I amble into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and stare at the twisted reflection in the mirror. That girl is bitter and angry and pissed off. Her long hair says she’s one with Mother Nature, but her scowling eyes say she’s dancing with the devil these days.
A mild alertness washes over me, and the more I come to, the more I realize that funny noise I’m hearing through the walls is the sound of a crying baby.
I shake my head at myself for getting that worked up over that.
It’s not the baby’s fault her father is a shameless, charming manwhore. It’s not the baby’s fault she’s hungry or cold or wet at three in the morning. I can’t get mad at her. Couldn’t if I tried.
Sighing, I climb back into my bed and reach for my headphones. I miss falling asleep to the sound of crickets and owls outside my window. Nature was my white noise. Now I have an app for that on a ridiculously shiny, skinny phone that costs enough to feed a small village in a third-world country for a year.
The low rumble of Crew’s voice comes through the wall, and I assume he’s trying to comfort her, but I’ve no clue what he’s saying. Maybe he’s singing? Sitting up a little, I press my ear against the cold drywall and try to make out some words.
Is he . . .?
Is he singing Hotline Bling?
My hand flies to my mouth as I stifle a laugh. I’m pretty sure that’s what it is, and the only reason I recognize it is because it’s Bryson’s ringtone.
The baby cries louder. Apparently she’s not a fan of Drake.
I hear creaking and footsteps, like he’s pacing the room with her.
If I weren’t in such a foul mood, I might consider going over there and helping. Then again, I don’t know what his girlfriend would think, and I certainly don’t want to send the wrong message.
Childrearing in Shiloh Springs was a communal job, just like everything else. It was no different than weed pulling in the garden or hanging clothes on the line. We were all assigned, at some point, to nanny for each other. I’ve nannied for at least five families, the last of which had colicky twins and a mother too frazzled to think straight during their midnight wakings. Those moonlit car drives I took them on always did the trick, and it was the only time I was allowed to drive one of the commune’s fleet vehicles—the only time I was allowed to leave the grounds just because.
I cried when the twins turned two and I was reassigned to another family.
Crew isn’t singing anymore. It sounds like he’s on the phone with someone now. He doesn’t sound happy. I hear him ask, “What should I do?”
I should help him.
I should suck up my pride, brush my teeth, and march over there to show him how to calm a fussy baby.#p#分页标题#e#
My fingers drum against my bed as I slink down the wall and nestle back under my covers. The moon glows bright through my slatted blinds and my room is much too lit for me to fall back asleep now.
The baby’s cries grow louder, nearly vibrating through the wall. He’s probably just on the other side of it now.
Flinging off the covers again, I drag in a cleansing breath and decide to show him some mercy.
Screw oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. This is my apology.
FIVE
Crew
Emme cries in my arms.
I’m not good with tears. I’ve never seen my father cry, and the number of times my sister has cried, I can count on one hand. My college girlfriend, who was all kinds of wrong for me, cried in my arms when I tried breaking things off.
We dated another four months after that.
I can walk into any casino in this city, any high-stakes poker tourney in this country, with my head held high and every intention of walking away with my name on the jackpot, but damn if I can handle someone crying in front of me.
“Shh . . .” I cradle Emme and sway back and forth. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, and all those books I bought are still stacked against the wall by the front door. Untouched.
Part of me wonders if Emme misses Ava, but I’m not sure how that would be possible. I can’t imagine Ava as a doting mother with little Emme on her hip every waking moment of the day. Not after watching her drop her off like a puppy at a shelter and practically sprint away in her red-bottomed heels.
Three knocks at the door are barely audible over the wailing in my ears. The clock on my phone reads a quarter past three. Shuffling down the hall and toward the door with Emme in the crook of my elbow, I peer out the peephole and see Calypso on the other side of the door.
From what I can see, she wears a scowl and her arms are folded tight across her chest. She’s come to yell at me about the noise, I’m sure of it.