Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“I’m going to stick the food back in the oven. You get her out of the onesie and take the dirty nappy off. I’ll show you how to put a fresh one on when I get back.”

“Wait. What?” He looked horrified by her demand, and Libby savored that look for a moment before grinning—she knew there was probably a hint of evil in her expression—and leaving him to it.

Maybe it was cruel, but she’d had to learn a lot of this stuff on her own. It would do him good to at least try.

“But she’s crying.” His voice floated from the room behind her, and she bit back a chuckle.

“Babies do that. Parents don’t get to hand them over when they start crying,” she tossed back at him over her shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but will she?” he called back, his voice escalating. He sounded terrified. It was the first time in all the years she’d known Greyson that he’d ever raised his voice above normal speaking range.

“You won’t break her, Greyson.” God, she hoped not.

She kept a close ear on proceedings as she deliberately lingered over putting the food in the oven. She heard him frantically trying to shush Clara, then utter a swift, heartfelt prayer. She waited a few moments, and then . . .

“Oh my God. Oh fuck. Sweet Jesus, what the fuck did you eat, baby girl?”

Libby heard him retch, and she covered her mouth with her hand as she fought back her laughter.

“Olivia! I think she’s sick. Christ, this can’t be normal.”

Libby took a deep breath, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as she strove to keep her laughter under control. Another deep breath, and she threw back her shoulders and walked into the room, where Greyson was still gagging and holding a soiled nappy at arm’s length. Clara was no longer crying; she was staring up at Greyson—her toes in her hands—chortling at his antics.

Compressing her lips and biting back her giggles, Libby reached for a disposal bag and held it open for him.

“Put it in here,” she instructed him. He dropped it as if it were toxic waste, and Libby knotted the bag quickly before handing him the wipes. He took them from her, then looked down at Clara, back at the wipes, and at Libby. He did that a few times before shaking his head.

“I don’t know what you want me to do with these,” he said, sounding confused and a little helpless.

“You can’t just put a new nappy on that stinky butt. You need to clean it.”

He blanched. His eyes dropped to Clara’s naked tush and then back up to Libby’s gaze.

“Oh man, that’s not right.” He looked like he was about to retch again. “Don’t I get gloves or something for this job?”

He was so unintentionally entertaining that Libby wished she were filming this.

“Stop being such a drama queen, it’s just poop.”

“She’s not even on solid foods yet. How could this come from just milk? Maybe it’s something you ate? Are you sure she’s not sick?”

“You’re stalling, Greyson. That bum’s not going to wipe itself.” She probably shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she was, but seriously, it was cute and hilarious.

He swallowed, and looking like a man approaching the guillotine, he pulled a fistful of baby wipes from the packet and approached Clara cautiously. His arm was outstretched as if he were wielding a crucifix instead of mere wipes.

He was thwarted by Clara’s flailing little legs.

“Grab her feet with your free hand and hold them up and out of the way.”

He did as he was told and closed his eyes before wiping in the general vicinity of the mess.

“You’re not watching what you’re doing.”

“It’s seriously gross,” he said, his voice back to its usual quiet tones but filled with revulsion.

“Uh-huh,” Libby agreed unsympathetically. Clara, not happy with being restrained, was starting to pout, her lower lip trembling and her eyes filling.

Greyson sighed, his face softening as he stared down into Clara’s sad face.

“Okay, stinky butt, no need to cry,” he murmured gently. “I’ll get you cleaned up in no time.”

He was still tentative about it, but faced with the threat of tears, he did a pretty decent job. By the time he had put on the fresh nappy, after several failed attempts, he was flushed and grinning like an all-powerful conquering hero.

“That’s not bad for my first attempt, right?” he asked, seeking praise.

“Fourth attempt,” Libby corrected him, pointing to the pile of discarded nappies.

“Third,” he bargained. “That second-to-last try doesn’t count, since she peed while I was putting it on.”

“Hungry?” Libby asked him, and he wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t know, I still have that awful stench stuck up my nostrils. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat again,” he said. They both looked down at their freshly powdered, primped, and preened daughter. She was watching them in that serious, thoughtful baby way and sucking at her fist.