Rhett

“Hey, hey.” Locke shows up at my place looking every bit the part of a single father who has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s giving it his best anyway. He balances his daughter, Joa, on one hip, a black leather diaper bag hanging off his opposite arm.

I try to grab the bag, but he hands me my niece instead.

“She doesn’t bite,” he says. “Not often anyway.”

Joa smiles at me, her big brown eyes lighting like they always do when she sees me. I’ve never been great with kids, and I always feel awkward around babies, but Joa adores the hell out of me for some reason.

“I think she pooped,” I tell Locke, holding my breath. “Yeah. She pooped.”

Joa laughs, and I hand her off.

Watching Locke as a father is comical, but he’s doing a good job so far. We were all shocked when he told us he knocked up this up-and-coming pop star he met on his own dating app, and we were even more shocked when she said she wanted to give the baby up for adoption so she could focus on her budding stardom but Locke wouldn’t allow it.

Now Joa’s all his. And she’s his whole world.

He changes her on my kitchen island. Whatever works. And places her on the ground when he’s done. She makes a beeline toward my living room where I keep a small basket of baby toys, mostly ones Locke’s left behind during previous visits.

“I didn’t know she was walking,” I say.

He rests his hands on his hips, watching her proudly. “Yeah, just started last week.”

“Man, you need to get some color in here. This place is depressing,” he says like he always does every time he comes here. “Gray couch. Gray walls. Gray floors. Live a little, Rhett.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” I take a seat in one of the chairs. Joa crawls under the coffee table, examining something she finds for all of two seconds until Locke swipes it out of her slobbery hand.

My laptop rests on the side table to my left, the screen open right where I left it—on Ayla’s Facebook page. I quickly shut the lid before Locke notices.

I was bored earlier, so I was looking her up. Her page is full of photos, and she always looks so happy in them. Everyone loves her. She has tens of thousands of followers. Sometimes she posts little status updates about what she ate for breakfast or what her work station looks like today. Sometimes she’ll post an interesting observation or a funny story about something embarrassing she did.

Two weeks ago, she walked out of my hotel room in Seattle. Once again, I let her go.

It felt like the right thing to do at the time. It wasn’t like I could flip some switch and go from hate-fucking her brains out to making sweet, sensual Barry White love to her.

Plus, I was too proud.

I needed to validate my anger, and chasing after her would’ve undone every emotion I’ve felt this past year and a half. It would’ve proved her right—that she’s worthy of forgiveness. And I’m not ready yet.

“Oh, hey, can you watch Joa tonight?” Locke asks.

“What?”

He smirks. “She’ll be in bed by seven thirty. I’m meeting this girl tonight for drinks.”

“Locke.”

“She’s an old friend. It’s not like that.”

“Yeah. Sure, she is.” I don’t buy it. “Dude, I’ve never watched a kid before. Never changed a diaper. Never made a bottle.”

“Seriously. I’ll take care of all that before I go. Rhett, please. She’s the best sleeper ever, and she rarely wakes up in the middle of the night. If she does, just give her a bottle and lay her on your chest for a little bit and she’ll fall right asleep,” he says. “I’ll be home by midnight at the latest. And I’ll have my phone on me at all times.”

I pull in a deep breath. I’ve never babysat a day in my life, but she’s my niece and he’s my brother, and he’s been working his ass off at being the kind of father she deserves. Granted, he has a nanny during the week, but I know his nights and weekends are one hundred percent devoted to Joa.

He’s approximately less than half of the playboy he used to be, if I had to quantify it. He still dates, just not nearly as much, and Joa’s his number one priority.

“You go on many dates these days?” he asks. “I hope you’re getting out when you can because these girls here in Philly? Whew. Hot. And so nice.”

I smirk. “Nah.”

“Why the ... heck ... not?” His eyes go to Joa.

“Just haven’t felt like it.” I’ve yet to tell Locke that I’m still hung up on Ayla. He’ll give me shit, and I’m not in the mood to take his shit. He doesn’t believe in getting stuck on people, he believes in forging ahead like they never existed, and I can’t do that.

Wish I could sometimes.

“Probably for the best anyway,” Locke says, leaning on his elbows and scraping his hand along his smirking mouth. “I don’t think anyone would want to ... you know what ... with a porcupine.”

He can call me a prick all he wants. I don’t care. I’ll own it.

“Whatever.” I smirk.

We watch Joa play, and every so often she looks up at Locke, grinning like he hung the moon. There’s so much unspoken, real love between the two of them it gives me the chills. He’s lucky. He’s lucky to be loved so hard, so unconditionally. For the first time, I see what my brother has, and I want that. I want that pure, unrestricted love.

And I want it with Ayla.

I want her to look at me like she used to.

And I want to feel the way I used to feel when I was with her ... like nothing else mattered but the two of us.

Later, when Locke puts Joa to bed and hands me the baby monitor, I head to my room and flip on some TV to occupy my mind, simultaneously thumbing through the contacts in my phone.

For the past two weeks, every night at about this time, I get the urge to text Ayla, to tell her I want to make this work. But the urge always passes when my stubbornness kicks in, and I never do it.

But tonight, I can’t stop thinking about it. The urge hasn’t subsided yet. Maybe it’s a sign that my anger is dissipating and I’m ready to forgive her? I’m not exactly sure, but I furrow my brows, take a deep breath. and compose a text with two simple words—CALL ME—and I send it before I have a chance to change my mind.