Ellie
Tired and butt-sore, my arms heavy with little Peter, I was just breathing a sigh after getting my little fuss-bugger to latch on and relieve us both: him, of his hunger, and me of my capacity-packed mammaries.
I loved that I could breastfeed this guy, but it was not the easiest thing to do in public spaces. I was still learning how to adjust, and comfort was not always attainable without the huge nursing pillow, which was way too big and awkward to carry around outside. So I held him as best I could, with a light blanket draped from over my shoulder to shield the view, should Jack ever deign to show up.
Damn it, I knew I should have called first to see if he was here, but that wasn’t really an option, seeing as I was currently coasting without a phone. But once I had made the decision that today was the day, I had forced myself to go through with it. So I waited, uncomfortable as it may have been. I was finally doing this.
Truth: I wanted to do this. I wanted Peter to be known, to have more in his life than just me. To have a man to look up to. It was fair, and it was right. And Keith would have wanted it, too. I hadn’t known Keith very well, but that much I knew in my heart.
God, I hoped Jack was as good a man as Keith had made him out to be. I was really starting to have my doubts. The way the people in this shop had looked at me and Peter was not friendly-like. And I could feel the smirks all around, even though I had placed myself so I didn’t have to see them.
They, in turn, couldn’t see my discomfort, either. I hoped they saw only an awesome new mommy and strong woman. That was what I was attempting to put out anyway—strong spine, strong gaze, and totally in charge of all chaos that is baby.
The front area of the shop had been warmly lit with huge windows welcoming in the morning sunshine. On the right was a large glass cabinet-countertop, featuring assorted piercing rings and gauges and stuff you’d find in head shops the world around. To the left was a seating area with a black leather sofa, loveseat, and armchair set, and coffee and end tables topped with ink mags and huge, overstuffed, three-ring portfolio binders.
The walls were covered in tat art, too. It wasn’t a huge space, but it looked like the shop went deep. A window-topped partition wall divided the front from the workstations inside, to which a glass door served as entry. It was pretty much what one would expect of any decent tattoo parlor; not noticeably fancy, but also not a shack.
For his part, Peter had done an excellent job when we came in. He had been awake and alert—a bonus, from my perspective. His big baby blues were so much like his daddy’s that I thought for sure anyone who had known Keith would have automatically recognized his son. Both the woman behind the glass cabinet/counter and the big tattooed hulk of a man, who had been leaning on the counter chatting with her, had taken good long looks at my baby before sharing a surprised, silent communication between themselves. I had thought this was a good sign.
And then they had both looked at me with a load of suspicion and…was that anger? Okaaay. Awesome.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice was hard, her words shooting at me staccato.
“I’m here to see Jack Edwards.”
“You don’t have an appointment.” This much I knew.
“No, I don’t. I was hoping he could give me just a few minutes. Is he in?”
“Actually, no, he’s not.” She shot a glare at the big guy. “But he should be.”
The guy shoved his chin out, flared his nostrils, and took in a deep breath. He’d been staring at Peter’s little face, but now looked at me with steel in his eyes.
“He’ll be here. But it might be awhile.” He watched me, as if determining my resolve.
“I’ll wait. His office is in the back, right? I’ll just wait there.” I wanted to get away from these people and their prying eyes. What I had to say had only to do with Jack. Peter was not for public consumption.
Also, I didn’t want my baby out in this space for long. He was still so little, so fragile. My mama-bear protectiveness was up in full steam, and we’d only been in the shop for less than two minutes. No way did I want to be hanging out in front, with its swinging doors, for however long “awhile” might take.
So I powered past these two guardians and marched through the large middle section of the shop—the inking stations. I could see a central door in the back, leading to what had to be Jack’s office. I didn’t hear either of them try to stop me, so I figured everybody was happy with my executive decision.
Bingo; nailed it in one.
Jack’s office was a cramped, ugly mess: overhead fluorescent bar lighting—with the accompanying hum from hell; wood paneling, like your basic 1970s basement; a tall gray metal filing cabinet with papers stacked and unstacked around and on top of it; and a matching desk with fake wood laminate top, likewise covered with paper.
I peered at what was easily visible and saw a lot of spreadsheet tables and tattoo art. Half-buried under all that, there was a keyboard and flat-screen monitor, and a random assortment of paperclips and pencils served as toppings. About the only thing missing was organization.
If the office was any reflection of the man, this was not a good sign. I did the best I could to situate myself comfortably with Peter, using the second chair facing the desk for my load of baby gear. All things considered, we had what we needed for a while, and I settled in to wait.
It took forever. My butt was getting sore, and it was all I could do to keep Peter from fussing every time the tattoo guns fired on. Thankfully, someone had come over soon after we had settled in the office and shut the door behind me, apparently aware that the noises might trigger other, unwelcomed, noises from our direction. So at least there was that barrier, plus some small measure of privacy for me and my little guy.
I took a deep breath and focused back on my baby. No matter what, Peter and I would be okay. We would. We had to be. My baby was a fighter, and had made it this far. We’d get through this, too, one way or another.
I was getting fidgety myself, waiting so long for Jack to show up. I wondered what the issue was. The pixie woman up front had seemed pissed at his absence as well. There was a story there, I was sure. Whatever it was, the man seemed confident that Jack would be showing up at some point, so I resigned myself to bide the time.
But I was getting steamed, myself, even though I knew he had no idea I’d been coming in. Rationally, I had no reason to get so upset. But I was, more and more with each passing minute.
Suddenly, I felt a whoosh at my back, and I could feel a strong presence there. It could only be Jack.
