I remember Philly. Shari had flown there, and we had one hell of a wild weekend, but no way am I ready for a baby, to be a father, which is why I always wear protection.
“Wait, didn’t you say you were on the pill?” If I’m remembering correctly, she told me not to bother with the condom, but I used one anyway.
“So you remember that, but you don’t remember the condom breaking?”
I search for clarity. Stupid fucking hangover. “I don’t know what I remember. But what I do know is, you can’t leave her here with me,” I say, and hold the baby out to her. “I don’t know the first things about babies.”
“Then you’d better read a book, or google it.” Before I can stop her, Shari races down the front steps and hops into her car. The doors slams and without so much as a glance our way, she drives off.
I stand there, the baby still in my outstretched arms as I glance up and down the street.
What the fuck just happened?
Mrs. Johnson, my next door neighbor, leisurely strolls down her driveway, and when her head angles my way, I step back and shut the door. Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
The baby’s lower lip trembles as she stares up at me, no doubt as terrified as I am.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m an idiot and have no idea how to talk to a baby. She wails again, and I cradle her in my arms the best I can and pick up the bag. I walk to
the sofa, sit down and rifle through it. I find a pacifier, and put it in Daisy’s mouth, and for all of one second she’s satisfied. But before I can pat myself on the back for a job well done, she spits it out and cries some more.
Fuck me!
Panicked, my gaze lands on my cell phone. I pick it up and do a quick search.
What to do when a four-month-old cries.
Okay, shit, she’s hungry, and I have to warm her bottle and test it on my arm to ensure it’s room temperature. I find a bottle in the bag and hurry to the kitchen to warm it. Since I’m smart enough to know rubber can’t go in the microwave, I unscrew the top and place the bottle inside, nuking it for ten seconds. I bounce Daisy gently, trying to console her as I wait for the microwave to beep.
“What the hell, man?” my best friend Zander says from the doorway.
I turn to him, and I must have panic written all over my face, because his eyes go wide and he hurries across the room, coming to my rescue. Zander has a younger sister, took care of he growing up. Surely to God, he’ll know what to do with Daisy.
“Dude, what the fuck?” he asks as he takes the wailing baby from my arms. The microwave beeps and I grab her bottle. I screw the top back on, shake it, and test it on my arm. I have no fucking idea if it’s too hot or not.
Zander holds his arm out, and I squeeze a few drops for him to test.
“It’s fine,” he says, and puts the bottle into Daisy’s mouth. Her tears stop instantly, and she gobbles the milk. “You want to explain what’s going on here?”
I hold my pounding head and gesture toward the living room, needing to sit before I do a face plant. Zander follows me in. He takes the sofa and I take the chair across from him.
“Shari stopped by,” I begin, and Zander nods. He knows who I’m talking about. Shari is a puck bunny, and has slept with almost every guy on our team.
He quirks a brow. “And?”
“And she said the baby is mine.” I shake my head, refusing to believe it, or to entertain the idea for one second longer.
“Oh man,” he whispers under his breath.
“How did this even happen…?”
“Dude, if you don’t know that,” he teases.
“She can’t be mine, Zander. I always use protection.”
“Protection doesn’t always work, and sometimes condoms break.”
“Yeah, she said mine broke, but I don’t remember. Then again, we all got pretty fucked up after kicking Philly’s ass.”