Aced

My tears are instant as I look at the little boy become entirely eclipsed by the grown man I’ve loved all along.

“You’re going to be an excellent father, Colton.”

We both lean forward at the same time, our lips meeting in a tender kiss packed with a subtle punch of every emotion we share between us: acceptance, appreciation, love, and pride.

“You are nothing like him. We’ve known that all along. Now you finally know it, too. I’m so proud of you, Colton Donavan,” I murmur against his lips. He brushes one more kiss to my mouth before pressing his signature one to the tip of my nose.

We sit there for some time in silence. The three of us. My new little family.

I fight fiercely against that undertow of discord that seems like a constant so I can revel in this moment. Memorize the feel of it and the sense of completeness I have with them by my side.

And all I keep thinking is that the storm has finally passed.

I just hope there are no new clouds on the horizon.

I STARE AT THE OPEN email from CJ on the screen. At the five magazines listed down the page with ridiculous dollar figures next to them. Their offers for the first photos of the new Donavan family. The tamed ex-bad boy racing superstar, his sex-crazed wife, and their little piece of perfect between them.

My muscles tense. My eyes blur. My mouth goes dry at the thought of anyone getting his or her sights on Ace. The mere thought of taking him out of the house causes me to break out in a panic attack. Thankfully Colton was able to get the pediatrician to make a house call for his first check up or else I’m not sure what I would have done.

I close the email. No way. No how. Publicity pictures are not even an option.

Any pictures for that matter.

Because even though the public got Eddie’s picture of Ace—scrunched-up red face, mouth open, hands blurred in movement—to obsess over, it wasn’t enough. Not even close. It almost gave the reverse effect. They are now hungry for more. Staking out the house, trying to bribe Grace to sneak a picture while she’s cleaning the house. You name it, nothing’s off limits.

And I refuse to give it to them. They’ve taken enough from me, so I refuse to give them any more.

My phone vibrates again from where it sits on the desk beside me. I glance at the screen. This time a text from Haddie instead of the five I’ve received from my mom today, telling me that pretty soon she’s not going to take no for an answer. That she’s going to come over without asking so she can see her grandson and help me in any way possible.

I clear the text from the screen and send it to the vortex of the bazillion other texts from family and close friends asking when they can come over, if they can bring us dinner, or if I need them to stop at the store for diapers.

Take the offer, Rylee.

The last time someone came over—the boys—I had a breakdown. And I’ve had plenty more on my own in the silence of this house; the last thing I need is to show everyone else how unstable I am.

Just tell her to come.

No, because then she’ll know how much I’m struggling. I can’t let everyone know the lie I’m living. That the woman they all said would be such a natural mother can’t even look at her son some moments without wanting to run and hide in the back of the closet. How more and more I cringe when he cries, have to force myself to go get him when I’d rather just lie in bed with my hands over my ears and tears running down my cheeks.

Type the words, Ry. Ask her to get here.

I have the baby blues. That’s all this is. A goddamn roller coaster of emotion, extreme joy interlaced with moments of soul-bottoming lows, all controlled by the flick of the hormonal switch.

She wouldn’t understand. These feelings are normal. Every new mother goes through it, but no one else understands it unless they’re in the midst of it.

I can get through this on my own. It’s just my need to control everything that makes it feel like it’s uncontrollable: the outside world, my emotions, our everything. I can prove I can handle this, that I’m good at this. It’s only been seven days. I can handle this on my own.

Take the break she’ll give you. It’s exactly what you need.

How can I let someone else watch Ace, when I’m having a hard enough time allowing Colton? I know I’m the only one who can nurse him, but there are still diapers and burping and rocking left for others to help with. And it’s not because I don’t think Colton can handle it, but if I get there first, prove to myself I’ve got a handle on this, then maybe it will help me feel less haywire.

Get a few minutes to yourself. Let her come over. Take a shower without rushing. Brush your teeth without staring to see if his chest is moving. Eat some food without a baby attached to you.

I pick my phone up, hands trembling as I stare at Haddie’s text. Every part of me is conflicted over what to write.

We’re good. Thanks. Just settling in. Maybe next week when we’re in a better routine.

I hit send. Will she see through that response? Will she come over anyway and in five minutes know something is wrong with me?

Maybe that’s what I want.

I don’t know.

I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. Lost in my thoughts, I try to find some quiet in my head since Ace is asleep in the swing right now while Colton is outside the walls of my self-imposed prison.

The first tear falls and slides silently down my cheek. Thoughts come and fade with each tear that drops, but for some reason my mind fixates on the empty picture frame on the bookcase beside me. The one that’s supposed to be filled with the new memories we make together as a family and yet when I open my eyes to look at it, its emptiness is all I see.