“Yep.”
She points to the empty bottle. “I meant with the wine. I bought that for me. The ice cream was for you. Aren’t you meant to be feeding this little monster?”
“Sorry. I have more wine in the cupboard. Help yourself. And I pumped his milk before you came.”
She shudders. “I don’t know how you do that. Don’t you feel like a cow?”
“I don’t need a milk pump to feel like that. Trust me.”
“Your mummy’s a silly mare, isn’t she?” Claire ruffles Caleb’s thick black hair, and he babbles to her.
“You were saying I was a cow a minute ago. Make up your mind. Am I a cow or a mare?”
“You’re a unicorn. And don’t let Cal or anyone else tell you otherwise.”
* * *
A cry hasme sitting up in bed. My head is cloudy from the wine, and I’m in a carbohydrate slump from eating a full tub of ice cream. There’s a throb in my temple, but I force myself to get out of bed as Caleb’s cries become louder.
The crying stops, and I hear someone shushing him. His bedroom door is ajar, and the soft glow from the nightlight outlines Cal’s masculine frame. He holds Caleb in his arms, his drowsy head rests on Cal’s shoulder while his hand covers his small skull, soothing him from whatever was causing him distress. His eyes grow heavy as he suckles on his dummy.
Cal gently rocks and with each movement, the muscles in his back flex, highlighted by the glow from the streetlights, gently peeking through the blind. Black boxers cover his arse but cling to him, showing every outline. I love seeing him like this, our most intimate moments with our beautiful boy.
He turns, locking eyes with me as he continues to soothe Caleb.
I’m relieved that he’s back. I may actually be able to shift this headache, knowing he isn’t shagging some girl all night. Although he has probably already done that. The thought makes me nauseous, and I swallow to stop the bile rising in my throat.
He lays him down softly in his cot then creeps out of the room. I step back, letting him pass and close Caleb’s door.
Cal stands in front of me and lifts my chin. “Have you been crying?” he whispers.
“No,” I whisper sternly, turning my face to the side.
“Why are you upset?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I whisper-yell.
“Is it because I went on a date tonight?”
“You arrogant arsehole. You think I’ve been sitting here crying over you while you’ve been out screwing some tart? I couldn’t give a crap what you do.”
He takes hold of my arm and pulls me into the bathroom across the hall, turning the light on so I can see my reflection in the mirror. Black streaks stain my puffy cheeks. I run a hand over my hair, trying to smooth out the bumps in my messy ponytail.
He stands behind me, looking into the mirror at my bloodshot eyes. “Tell me why you're upset.”
I rub at the black marks on my face. “I’m not. I just had a drink, that’s all.”
“No shit. I saw the two empty bottles on the side.”
I laugh, but only to stop from crying. “So, what are you, the wine police now?”
“When you’re supposed to be looking after my son, yeah. You’re a mess.”
“Ugh, go back to your hooker and leave me alone.”