Page 8 of His Long-Lost Baby
And his body.
Oh my God — his body.
There were a few pictures of him shirtless, running down sidewalks. I still feel guilty about those ones.
This is James Garris! Mega asshole. All the stories I’ve read since Monica looked him up in the coffee shop support that reality. According to one article, one time he parked sideways in front of a grocery store — in the handicapped spots!
If there’s anyone more self-centered than James Garris, I’ve never heard of them.
But that body…
I drag my eyes away from the TV and back to my daughter. She’s still staring at me, her hand still stretched out for my attention.
“Uh, yeah. It’s over, sweetie.” I reach down and grab her hand. “Did you enjoy the show?”
She nods vigorously. “Yes! It was so funny!”
“That’s good. Did you understand it?”
“Yes.” Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. “Well, some parts. It was tricky.”
“Ah, I see. Maybe next time we can watch it together and I can explain it to you.” I smile at her, grateful for the distraction.
She grins back at me. “That would be awesome! Can we have popcorn too?”
“Sure we can. Let me go make some now.” I stand up, trying to push James Garris and his perfect body out of my head.
As I walk towards the kitchen, my mind drifts back to Monica’s suggestion of breaking into James Garris’s doctor’s office. It’s crazy, illegal, and downright dangerous. But what other options do I have?
I shake my head, grabbing the popcorn kernels from the pantry. This is not who I am. I don’t break the law.
But I have to protect my daughter.
I take a deep breath and try to push the thoughts of breaking and entering out of my head. I’ll figure something out. I always do.
We pop some popcorn and eat it on our apartment’s tiny front porch, then it’s time for bath and bed. The whole time Quinn is playing with bubbles, brushing her teeth, and freaking out over not being able to find her favorite pajamas, my mind is on James Garris.
Her father.
The man who should be in her life but couldn’t be bothered to show up.
Pushing the anger down, I read Quinn a bedtime story and tuck her in.
“Mommy?” She snuggles her stuffed elephant close. “What if I have another asthma?”
My chest squeezes, and I instantly want to cry.
“What if I have to go to the hospital?” she asks.
“You have the inhaler, remember? We’ll use that.” I rub her back gently. “You’re okay tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day too.”
She rolls over onto her side and pulls the blanket up to her chin. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you too, baby.” I walk to the window and pull the curtain closed. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right in my room.”
When I walk into my bedroom, I press my hands over my eyes. I can’t do this. I can’t worry about one more thing.
This has to end.