I didn’t get a chance until we were in bed that night. I snuggled Roman to sleep, then took him to the adjoining bedroom—the little nursery room that was generally used for storage when I moved in. Now it’s decorated in blues and grays, the perfect little spot for a baby boy.
When I climbed into bed and my husband wrapped me up in his strong embrace, I had to ask, “Is Meg…?”
“Not today,” he said, simply.
The next day was much the same—wake up with dread, love on Roman while I wait around all day for a death knell, then cuddle in bed, wondering if my husband had choked the life out of Meg with the same hands he used to fit our tiny son into his blanket sleeper.
Today is Sunday. The nice thing about it being Sunday is Mateo stays in bed a little longer. I get to sleep a little bit—Roman is still sleeping during the day and staying up most of the night, so I’m completely worn out—but before my body can recover from this insane sleep schedule, Roman wakes up, screaming his precious little head off for more food.
I’m too tired to go all the way down to the kitchen, and I’m out of the little ready-to-go bottles Mateo stocked me with, so I message Adrian for help.
There’s no knock, but I’d be too tired to get up and answer the door anyway. Adrian strolls right in with a serving tray. On top, a four-pack of bottles and a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and strawberries chopped up and sprinkled on top.
“You’re my favorite,” I inform him, as he goes a step further and takes Roman from me so I can eat. “Don’t tell my husband.”
Adrian smirks, wedging Roman’s tiny body in the crook of one arm while shaking a bottle with his other hand. “It can be our little secret.”
“I’m so tired,” I tell him, forcing my body into an upright position and pulling the tray in my lap.
“Yeah, that tends to happen with newborns. Do you have a burp cloth? Kinda don’t want baby vomit all over my suit.”
I grab one from where I stashed it earlier, just in case of emergency—right under Mateo’s pillow. Adrian cocks an eyebrow at me.
“It’s clean,” I defend. “Don’t tell him that, either.”
“Keeping all the secrets today,” Adrian remarks, attaching the nipple to the bottle, throwing the burp cloth over his shoulder, and popping the bottle in Roman’s eager little bird mouth.
“Speaking of secrets, how’s Meg? No one is telling me anything.”
Rolling his eyes, my beloved friend and bodyguard says, “Smooth segue.”
“I’m too tired for smooth. I need food and a shower. If Mateo comes in here for some afternoon delight and gets turned away again, he’s going to strip me of my baby privileges.”
“Glad to see you’re whipping him into shape,” Adrian says, dryly.
“It’s a work-in-progress,” I assure him, scooping up some oatmeal. “He’s letting me keep the baby in the adjoining bedroom; that’s more than he wanted to give.”
“Warming him up for Dominic?”
I don’t even want to think about trying to juggle Roman and another newborn in a few months’ time. God. I’m going to be a complete zombie. Maybe I’ll feel like a person again when they’re both potty trained.
Mateo is not going to like this, at all. He keeps telling me to use Ju and he’s respected my denial thus far, but if I can’t handle it better, he’s going to eventually cut me off.
“Stop distracting me with babies,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes at him. “What’s going on with Meg?”
Adrian sighs, looking down at Roman while he goes to town on the bottle. He’s trying to suck too fast and Adrian has to take the nipple out of his mouth. Roman immediately begins to pitch a fit, whining like Adrian just took away his lifeblood; Adrian wipes his little chin with the soft cloth and pops the nipple back in his mouth before Roman can work himself up to a full-blown conniption.
“She’ll be at dinner tonight, and then that’s it.”
My stomach drops. I realize I shouldn’t have asked about this when I’m trying to eat breakfast; the fruit turns to sand in my mouth. I have difficulty swallowing. I grab the bottled water he brought me to wash it down, then I sit back, no longer hungry. “That’s it? Like… that’s it?”
“He wanted to do it as soon as he was born, Mia. He only let her have some time to recover for you. She’ll get one last family dinner tonight—all for you.”
I want to cry, but my eyes are somehow too tired to produce tears. “He really hasn’t changed his mind? When will…” I swallow, shaking my head. “Tonight?”
“Tomorrow. Please don’t think about it. You don’t have to think about it. Just enjoy your dinner tonight—”