Flynn never returned liked he promised.
Time was lost on me. Minutes dragging on while I sat here in my own personal hell.
My thoughts became a broken record. Replaying the last eight, nine—or whatever the fuck it was—months in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly how I got here.
In the dead-silent room, I can hear her breathing. Soft, almost like a flutter—and eerily harmonious.
It’s dark, night has fallen, and the silence disappears as my cell vibrates against the glass coffee table. It’s Flynn.
“I can’t get out of here.” The noise is loud; people and music blaring through the speaker making it difficult to understand him. “Hold on, let me move somewhere quieter.”
Impatiently, I wait for him to talk, sitting on the sofa with the baby beside me. We had done this for most of the day, sitting, sleeping—drinking the formula that Em helped me prepare, three dumps, and repeat.
Oh, and one violent burp that resulted in puke all over my shirt.
I stunk—and was utterly exhausted. I hadn’t had a single bite to eat. Each time I left the room, it’s almost like she sensed it, crying loudly until I cradled and rocked her back to sleep. I managed to down several bottles of water, dehydrated and barely managing to stay still. The surge of adrenalin followed by withdrawals, made it difficult to think straight.
“Okay, I’m back. Look, I’m sorry, they want me here for the rest of the night.”
“Just tell me where she is,” I demand, curling my fist into a ball to curb my anger towards him. “I need to find her.”
“Wes, I seriously don’t know. In the letter, she just told me she couldn’t raise the baby. She thought the baby needed love and she couldn’t give it. She apologized and said she needed to be on her own for a while.”
With a bated breath, I release, “She wouldn’t, you know, do anything, would she?”
I had been there. Standing on the ledge ready to end my life. I could almost see the fucker; his dark cloak draping over his face, luring me into his sweet hell.
The first night with Milana, when I took her to the cemetery, I wanted her to see the dark abyss I had found myself trapped in. She had to fucking save me from myself. So I knew, first hand, how easily we fall into a dark place.
“Stop.” Flynn’s voice wavers. “She loves Mom too much. She wouldn’t want to inflict pain. She’s around, and knowing Milana, she’ll find her way back to Mom.”
Of course, I should have known that. If there was one thing that should have been clear as day—it was Milana’s love for her mother. Something I couldn’t grasp.
Family—what the fuck was that again?
But then again—I knew very little about her. I was a fucking fool to let her go. I wanted this perfect soul to guide me back and couldn’t fathom anyone needing me.
“I have to go. You can find her, Wes, she loves you. She’ll never admit it but she never got over you. The baby was just…not planned. That’s what stopped her coming back to you.”
Flynn made no sense. Babies brought people together, not distance them.
“Why would it stop her? If anything, it should have brought her back.”
“No,” he says with finality. “Milana’s biggest fear was inheriting Mom’s disease. If she didn’t procreate, no one would suffer. So, in a way, I saw this breakdown coming. I just lived in denial hoping she would fall in love with the baby and forget. You can do this…she needs you.”
The call ends; the tone lingering while I continue to sit motionless. It fucking hurts; reliving every moment we were together. Searching for signs, clues—or anything that would lead me to where I would find her. And for such a long time, I numbed the pain which made it all the worse. Finally, the feeling consumes me, stabbing me in every nerve and crippling my ability to think straight. I can’t escape it; screaming in the inside for some sort of relief.
And even through these thoughts, I was reeling—still unsure of how this all happened. At what point did this become us? A baby that belonged to the two of us. Something we created out of desperate times, unknowingly. What fucked-up plan did God have in store for us? Yeah, I still fucking prayed alright. I remember being a good little Catholic boy once upon a time.
Since the moment she left me, I didn’t allow myself to think about her. My ego, bruised and cut up, had nothing against that constant ache that lingered from her absence. I had spent the time away from home, on remote locations and would do anything I could to not remember her. Okay, I fucked up. Felicity was a big fuckup. A weak moment. I just wanted to rub salt into Farrah’s open wound. She wanted me, and I loved the fact that she begged like a goddamn whore.
And yeah, being the dick I am, it was payback for leaking mine and Milana’s relationship to the press. Not only did I begin fucking Felicity, I ran my mouth off to the press about Farrah’s baby daddy being a big Hollywood CEO.
It took the heat off me, and was fun while it lasted. Nothing more satisfying than watching Farrah scream like a psychopath in the middle of a LIVE show.
But like anything, it was short lived. Milana always found her way back to me through my lingering memories.
To know her, is to love her, and to never forget her.
Occasionally, something would trigger a memory of us. Like the time I was sitting at Olive Garden and Barry Manilow showed up. I remember smiling to myself, wishing she were with me so we could take a selfie. She would have fucking loved it.
Then, at other times, the taste of her skin became this focused memory and lingered on my tongue. Taunting, teasing, and itching every nerve inside of me. Those were the times I would get high, and that cycle—was nasty.
I stare at my wall for too long, and as the darkness shadows the room—my mind becomes radiantly clear.
We both needed our cards laid out, all or nothing, ride-or-die type of moment.
