"You gonna be home tomorrow?"
"Do you want me to be?"
He laughs. "Hey, this is a two-man marriage. You do what you want to, Rayne. You don’t have to ask permission.”
"I want to stay with her,” I tell him. “I want it to be one of us at first. She's...so little. I want her to know who we are before we pull in someone else to watch her all day."
"I like that. I'll see if I can leave work after lunch tomorrow. Just a little juggling, and I might need to do a quick meeting at home around four."
"That would be good. What would we do?" I ask, smiling.
"Maybe we could go around the city. I don't know. I don't know what babies like." He sounds surprised to find this is true.
"Well, just ask her. She'll tell you. She's a chatty one, this little cupcake."
"We should take her out somewhere,” Sky says. “I don't know where. Somewhere that doesn't require getting out of the car much."
"Let's do it. And maybe we can set up a bedroom for her?"
“We could,” he says. “But I don’t want her in there yet. I think she should be in our room. Assuming we don't think a baby would remember..."
"Fucking?” I whisper in mock secrecy.
He laughs softly. "Yeah. That."
"We can do it when she's sleeping,” I say.
He laughs again, sounding embarrassed. "I guess so."
"Let's get a dinner nanny. Here's an idea: What if you go in to work, and I stay with her every morning. Start the day."
"I could go in later sometimes, too,” Sky says. “I could arrange for that. For at least this first year or so. I'm the boss.”
"Then every day around 1:30, I'll go in,” I go on. “Get there at 2, work till 5 or 6, like you. We come home, have dinner some nights—like maybe once or twice a week, the nanny stays till 7. Or like every Saturday night is date night."
"I like that,” Sky says.
"And anyway, we fuck at the church. Like...a lot."
That makes him snicker. "I think I need to designate a room for us."
We chat a little while longer and then Sky has to go. I think about how much more confident he sounded about things with us today as I start getting the baby dressed.
"You'll have more clothes soon,” I tell her, frowning at her white clothes. “I think this white is too boring for you. You need colors and excitement, don’t you?”
She blinks her pretty eyes.
"You do. But this will work for right now. I'll find you a blanket, maybe a pillow case or something? And we'll go out really quick. Is that okay? Does that sound like a plan?"
I change her diaper, feeling better when that's done, and then I set about wrapping her in a shirt of Luke's (so she can smell him), a pillow case (one of the thick, satiny ones), and a small blanket that was with her when she got here last night.
The thing looks like shit—not even soft—so I ordered a few more, but for right now, I feel like she should have a blanket.
"We're just making do, aren't we? Now it’s time for Daddy to get dressed. I’m gonna need a ball cap. If people see us out together, it’ll cause a scandal. Isn’t that weird?”
We go out and down the street. I’ve got a blanket draped over the baby carrying thing so no one can see my tiny companion, even though that feels a little sad to hide her away. As I cross onto a busier street, I feel like people are staring, but I tell myself they aren't. No one knows who I am.
If they read the story, they'll know. Everybody knows Luke’s house is right around the corner.
But I try to shake all that off. I wish I had one of those baby pouches people wear instead of this carrier thing. I stop on a street corner and peek inside, worried she’ll be upset at being strapped in, but she’s sleeping.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, mostly to myself. A couple blocks later and I’m at the burger joint. They’ve got this hut thing out front, so you can order right there on the sidewalk if you want pickup. I flex my forearm, squeezing the squishy rubber stuff on the handle of the carrier. Someone behind me whispers.
They’re not talking about you.
The guy in front of me steps over into the other line, having ordered his food, and the woman off to my right steps up. I thought I was in front of her, but whatever. It’s all good. There’s another woman with her—a redhead, maybe fifty?—and her eyes flicker to my face. Then she pulls her phone out…I guess texting? Her eyes boomerang to my face, and I look down at my shoes.
No one knows who you are, Vanny.