my road in front of me so clearly. Down one path lies more of this—moments with my son, with Britta, growing our love, expanding our family. Down the other…well, I know that road. More emptiness. More nameless hookups. More wondering what the hell the meaning of life is.

Fuck no. I’m going to fight with everything I’ve got to hold on to this family that’s mine. It may get ugly and dirty before I’m through, but I will do whatever it takes to claim and care for them.

I lay my son to sleep in his crib with his stuffed animal, a light blanket, and a kiss on his cheek.

I seek my own bed but barely manage to sleep. Too much is swirling through my head.

I jolt out of bed at seven, make coffee, then check on Jamie to find him stretching sleepily. I’m not sure what his morning routine is, but I’ll figure it out.

For the first time, he comes to me right away. And when I lift him up, the first order of business is obvious. Jamie’s diaper is sloshy and wet.

“Okay, big boy. Let’s do this together.”

I’m damn glad I have my phone handy. YouTube is totally my friend, and within thirty seconds, I’m pulling up a video for men about changing a diaper. I would feel stupid…but nearly two hundred thousand other guys have watched this clip, so I’m clearly not the only lost sap.

After that, I dress him in clean clothes, make a few eggs—and coffee for me—then I set him down to a cartoon and some toys. I’m struck by one vital question: how does Britta take a shower in peace with a toddler roaming the house who’s able to open doors, climb furniture, and maybe even start fires?

Suddenly, Britta rushes into the family room in her oversized T-shirt with her hair in what was once a haphazard ponytail. She looks like hell warmed over, but she looks better than she did last night.

“Morning, angel.” I sip coffee.

Her stare volleys between Jamie and me in question. “Everything’s all right?”

“Perfect. I just need a shower. Um…how do you watch him while you get cleaned up? Take him in the bathroom with you or…? I’d suggest a playpen, but he climbed out of his crib last night—”

“Again?” She winces, then sighs. “He started doing that last week. Rascal. Any nightmares?”

“One. I handled it.”

She glances at him, all ready for daycare. To say she looks surprised is an understatement. “Thanks.”

“As soon as we drop him off, I’m taking you to the urgent care clinic.”

“No need. I’m fine,” she says, then almost instantly doubles over in a coughing fit.

“Obviously, you’re not.” I want to wrap my arms around her, but I’m trying to respect her personal space while she feels crappy. “They open in ten minutes, so start getting ready.”

Britta wants to dig in her heels but doesn’t have the energy. While she’s throwing on some clothes, she keeps one eye on Jamie so I can call Maxon to tell him what’s up and grab a shower. Twenty minutes later, we’re all heading out the door. Jamie goes happily to school, and Britta is grumpy a

ll the way to the doctor’s office.

I smile. I probably have no reason to be this chipper. I barely slept. But I’m at peace. If I play this right, today could be the first day of the rest of our lives. It’s different. It’s hectic. It’s not perfect. None of that matters. I’m with the people who matter to me.

“What’s this?” Britta asks as she plucks up the CD case I left in her car last night when I drove to get her food. I meant to listen to another track but I was enjoying my time with Jamie too much to let anything, even well-intended music, bring me down.