The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(97)

With a small wave, I hurry inside, not waiting to see him roar away. In the living room, I find Nana holding Jamie.

“She was crying,” Nana says defensively.

“It’s fine,” I tell her, fighting a smile. “Mind if I hop in the shower? I feel gross.”

“You go on ahead.” Her gaze is glued to Jamie’s face. “This little one loves her grandma, don’t you? Don’t you?”

With a lightened heart, I hit the shower. Nana’s clearly halfway in love with Jamie already. Who wouldn’t be, though? She’s the most amazing thing in the world.

I take a good, long, hot shower, which they didn’t allow in the hospital due to the epidural. Despite the pain, it feels good to be out of that hospital bed. After drying off, I throw on a pair of old sweats and a T-shirt and then examine my reflection in the mirror.

My body still feels weird and not my own. The capillaries in my eyes burst during labor, so I look demonic, all red-eyed and wild hair. I could give Helena Bonham Carter a run for her weird, crazy money. My tummy is still large and round—only now it’s squishy and soft. My breasts have grown to enormous, comical sizes.

It’s a good thing I can’t have sex for six weeks. I can’t even look at my post-partum shape without flinching, let alone want Tucker to look at it.

“You still doing the breastfeeding thing? I always used formula, and both you and your momma turned out fine.” Nana eyes me expectantly as I join her in the living room.

“They’ve said it’s the best.”

“Hmmmph. I may’ve read something like that in People. Well, you should probably feed the poor tyke then.”

She hands the baby over, and I carefully tuck Jamie against my chest and carry her to my bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I lift up one side of my shirt, holding it against my chest with my chin, and then lift Jamie up to my boob. She roots around like a little animal until she finds the nipple. Thankfully, she latches on.

I sigh with relief and scoot backward on the mattress until my shoulders hit the wall. The lactation consultant warned me that breastfeeding is hard as fuck—well, she didn’t use those words exactly, but that was the gist—so I’m grateful that this is going okay for now.

Picking up my phone, I one-hand type a couple of texts.

Me: I’m home.

Hope: When can I come over?

Carin: NO!!!!!!! I haven’t finished the booties. Go back to the hospital!

Me: U sound like Tucker. He didn’t want to leave either.

Carin: Listen to ur BB daddy.

Hope: She’s not going back to the hospital bc UR not done knitting. Hospitals only keep you 2 days for a V birth. How RU feeling?

Me: Tired. Scared. Tucker told me he loved me at the hospital.

Hope: OMG.

Carin: OMG.

Hope: What’d u say?

Carin: She said she doesn’t believe in love, right?

I stick out my tongue at the phone.

Me: I pretended I didn’t hear him.

Hope: OMG.

Carin: See!

Hope: That’s the worst.

Is it, though? Is it really?

Me: It was an emotional time. Not holding him to it.

Hope: UR dumb. I’m ending my friendship with u.

Carin: She’s being unselfish.

Me: Thank u, C.

Hope: UR still dumb.

Me: Not dumb. Mom hates me. T’s forced to live in Bos. Don’t want him tied down. T shld b out there, hitting bars, tapping asses.

Carin: I take that back. UR dumb.

Hope: See!

Carin: You’d kill any chick who looked twice at him.

An image of Tucker with another woman, holding another baby besides Jamie, forms in my head, and a dull ache springs up in my chest. Carin’s not wrong at all. I’m not prepared for Tucker to move on, no matter how nonchalant and uncaring I try to be.

Jamie releases a sharp cry and I peer down to see her precious baby mouth rooting around for the nipple again.

Me: Gotta go. Baby crying.

Hope: Good luck.

Carin: Don’t wish her good luck. It’s not a sporting event.

Hope: :P What’s the worst response to I <3 you?

Carin: Silence and then, “I wish I felt the same.”

Hope: I’m thinking “Why?”

Carin: How about “That’s nice.”

Hope: Brutal.

Me: I’m done here.

Jamie opens her mouth, and the volume that comes out of her lungs surprises even me. It’s like there’s an amplifier in her throat.

“Shhhh. Shhhh.” I whirl around and pluck the blanket out of her car seat. It takes a few tries before I have her bundled up like a burrito. All the while, I’m shushing her. A ton of people online swear by a system called the Five S’s where you shush, swaddle, swing, side or stomach position, and…dammit, I can’t remember the other one.

Jamie doesn’t like that I’ve forgotten. Her face contorts into a puckered, unhappy mess as she belts out her opinion of my mothering skills.

“Shush, swaddle, swing, side or stomach, sing?” I hum a few bars.

Jamie wails on.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on in there?” Ray’s up and pounding on my door.

“Come on, Little Jamie. Stop crying. Mommy’s here.”

Little Jamie doesn’t give a fuck. She screams even louder.