Even though I had yet to lay eyes on this man, his energy radiated in a way that put my whole being on alert. Since Peter was nursing, I forced myself to stay still and calm, but my heart had already started beating faster; this was really, finally, going to happen—now.
And then his voice, deep and strong, boomed at me.
“I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you got the wrong guy, lady. Time for you to go. Get the fuck out of my office.”
My jaw dropped and my eyes about popped out of my head, and I was glad he could only see the back of me. This guy sounded downright mean—and scary.
This was Jack? Things were not off to a good start. I could feel the tears begin to burn behind my eyes, and my throat tightened.
I didn’t get up; I couldn’t, really. But my body must have jerked, and Peter had unlatched, and he started to cry. I wasn’t sure what to do: get the baby back onto my nipple, or stand up and face off with the ugly, distempered uncle in our midst.
I decided on the latter.
As gracefully and quickly as I could—and it wasn’t very much of either, with baby in arms—I adjusted my bra and re-settled my top, stood up, and turned to see the man himself.
Jeez, he was huge. Tall, probably six-three or -four—taller than Keith had been by a few inches, I was pretty sure. But also, he was built. Cut. Defined. He probably lived in a gym, when he wasn’t here at the shop. He didn’t look like Schwarzenegger—this was not steroid-big—he more aptly resembled a super-fit linebacker out of uniform. He shared some features with Keith: gorgeous, widely-spaced big blue eyes, strong brow ridge, strong jaw. He had dampened, dark, silky hair that fell over his forehead, ears, and nape. What skin I could see was tanned. His full lips cried to be bitten and licked, and he had a few days’ growth of beard. He looked hot. My panties immediately dampened, and I’m pretty sure I blushed. I couldn’t help it.
Nevertheless, that didn’t negate that he was rude. And wrong. And…and…and rude.
Gah. My brain was not working so well.
“Excuse me, but I don’t think I heard you right. Did you just tell me to get the fuck out of your office, Jack?”
His eyes were covered in shades, so I couldn’t read them for a clear reaction, but I’m pretty sure it was my use of his name that gave him pause. Score one for me.
Peter, by this time, was in a full-on squall. I glared at Jack, grabbed my things from the other chair, shoving a spit blanket and rattle and snot sucker back into the bag one-handed, muttering the whole time. “Jerk, crap, dammit, jerk.”
I slung the bag on my shoulder and turned my attention back to Jack. “For your information, I do not have the wrong guy. You are Jack Edwards? Yes? So, no. I’ve got the right guy. But it seems you are not the guy I thought you would be. This is your nephew, Jack. This is your brother Keith’s baby. I thought you might like to meet him, maybe even get to know him as he grows up.” I broke off, and tears threatened to pour. “If he grows up.”
God, I hated sounding dramatic, but this was our truth. I needed always to be honest about this, to keep myself braced. I fought to keep my voice from choking—but I didn’t stop. “I need your help, Jack—but obviously, you don’t care. Okay. Fine. Keith told me you were a great guy, which, it turns out, is not the case. So, no, I don’t want my son to know you. I’ll find another way, you ass. Congratulations, Jack, you are getting your wish. We’re outta here. And fuck you, too.”
As I said, I was feeling a little bit emotional.
He had backed up enough for me to charge out of his space and I was mid-way through the shop before I realized that I was playing this all wrong. He was right on a majorly important point: he didn’t know me, he’d never seen me before, and I was there at my own instigation. I was there because I needed him—no, Peter needed him—well, in any case, we needed him, and it was my responsibility to slow down, back it up, and get him to hear what I’d come to say.
Jack had had no warning, no indication of our existence up until today, I was pretty sure. Plus, he really needed to meet his nephew. I had to give this—give Jack—a second chance.
I was slowing my pace with each passing step, but I was still on the verge of tears, and that was not how I wanted this to go down. So I kept walking to the front desk, hoping I’d make it out of the shop before I had an absolute breakdown. I figured I’d have myself a little cry, get myself under control, and then go back in for round two.
I didn’t make it out, unfortunately.
The pixie guard upfront watched me as I got closer—she clearly had heard the confrontation, and she saw everything in my face as I made my way up front. Even before I got there, she had grabbed some tissues and came out from behind her counter. As soon as I breached the partition wall, she took hold of my freer upper arm and steered me to the loveseat, gently pushing me down to sit and taking the bag from my shoulder.
“I can’t believe what an asshole he is sometimes.” She looked into my eyes, reassuring me that she was on my side. I was totally confused at this point.
But the tears had already started to rain down my face, and poor Peter was crying so hard from the movement—and I’m sure he could sense my upset as well—so with some embarrassment, I accepted the tissues to wipe my face.
The suddenly-nice pixie pulled a fast one and swept Peter from my arm, settling him comfortably and capably in her own body cradle. She was obviously experienced with babies, somehow, despite the fact that there was nothing about her that might suggest it. She was smiling and cooing at him, giving his rooting mouth the tip of her pinkie finger to suck, and watching his face closely as he closed a tiny fist around it. She looked up at me quickly, and noted my expression of horror.
“Don’t worry, babe. My hands are super clean. I’ve been anti-bacterializing for the past two hours, hoping I’d get a chance to hold your little bugaboo. God, he’s beautiful. Don’t worry!”
That was my cue for a light laugh. I was relieved, sure, at the drop in anxiety in the room, but also I had a tendency to laugh when nervous. I did not know what I was doing, or how to fix this. So I chuckled, and choked myself a little bit, and watched my boy in this unknown woman’s arms, biting my lower lip and at a complete loss for my next step.