Still, she washed the pump and didn’t make me use the cover while I nursed Jett. I would have–to ensure her comfort–but she waved it off. She’s making progress.
Before bed, Beau and I shared some spicier text messages that had me very eager for our second date.
Beau:When you’re better, I want to give you a massage
Beau:Only selfless intentions. After the flu, massaging the muscles gets rid of the lingering infection
Beck:Bullshit
Beau:Would it really hurt to risk it?
Beau:What’s to lose? Potentially being healthier? Do you have something against health?
Beck:I have something against sleeping with you on our second official date
Beau:While I can’t wait to taste your pussy and fill my palms with your sweet ass while I fuck my cum into you, I will wait until you’re ready
Beck:Jesus, Beau
Beau:That will be “oh, Jesus, Beau!” pretty soon
Beau::)
Beck:I’m turned onandsnort-laughing. That’s a first. You are insane.
Beau:Yes, I’m great. I accept the praise. Now go to bed. Rest up so I can take you out. I want to sit across from that gorgeous smile and stroke my cock under the table at how fuckin’ full your tits look in your dress.
Beau:We need you well for that. Goodnight.
Beck:Mean boy.
Beck:Goodnight.
* * *
I’m aboutto text Beau good morning when Goldie barges through my door with Jett clutched to her chest. He’s pink-cheeked and dazed, and her eyes are wide.
“His fever is 105. I checked four times.”
My mouth and throat go dry, and I swallow hard. From there on out, everything becomes a blur.
I don’t risk anything. Jett is my everything, so I call 9-1-1. Explaining everything I can that may be pertinent to the operator, I gasp and cry as I kneel next to Jett, where Goldie and I have laid him out. We have cool cloths and a bowl of cool water, alternating the cloths when his warm skin eats up their chill.
He’s awake and doesn’t look unhappy, but doesn’t look fully there, and I’m terrified. In fact, I run to the kitchen sink and get sick, my mind spinning. Goldie’s voice is sturdy, like an anchor amidst a chaotic sea, keeping me pinned to that living room floor.
The door opens, and she ushers in people. I don’t look at them. My heart races, all I see are boots, all I hear are promises. I won’t know anything until I see it with my own eyes. That’s how it works–you can’t trust anyone’s words. You can only trust what you have right in front of you.
They work, Jett doesn’t cry, and I hear Goldie tell them that may not be completely abnormal, that he’s a happy baby. She relays it’s his nine-month birthday. Their coos of aww make my stomach turn. Within what feels like both seconds and eternities, Jett is connected to an oxygen monitor, harsh medical tape keeping everything secure to his perfect baby skin.
“Does he talk?” one voice asks. Goldie answers. “Some. Still mostly baby talk.”
“Can he walk?” the same voice asks. Goldie responds, and it’s then that I start tuning out the conversation and stare at Jett.
I smile at him, though no part of me feels like smiling. Still, I smile and sing, and stroke his hand and give him kisses as they work around us. Because as scared as I am, I have to make him feel safe.
With my eyes on him, I smile and keep singing, all the while, my mind races with terrifying, life-changing thoughts.
At some point, Goldie’s hand is on my back, her head tipped onto my shoulder, our unspoken fears staying in the shadows.