Seb doesn’t say anything, looking wide-eyed at his daughter as she cuddles up to him, glugging away. Slowly, he reaches up and brushes a curl away from her cheek with his finger. She makes a happy noise, kicking her legs, and his lips part.
I smile. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It does.”
Cami drinks up her whole bottle without any extra encouragement, then starts to fuss again.
Sebastian startles. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. You did great. She just needs to be burped.”
“Why?”
“Babies can’t really burp by themselves. And they swallow air when they drink.”
“That seems like an evolutionary issue,” he says dryly.
“It’s easy.” I drape the burp cloth over his shoulder, then rearrange Cami in his arms. “Just pat her on the back.”
He hesitates, then gives Cami the most pathetic, gentle little tap imaginable. He barely even touches her.
I shake my head. “Harder,” I say. “Give her some firm taps.”
He pats her again gingerly. She squirms, her face reddening with discomfort.
“Harder, Seb. She can handle it. If you don’t burp her, it can be really uncomfortable for her.”
He stares at her, then gives her a slightly firmer pat. Cami suddenly starts wailing, wriggling in his grip, and all of the colour drains out of his face. He shoves her back into my arms. “I can’t,” he rasps, “I can’t do it.”
“But—”
He jumps to his feet and hightails out of the room, leaving me with a very fussy baby and a lot of questions. I stare at his bedroom door as it swings shut, then turn back to Cami.
“What is his issue?” I murmur into her ear, patting her back. She squirms, pulls a face, and spits up down my back, then flops happily against my shoulder, snuggling into me.
Eighteen
Sebastian
I shut my bedroom door behind me and lean against it, my head reeling. My heart is beating too hard. My right hand is tingling. I remember slapping Cami on the back, and horror curls up inside me.
Beth acts like it’s a simple thing to do, to pound a fragile little baby with just the right amount of pressure. But I don’t know how to do it. I can’t hit my daughter. I’ll accidentally go too hard. I’llhurther.
I cross the room to my office area and slump into the desk chair, looking out of the window but seeing nothing. Tears of frustration burn my eyes.
I’m just so fucking exhausted. I dragged Cami’s cot in here last night—there was no way I was leaving my baby sleeping in the lounge, where I might not even hear her crying if she needed something.
I don’t think either of us got more than thirty minutes of consecutive sleep the whole night. I didn’t even finish working until 1AM; when I eventually crawled into bed, my head splitting with an oncoming migraine, she started crying at the top of her lungs. And she wouldn’t stop.
Nothing I could do would settle her. She wouldn’t eat. She spat out her dummy. Hugging her just made her mad. Eventually, at four in the morning, she accepted her bottle, glugging down half of it and finally dropping off for a few minutes. I had to be up at six, so I just gave up on sleep and jumped into the shower, leaving the door open so I could hear her.
I’d just gotten dressed when she started screaming again. I realised that she needed her nappy changed, so I did that, dressing her in a new little romper. As soon as I did the last button up, she started shrieking—and then threw up all over her clothes. I cleaned her up with baby wipes as best as I could, then dressed her in a new romper. I had just enough time to make a cup of coffee before she started screamingagain. I gave her the last half of her bottle. And then she filled her nappy again. And then she spat up on both our clothes again and burst into tears.
I ended up sitting with her in bed, numbly holding her as she screamed and sobbed, getting angrier and more frustrated as every minute went by. I didn’t know what to do. I had a meeting in forty minutes, my suit was stained, my head was bursting, and nothing I could do would make my baby stop crying. Eventually, at six in the morning, Jack just strode into my bedroom and took her off me, leaving me to head back to my ensuite bathroom to throw up my painkillers.
The thought of doing it all again every night for the next six months makes me want to pull my hair out.
My phone buzzes on the desk, and my stomach sinks. It’s my boss. Of course.