Always the Last to Know(22)

New York seemed far, far away.

After three weeks of living at home, I told my mother I needed to get out of the house.

“Well, I can’t stay here alone with him, Sadie!” she said. “That’s your job.”

“LeVon isn’t here today, and Dad is still your husband!” I snapped. “He just needs company. Is that so hard? Can you just sit with him for half a damn hour so I can get some fresh air?”

“Fine. Go,” she said. “Be back before lunch, please.” She hated watching him eat, which I admit wasn’t the prettiest sight.

Shit. I so wished it had been her. In her case, a nursing home would’ve been more than enough.

I left the house. It was March now—eight weeks since Dad’s stroke, and mud season for New England, but the air had the promise of spring. The sky was pale blue, the breeze brisk, blowing the fug off me and bathing me in the smell of salt air.

I walked away from town, toward the tidal river. When I came to the wooden footbridge that spanned it, I took a seat the way I had when I was a kid, my legs dangling, the river gurgling past below me, the long reeds along the bank golden in the sunlight. My dad and I used to play Poohsticks, dropping twigs in on one side, then looking over the other to see whose came out from under the bridge first.

In the distance, the Sound was empty; all the boats were still in dry dock.

I lay down, the boards warm and strong under my back, soothing the ache I didn’t realize I had till now. I’d been doing a lot of heavy work, packing up my apartment, helping Dad get in and out of bed, moving furniture around their house to make it more accessible. Right now he was using a walker, and they had a lot of furniture that got in the way. My mother loved antiques, and it seemed like they all weighed three times what modern stuff did.

I hadn’t been back in Stoningham for more than two days in a row in eons. The sound of the river, the distant slapping of the waves against the shore, the shrill cries of the gulls were comforting—sounds I hadn’t realized I’d missed till now—and the sun was warm, even if the air was cool.

A few tears slipped out of my eyes and into my hair. I thought I’d cried myself out over my father’s stroke, but apparently, I hadn’t.

He’d get better. I had to believe that.

“Sadie?”

I jolted into a sitting position, my heart jackrabbiting.

Of course I’d known I’d run into him. Somehow, I just hadn’t prepared myself for it.

“Noah.” I blinked, then shielded my eyes from the sun. It took a minute to see him clearly.

He had a baby in one of those front-pack carriers.

A baby.

The fabric of the carrier blocked all but the baby’s black hair on top, and tiny feet clad in little blue socks on the bottom.

A baby. A baby who, I imagined, looked a lot like the man carrying him. My speeding heart dropped to my stomach.

“I was really sorry to hear about your dad,” Noah said.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I tried to smile. “Thank you. Thanks for the card.” He’d sent one when Dad was still at UConn.

“How’s he doing?”

“Um . . . he’s doing okay. Slow going.” The little blue feet kicked, and I remembered to blink.

“Heard you’re back to help out.”

“Yeah.” I paused. “Is that . . . your baby?”

I wanted him to laugh and say, “God, no, it’s my sister’s,” but of course he didn’t have a sister. He could’ve been babysitting for a friend, and—

“Yes. This is my son. Marcus.” He looked down at the little black head and smoothed the unruly hair with undeniable tenderness. “Sixteen weeks old.”

Jesus God in heaven.

Now I was blinking too fast. Do not cry, Sadie. Don’t you dare cry. “Um, wow! A son! Wow! Congratulations. I didn’t . . . no one told me . . . Congratulations! Are you, uh, married?”

He leaned against the railing of the footbridge, his face losing expression. “No. Michaela Watkins is the mom. We’re coparents.”

“Mickey Watkins?”

“Yeah.”

I swallowed. Okay. Mickey Watkins had been our classmate from third or fourth grade on. And she was gay.

“We both wanted to be parents, and nothing else seemed to be working out,” he said.

I realized a response was required. “Wow. Um . . . congratulations.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He stood stiffly, the wind ruffling his hair, and looked to the left of me. On the other hand, I couldn’t stop staring at him. The unshaven face that never could grow a proper beard. His long lashes and slight scowl. His big hands, one on the baby’s back, the other on his hip. He should’ve looked ridiculous—brooding hot dad with baby in carrier meets ex-lover.

He didn’t look ridiculous at all.

I became aware of the fact that I should speak. And maybe close my mouth. “Mickey. How is she? That’s . . . this is a big surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Should I have consulted you? Asked if it was okay?”

“No!” I scrambled to my feet. “I just . . . I mean, I knew you’d been engaged, but I, uh . . . I didn’t . . .”

“That didn’t work out. Also, I thought you were never coming back to this godforsaken town, as you called it, and now I have a four-month-old and all of a sudden, you’re living here again. If I’d known you were coming back, maybe I wouldn’t have impregnated a lesbian.”