“How do you…are you a friend of Naomi’s or something?” she asks as she takes a hesitant step in my direction. She pauses, not coming close enough to grab the cash.
“Not exactly,” I mutter. “You the babysitter?”
She eyes me up and down and then looks back toward the house. “Oh! I bet you’re Honey’s daddy!”
“The baby’s name is Honey?” I ask in surprise.
“Answer my question, and then I’ll answer yours,” she huffs.
“Fine. Maybe I’m her dad,” I tell her.
“Gotta be more than a maybe if you’re hanging around stalking her from the shadows.”
“So her name is Honey?” I ask again, ignoring her observation.
“Yes.”
Is it a coincidence that Naomi named her after the nickname I always called her? I highly doubt it. Does that mean she’s forgiven me for getting her pregnant and putting her through a hellish labor? The last I heard at the hospital, she hated me and wanted me dead.
“What’s her last name?” I inquire. I go over to pick up the bag of trash to take it the rest of the way to the can at the end of the sidewalk. Before grabbing it, I toss the cash in my hand down on the closest step. And holy hell, the garbage smells like something horrible rotted to death inside.
“Huh?” the girl asks in confusion.
“What’s the baby’s last name?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Dawson, like Naomi’s,” she responds. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say when I turn to leave with the abomination in a bag. The words have barely left my mouth before I hear the snap of a camera. Looking back over my shoulder, I find the girl with her phone raised in front of her face and then it snaps again.
“I bet Naomi will recognize you. I’ll just send it to her at work…”
“Don’t!” I exclaim.
“Why not?” she asks with her eyebrow lifted in question.
“Because…I need to talk to her first,” I hedge.
“Are you going to talk to her right now?”
“Yeah, fine. I’ll go right now,” I say, giving in to a teenage girl’s demands because I’ve waited around long enough. It’s time to man up and set shit right, even if it’s going to be an uphill battle, and even if it means finally letting go of my pride.
Naomi
* * *
“Can I get y’all anything else?” I ask my last table, four high school or college kids who finished eating an hour ago but have stuck around talking and laughing.
Oh, to be young again. I get it, I do, but my feet hurt, and I really want to get home to my baby girl. If I hurry, I may get to see her before she goes down for the night. Not that she’ll sleep for more than three hours, but still. I was supposed to be on the nightshift, but Nancy is giving me shorter hours during the day because of all the late-night feedings.
“Nah, we’re good,” one of the guys at the table says.
While I wait them out, I go back behind the counter to start filling up ketchup bottles until I get to leave. Only, as soon as the kids stand up to go, another customer comes in – one with wavy, shoulder-length brown hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket.
Fucking great.
It only takes Malcolm a minute to spot me, and then he’s coming over, climbing up on one of the stools at the counter.
The sight of him sends butterflies soaring around my belly despite the fact that he’s a complete and total asshole who doesn’t deserve to look so good.
Clearing my throat and taking a deep breath to try and slow down my racing heart that’s also doing somersaults in my chest, I keep my eyes focused on the ketchup bottles when I tell him as calmly as possible, “I don’t know what you’re doing here; but I need this job, so you and your foul temper need to leave.”
My words may have sounded calm, but my hands are shaking so badly I have to put the ketchup bottle down before I drop it. How long has it been since I’ve seen Malcolm? Eight or nine months now? It’s been almost a year, and yet just the sight of him still gets under my skin worse than I thought possible. Time made me forget just how handsome he is. I could’ve done without that unnecessary reminder.
My pulse pounds in my ears so loudly, I’m not sure I could hear Malcolm over it even if he did speak, but he doesn’t. The entire time I avoid looking at him but can feel his eyes on me, burning me up as he drinks me in.
Finally, after what feels like years, his deep, rumbly smoker’s voice says, “You never told me what the money was for.”
And that voice…so demanding and rough, somehow hits me the hardest right between the legs. Then, his words sink in, and I go from hot and horny to annoyed in a second flat. Why is it always about money with this grumpy bastard?
Not a hi, how are you, good to see you, you’re looking tired and exhausted. Nope. He gets straight to what’s most important in his mind – money.
Sighing, I ask, “Could you maybe be more specific? What money are you talking about, Malcolm?”
“The money you owed your father and tried to steal from me.”
Oh, that money. The money that cost me my self-respect, my dignity, my heart…
“What does it matter now?” I ask in confusion.
“It just does. Tell me,” he demands, still as bossy as before.
“Fine,” I huff. “I needed it to buy my grandparents’ house after my Gram died.”
“That shithole you currently live in?” he grunts his disapproval.
“It’s not a shit – wait, why am I even wasting my breath discussing this with you?” I ask in outrage. “It’s none of your business where I live!”
“Just answer the fucking question,” Malcolm mutters, still as impatient and foul-mouthed as ever.
“Yes, the house I now live in used to be my grandparents’.”
“Why save it when it obviously needs a lot of work?” he asks.
“Cosmetically, sure, it needs to be painted and a few things repaired, but none of that matters to me. The happy memories I had there with the only family I’ve ever known is what I care about. And that’s what I want for…”
“That’s what you want for what?” Malcolm snaps when I pause.
Grabbing a rag, just to have something to do with my hands and something to focus on besides his handsome face, I tell him, “The happy memories are what I want for my daughter too, more so than a nicer, more expensive house that’s cold and unhappy.”
“I thought she was our daughter,” his deep voice rumbles over me like thunder.
“No, she is my daughter!” I yell at him while I scrub the counter so hard I may peel off the paint. “I carried her inside of me for almost nine months. I gave birth to her after six agonizing hours where I felt like I was being tortured, and I love her and care for her and-and provide for her, so she is mine and mine alone!”
“Why haven’t you taken me to court yet?” he asks. “You could get enough cash from me in child support so that you wouldn’t have to work here while some kid who doesn’t look old enough to drive babysits our little girl.”