Fix what we both simultaneously broke.
I refuse for Katerina to grow up damaged like I had become. Gina may have fucked me up for good, but I’ll be damned if my daughter has to experience the same fucked-up life I had endured.
And I swear, I will fucking slit Gina’s throat if she dare hurt my kid. Not only her, but her pathetic excuse of a husband. I’m done with her emotional blackmail. She may have allowed me to be abused as a kid, but that cycle needed to fucking break.
As for Carson, the sleazy prick, I made sure he got what was coming to him. Tax fraud: it’s a fucking little bitch when the IRS find out what dodgy deals he’s been doing behind their backs. Jail time would suit him. At least he’ll get fucked in the ass more times than he’s attempted to rape women in Hollywood. The man deserved everything he got. I just should have seen the signs. Never let him lay a single finger on Milana. God, I’d fucked up so many times. I should have fucking killed the bastard right there and then.
Okay, stop.
Focus—I need to find her.
I text my new personal assistant, Deidre, asking her to book a private plane to Alaska. If Milana would be found anywhere, I suspected it would be near, if not with—her mom.
Deidre is like my knight in shining armor, or whatever the fuck that saying is. Though I was glad to have chosen an older woman to be my personal assistant, my biggest problem was whether she should retire in a year to Boca or Palm Springs. She was efficient, made sense of my chaotic life, and invited me to dinner once a week with her and her husband. He was ex-military but played a mean game of chess.
She’s a blessing, and nothing like the women before her that just wanted to suck my dick and have me take them in like a stray cat.
I wanted to explain to Deidre my reason for going, knowing that she would be supportive, but she did her duty, booked the plane which was due to leave in two hours.
Fuck. How would I pack a bag, shower, and take care of the baby?
I contemplated calling Em, but knew she would give me her typical bullshit response and ramble on about me taking charge of my life. That, and Carrington would probably come find me with a baseball bat. The fucker was a possessive prick. Ironic, considering Em was mine first.
So, I made the executive decision to leave the baby in her carrier, watching her stir softly while I brought it into the bathroom. I spent one minute in total, not my usual hour and jacking off. As soon as I got out, I threw on whatever clean I could find, jeans, white tee and my grey hoody. Grabbing a small backpack, I throw in boxers, tooth brush, and a spare set of clothes.
My driver, Jerry, arrives promptly, looking at me with curiosity.
“Don’t ask.”
Within an hour, we made it to LAX without any attention from the paparazzi. As the plane begins to take off, Katerina sleeps peacefully and gives me the much-needed time to close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
My eyes open upon the captain announcing our descent, five hours later. Jesus Christ, the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. My body ached all over, and even when I stretched my arms above my head—I couldn’t remove the stiff neck or painful lower back that irritated me.
It was very early in the morning, the sun only just rising behind the mountains. I hadn’t even thought of a plan. I was running low on diapers and formula. Katerina needed a feeding, and a bath. Fuck, I forgot how often Em said I should bathe her.
Flynn had texted me the address of Phoebe—Milana’s best friend—suggesting I go visit her first. If anyone knew Milana—it would be her.
A driver is waiting on the tarmac, and as soon as we are cleared for exiting, I make my way to the car and direct him to the nearest open drugstore.
“Yes, sir. It’s about five miles from here.”
I had no idea babies could sleep for long stretches, but remember Em’s advice: “You need to feed her every four hours, even if she’s sleeping.”
I whip out the bottle, carefully measuring the formula while sitting in the back of the car. The water is reasonably warm; this black insulated bag that housed her bottles a godsend.
I’m desperate to get to Phoebe’s house but knew that Katerina needed feeding. Pulling her out of her carrier, she squirms with an odd expression, then lets out a long-winded fart which sounded airy and runny.
Fuck—here we go again.
I swear, this kid shits like twenty-four-seven. As soon as she’s done, the last diaper comes out and I’m changing this gross yellow shit that looks revolting. The bile in my throat rises, and I’m dry heaving trying to clean her up. Goddammit, it’s so fucking difficult. What did I know about cleaning girl parts? Fuck, I swear—this is not as easy as Em made it out to be.
To make it all the worse, it got on her jumpsuit.
I changed her outfit, taking a good ten minutes to figure out what button goes where, my frustration mounting as her cries sound louder. Finally, I’m done and shove the bottle in her mouth, welcoming the silence.
After a full feed, burp, then burp again—she’s settled.
It fucking wasted an hour.
I ask the driver to mind her while I quickly duck inside the drugstore. The assistant who is young and notices who I am, offers some advice on different brands. There is no time for this bullshit, so I purchase what she recommends only to be asked for a selfie. I decline, telling her it’s for personal reasons. My biggest worry was the paparazzi tracking me down.
I didn’t want anyone scaring Milana away and the paps were ruthless pigs.
She appeared embarrassed; cheeks flushing red and barely making eye contact after that. And unlike my normal behavior, I pull her into a hug, kiss her cheek, and say thank you.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks, opening the door for me.
I read out the address that Flynn texted me.
