She pales and if I’m not mistaken, she looks a little sick. “No, you’re not getting it.” She shakes her head rapidly, tearing her eyes from me to gaze at the little baby girl in her arms. Well, I’m assuming it’s a girl since she’s in hot pink pajamas with clouds on them. She nibbles on her bottom lip, her eyes darting around the room and not landing on one single thing.
“What am I not getting?” I prompt, cocking my head to the side, pure confusion etched into the lines of my face.
Her face squishes, her eyes flooded with tears. She almost looks like she’s in pain.
“Are you okay?” I ask, touching her elbow. My eyes briefly dart to the child in her arms, half-afraid she might drop the infant in her current state. “Are you dizzy? Light-headed? Should you sit down? You don’t look so good.”
She exhales a mighty breath and blurts, “You’re the dad.”
I touch the back of my hand to her forehead. “I think you have a fever. I’m not the dad. I’m the man.”
“Stop.” She pushes my hand off her. “Listen to me,” she pleads brokenly, nearly bowing in half. “You’re the dad,” she repeats, slower this time. When I still give her a blank look she huffs out an irritated breath. Looking down at the baby in her arms she smiles at the infant and looks back at me, waiting for me to connect the dots.
Connect.
The.
Dots.
“Holy fucking shit.” I slap my hand over my mouth, appalled I just used such bad language in front of a baby.
Not just a baby … my …
“My baby?”
She nods, her lower lip trembling either with potential tears or nerves. My eyes drop to the little one cradled in her arms. The baby’s eyes are at half-mast and she’s curled around Alba, clearly feeling safe and protected in her mother’s arms. Dark hair covers her tiny head and her cheeks are plump and rosy. Her tiny pink mouth moves like she’s sucking a binky even though she’s not. Her lashes are long and curled against her cheeks. Tiny chubby hands lay over her chest.
An ache I’ve never felt before, a desire I never once had to be a parent, settles inside me as I can’t take my eyes off the infant—my daughter.
My heart picks up speed with a combination of nerves, excitement, fear, and even anger.
“My daughter?” I know it’s a variation of the same question I asked before, but I can’t stop the words from blurting out.
“Your daughter,” she confirms. She gives a tiny shrug. “It certainly took me by surprise, but I can’t imagine how you feel.”
My eyes move to Alba from the baby. “You didn’t tell me,” I accuse, my tone hurt and harsh. She nods her head towards the couch for us to sit. “I don’t want to fucking sit right now, Alba.”
She winces at my tone. “Okay,” her voice is soft, hesitant like she’s handling a bomb about to go off at any moment. “I did try to tell you. Repeatedly. I texted you. Begged you to call me. I felt more and more pathetic with each attempt so finally I just … stopped.” She gives a tiny shrug and turns away from me, placing the baby in a rocker.
The little one gives a tiny cry but quiets when the bouncer or whatever it is starts moving.
“I broke my phone and ended up switching carriers so my number changed.”
She nods, blowing out a breath. “I figured it was something like that. I wasn’t going to continue to hunt you down. It wasn’t worth it. I already figured I’d be going this alone.” She wraps her arms around her frame, her eyes straying to the baby.
My brows furrow and I shake my head. “Go it alone? You didn’t think I’d want to be involved?” There’s an incredulous note to my voice, because sure, I’ve never been the settling down type but I’m not a complete prick. Does she really think so little of me that I’d just walk away from my child if I’d known about her?
She gives another shrug. It seems to be just about the only thing she’s capable of at the moment. “I wasn’t going to pressure you to be a present parent, Travis. It’s not like either of us expected me to get pregnant.”
The organ trapped behind my rib cage pounds relentlessly like it’s looking for any weak points it might escape through.
Swallowing past the lump lodged in my throat, I nearly whisper to her, “I’m sorry.” Clearing my throat and gaining more of a voice I repeat, “I’m sorry.” I tug on the ends of my hair, my eyes going back and forth between Alba and the baby. “I would’ve been there for you. For all of it.”
She gives a weak smile. “Sure.”
Sure. Sure. I’ve never hated a word more. The doubt behind it aggravates me.
My hands shake at my sides from nerves and the unexpectedness of all of this. “What’s her name?” I realize how dumb I’ve been to not even ask what my daughter’s name is.
“Dahlia,” she replies, absentmindedly rubbing her fingers against the same flower tattooed on her arm. I know that tattoo was there before so it must have some significance to her. Before I can say anything though, she quickly adds, “It was my grandmother’s name and I loved her a lot. It felt fitting to name Dahlia after her.” Her voice holds a tone that’s almost begging me to argue or tell her the name’s a horrible choice.
“It’s a beautiful name and I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to her when she gets older to know you named her after someone who meant so much to you.”
Alba gives me a thin-lipped smile. “You’re taking this surprisingly well.”
“I’ll freak out later.” I give a small laugh, letting her know it’s a joke, but I guess really, it’s not. Right now, I’m still processing the shock of this. Later, I’ll realize how big of a deal this is.
I’m a dad. A father. I’m responsible for the livelihood of another human being. It’s my job to teach her right from wrong, to be there for her through every milestone and heartbreak.
Alba moves to the couch, sitting down, but I can tell she’s far from comfortable. “I just want you to know that I understand this is all very sudden for you and I won’t be mad if you choose to walk away from us—from her,” she corrects. “If you want a paternity test, we can do that too, but I promise, she’s yours. Before that night I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time and not after either.”
“Can you stop fucking saying stuff like that? I’m not walking away, and I believe you, okay? I never said I didn’t.” Even now, gazing at the infant who’s fast asleep I can see tiny pieces of myself in her features. “I’ve never been around babies, so I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here. This is going to be a learning curve.”
“It’s going to be one for me too.” Her eyes meet mine hesitantly. “I have my life, my routine, everything all built around her and now I have to accommodate you.”
I blow out a breath, hands on my hips. As much as I try to maintain eye contact with Alba, I can’t stop looking at the sleeping baby.
Dahlia.
The name is perfect for her. Delicate and strong. Uniquely beautiful.
“I can’t believe she’s mine,” I find myself whispering, not in doubt that she’s my daughter but in wonder.