Dirty Red (Love Me With Lies)(41)

“She’s really pretty,” he says about Olivia. I spit an ice cube at him and he laughs. The baby is almost sleeping through the night now. I still sleep in her room, just in case she wakes up. Sam thinks I’m finally bonding with her, but I only do it so I don’t have to walk far in the middle of the night. Caleb is supposed to be back from his trip late the following day. He sent me a text saying he’d pick up Estella as soon as he got back. I plan a trip to the spa in the morning. If everything goes my way, he won’t be going anywhere.

“So, they were together in college?”

I look over to where Sam is sipping on his soda. “What the hell?”

“What?” He shrugs. “I feel like I’m watching a soap opera without all of the back-story.”

I sniff. “Yes, they were together for a few years in college. But, it wasn’t that serious. They never even slept together.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Caleb stuck around for a girl who wasn’t having sex with him?” He lets out a low whistle.

“What does that mean?” I curl my feet under my body and try not to look too interested. The lack of sex between Caleb and Olivia always confused me. I had wanted to ask questions on the rare occasion it came up, but never wanted to seem like the jealous girlfriend. Besides, Caleb protected his past like it was the goddamn crown jewels.

Sam looks thoughtful as he chews on a mouthful of beef jerky. He eats so much of the stuff I’ve come to associate the smell with him.

“Seems like a long time to ask a college-aged guy to wait. The only way I see someone doing that is if they are crazy in love … addiction love.”

“What do you mean addiction love?” Caleb has the most non-addictive personality I’ve ever seen. In fact, it bothers me. One year he will be a full-fledged skier and the next year when I book a trip to the lodge, he’ll tell me he’s not interested anymore. It happened countless times throughout our relationship — with restaurants, clothes … he even traded his car in every year. It almost always started with him loving something intensely and then gradually becoming bored with it.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I guess it sounds like he was willing to do anything for her … even if it meant going against what he was used to.”

“I hate you.”

He slaps my leg playfully and stands up. “Just trying to clear your head a little, Mommy monster. Seems like he’s your addiction and it’s not a healthy one.”

I glare after him as he heads for the door. He’s such a pompous ass.

“See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder. “When Mr. Perfect returns…”



But, the next day Sam calls to say he’s having car problems. I cancel the spa. I haven’t spent an entire day alone with the baby since Sam’s run with the flu. I eat a mini bag of frozen corn before going up to get her. For most of the day, I repeat everything I see Sam do. We have tummy time in the living room. I wipe her face after she’s done eating. I even splurge and take her for a mini walk in the stroller I have never used.

When I discover I'm out of diapers, I call Sam in a panic. He doesn’t answer, because no one is ever around when you really damn well need them! How am I supposed to take a baby to the store with me? There has to be some kind of service that runs errands for new mothers. After debating for more than an hour, I pack the baby in the car and head to the nearest grocery store. It takes me ten minutes to figure out how to load her car seat onto the cart. I swear under my breath, until a more seasoned mother comes over to help me. I thank her without meeting her eyes and steer my cart into the store just in time to miss the rain. The minute the cold air conditioning blows on the baby, she starts wailing. I push the cart haphazardly to the kid aisle and toss in five packages of diapers. Better safe than sorry.

By the time I’ve raced back to the register, people are looking at me like I’m a bad mother. I load everything onto the conveyor and lift her out of the car seat. Holding her against my chest, I pat her back awkwardly. I am fumbling with my wallet and trying to bounce her when the cashier — a bubble popping juvenile delinquent — asks me, “Will that be all?” I look at the bags of diapers that are now bagged in my cart and then at the empty belt. He is staring at me with his watery marijuana eyes, waiting for my answer.

“Um no, I’d like all of this invisible shit too.” I wave a hand at the conveyer and he is actually dumb enough to look.

“God,” I say, viciously swiping my credit card. “Lay off the pot.”

The baby chooses that exact moment to have a bowl movement. Before I’ve pocketed my credit card, the contents of her diaper have leaked onto my hands and shirt. I look around in horror and bolt from the store.

Without the diapers.

I send Sam to go back for them later when he finally calls me back. When he shows up at the front door, I still haven’t changed my crapped on shirt, and in addition to my daughter’s brown artwork, both of my breasts are leaking. He shakes his head.

“You look worse every time I see you.”

I burst into tears. Sam sets the diapers on the counter and hugs me. “Go shower while she’s sleeping. I’ll make us something to eat.”

I nod and head upstairs. When I come back down, he’s made spaghetti.

“Sit.” He points to a barstool. I obey, pulling in the plate he slides toward me.