“And quick, please.”
“You must be Phoebe.”
Her face tightens; arms folded with an irritated stance as she blocks the doorway. Milana never described her. Quite ordinary with ginger-colored hair and bright green eyes. Much like Milana, there was an innocence about her. I bet the woman has never been laid. She had that prissy, uptight look about her. The PJs she wore with unicorns all over them a dead giveaway.
“Yes. And you must be the douche who knocked up my best friend.”
“Kinda harsh, considering it takes two to tango?” I smirk, not appreciating the label.
“Yeah, it also takes two to parent…”
Quick to intercept, I grit, “If you know you have a kid.”
“Oh c’mon Wesley,” she drags, raising her voice, with a matching cold stare. “You would have told her to abort the baby. She doesn’t fit into your lifestyle.”
My head shakes, unwillingly; a lack of respect for this nobody standing in front of me thinking they know who I am and what I would have done. Yeah, alright, kids weren’t on my agenda. Big fucking deal.
Phoebe’s eye divert to the carrier; narrowing her brows in confusion. “Why do you have her, anyway?”
“So you’re not aware that your best friend dumped her baby with her brother and ran away?” I tell her, frustrated at this conversation.
Phoebe appears stumped by the revelation, pulling her hair into her mouth and chewing it, annoyingly.
“She said she would be away for a few days, she needed to get away and clear her head. She never mentioned leaving Katerina,” she says, faintly.
“Well, clearing her head meant dumping our kid. Where is she?”
“I don’t know…” she stammers, nervous and upset. “I knew it.”
“You knew what?”
“That she wasn’t coping. Mom said that she was probably going through postpartum depression given everything that has happened.”
Phoebe extends her arm, prompting me to come inside, finally.
The house is small, with brown furniture and pictures hung all over the wall. There’s a glass cabinet in the corner; housing creepy porcelain dolls dressed in fancy dresses.
An older man, assuming her dad, is sitting in his rocker and reading a book with a pipe and steaming coffee beside him. There’s a sweet smell in the air, and moments later, Phoebe’s mom comes out with a plate of breakfast which she hands to her husband.
They all had matching ginger hair. Comical—to say the least.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were expecting a visitor, honey?”
“Neither was I. Mom, Dad—this is Wesley. Katerina’s…” She coughs, purposely, rolling her eyes. “Father.”
I’d like to think it wasn’t intentional, the shock of the news which explained their expression. Eyes wide, mouth gaping and silence that followed. Phoebe’s dad is quick to break the stance, placing the pipe back into his mouth.
“Mom, Milly’s gone missing. She left the baby with Flynn. We need to find her. Can you watch her for a few hours?”
Phoebe’s mom clutches her chest, worried. “Honey, should we call the police?”
“No Mom, it’s not like that.” Phoebe shakes her head with a forced smile, turning to me for reassurance.
“Um no,” I speak up, clearing my throat. “We will find her, won’t we, Phoebe?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure she’s just visiting her mom. You know, after the news and all.”
What news? I wanted to ask Phoebe, but time is of the essence and we needed to get out of here.
“Of course, sweetie. Come here, baby girl. I’ll run to the store and grab some extra diapers and formula.”
Handing the carrier over, something odd washes over me. Worry, panic—it felt sickening and begins to make my stomach curl. What is the feeling? It’s almost like an anxiety, from separating.
“I already packed plenty, stopped off at the drugstore and got some.” I hand the bag over.
“Oh, well aren’t we the organized parent,” Phoebe snickers. “I’ll go get changed.”
“Please,” I tell her with a sarcastic smile.
Good. I wasn’t going anywhere with her dressed like that. No matter how desperate I was. That getup is not cute.
Phoebe’s mom takes the carrier, lifting Katerina out and cradling her. She smiles, sings a nursery rhyme of some sort before Phoebe’s dad rattles off about not getting clucky ’cause his shop is dusty and old.
Ten minutes later, Phoebe enters the room again, this time dressed in a pair of jeans and a Rams jumper. My favorite team. Maybe this bitch wasn’t so bad after all.
“You ready?” Phoebe asks, grabbing the keys off the nightstand.
I take a moment to watch Phoebe’s mom with Katerina. She’ll be okay, right? I mean, it’s just a couple of hours. Why the hell is this bothering me so much?
It’s almost like I’m going to miss her.
“Let’s go,” I tell Phoebe, following her out the door until we’re standing in front of a beaten old red Toyota.
“What the hell is this?”
“My car. And please, Susan doesn’t like to be looked at that way.”
“Susan? You named this piece of shit Susan?”
“Oh, sorry Wesley Rich,” Phoebe mocks with a pout. “We can’t all drive Porches like you. Get the fuck in and let’s go find my best friend.”
“Fine, but if I die, it’s all your fault.”
She rubs her hands together, purposely lifting her brows, pleased. “Yes, because dying inside Susan would be fun. For fuck’s sake, grow a dick and get in the car.”
This bitch would be the death of me.
But I no longer cared.
I was one step away from finding Milana.
And that’s all that mattered.