What the hell! Pain shoots through my entire face, lighting it on fire. I blink open my eyes, and staring at me from an inch away is a pair of large gray irises. The cherubic face surrounding them makes me question where the fuck I am. I squeeze my lids tight in the hopes the image will disappear. Except my nose and face erupt into another spasm of pain, and now I’ve figured out the reason. A chubby finger, whose owner is the cute little face I was confused about, keeps poking it. Then it gets worse. I rub my nose in an attempt to figure out why the hell it hurts every time she jabs it. Because, come on, the little tyke is what? Three? Does she have SuperBaby fingers or something? Only as soon as my palm hits it, I nearly levitate off the couch I’m lying on and slam into the ceiling. The toddler, with her dark ringlets, breaks into a fit of giggles. I’m glad someone thinks it’s funny.

What happened to my fucking nose? My fingers gently trace the outline of it, only to discover gauze, tape, and an impossibly swollen bulge. The source of my pain takes aim at me again, but this time I intercept it. That brings on another fit of laughter, and her grin is so wide I can count eight of her teeth. Even though my face hurts like a mother, I can’t help chuckling right along with her. She’s so damn cute, and when she jumps around in front of the couch, she’s comical as hell.

I glance around the room, taking in the scene. I’m at Andi’s place and vaguely remember coming back here after my trip to the hospital last night. It is with great difficulty I keep my eyes from slamming shut, but I recall making it to the couch, and then nothing. She must’ve covered me up and crashed herself. I guess her husband is still asleep too.

The little kid tears off to the kitchen, which is basically right across the room. She’s jabbering away, though I have no clue what the girl is saying. She runs fast, and right when I think she’s going to crash into something, she veers away and is saved. Finally, she heads straight for me and I put my hand over my nose for protection. I need a face guard around this one.

“Dada. Dada.” She points at me.

“No, I’m not Dada. He must still be asleep, Little One.”

“DaaaDaaa.” The kid sure has a set of lungs on her.

I reckon it’s time to get up. Since my nose throbs like hell, I grab the bottle of pain pills I notice sitting on the coffee table. Then I stagger into the kitchen. My ribs feel as though the old mule Dad used to have on the farm kicked me. No, make that ten of those old mules. It takes me several cabinets before I locate the one with the glasses. Then I guzzle down water, along with a pill. My head throbs, too, though I’m sure all the alcohol had something to do with that.

The baby girl is following me around everywhere. “Dada. Dada.”

“No, Cutie Girl, I’m not Dada. I’m Chase. And Chase needs to pee.”

“Potty. Potty. Poopie.”

“No poopie,” I say.

Suddenly, she squats down and says, “Poopie. Now.”

Oh, shit. Does this mean she has to go?

“You have to poopie?”

Her head bobs up and down. Now what the hell do I do? I’ve never spent much time with babies or changed a diaper, and she has to fucking poop!

Then she pops up and runs down the hall. Following her, because I don’t know what else to do, she goes into the bathroom and pulls down her pants.

“Do you really have to do this? Can’t you wait until your mama gets up or something? I think I’m going to wait out there.” I point to the hallway.

“Noooo. Poopie.”

Clearly, I’m a moron here. She has the biggest grin on her face as she sits on this tiny baby toilet. Oh my fucking hell. She’s going to poop in there, and then what? Where does it go? Is there a flush mechanism or something, or do I have to manually get rid of it? Fuck me now.

“Poopie gone.” She points to a container on the counter. “Poopie gone.” I check it out and it looks like a bunch of Skittles in there. Does she get Skittles in exchange for a poop? Is this what kids do these days? They poop and get Skittles? “Poopie gone,” she reminds me again.

“Okay, I got it. I take the lid off the container, take one out, and hand her one. I’ll be damned. I never got Skittles for pooping when I was little.

Then she just stares at me. Now what? She aims that finger—which I’m now coming to understand is a very useful tool for a toddler—at the roll of toilet paper.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not that too.

“Poopie gone.”

“Here we go.” I try to close my eyes, but this is a job that requires full-on visual capacity. I make it quick and let her know she’s ready to go. When she gets up, I shut the lid on that thing and get ready to use the facilities.

“Okay, let’s wash our hands.” She holds out her tiny hands and wiggles her fingers. I get the job done in record time.

But the kid looks at me like I’m not finished. Too fucking bad. I won’t do the rest of the story, as they say.

“Go in the other room. Chase has to pee.”

She stands there and giggles. By now, my bladder’s about to burst, so I nudge her out of the room so I can let it loose. She’s mumbling something from the other side of the door, but after a second, she loses interest and I hear her feet padding down the hall. Then I hear her yelling, “Dada pee-pee. Dada pee-pee.” Oh, boy.

When I get back to the living room, she’s running around, full of energy, and all I want to do is sleep. How do parents do it? I lie down and she pats me on the stomach with both hands about a dozen times.

“Dada. Hungy. Cherinos.”

“What?”

“Cherinos.” She slams her palms on my stomach. Then she picks up her shirt and says, “Hungy. Cherinos.”

She’s hungry and my guess is for Cheerios.

“All righty. Let Uncle Chase make you some breakfast.” She follows me this time into the kitchen. I hunt through the cabinets until I find her favorite cereal. When I show her the box, she claps her little hands and jumps excitedly.

There’s a high chair near the counter, so I pull it close and set her in it, making sure she’s secure. Then I get a bowl, cereal, and milk, along with a spoon. And while I’m at it, I grab one for me too. We sit and eat together. Or maybe I should say I eat, because there isn’t a word for what she does. Fucking hell, she makes a mess. That shit is everywhere. Cheerios fly all over the place. There is more food on the floor and her tray than in her stomach. Thank God I tied a towel around her neck or she would’ve been covered in the crap.

How do kids stay alive eating this way? I can’t fathom her getting much out of this since most of it never made it to her mouth. Do parents just feed them every hour or so? Her spoon plunges into the bowl and scoops up a dose, but from the bowl to her mouth, she gets maybe one Cheerio. When her bowl is empty, she looks at me and says, “Hungy.”

“No shit. None of it made it to your stomach.”

“No shit,” she repeats.

“Don’t say that.” Oh, God, Andi will have my balls if she hears her kid saying shit.

“More Cherinos.”

I guess it’s okay since she didn’t eat much, so I load her bowl up again. Only this time I don’t add as much milk. It doesn’t help. The little rings of oats are all over the place. Andi must have the cleanest kitchen in the world, picking up after this one. But when she’s halfway through this bowl, all of a sudden, she takes her hand and slams it on her bowl. And my question would be—who was the dumb motherfucker that invented cereal? He should be shot. Andi’s kitchen looks like Little One and I just had a giant food fight. She’s giggling at the mess she made, and I don’t know if I should leave her there strapped to her chair and go home or laugh right along with her.

I go with the second, because she has the most adorable expression on her face, not to mention a Cheerio plastered to her chin.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a mess, Little One?”

“Messh. DaaaDaaa.”

“Chase.” I pat my chest and say, “Chase.”

Her head swings back and forth and she counters with, “Dada.”

For some reason, she thinks I’m Dada. Maybe she thinks I look like her dad, though as I recall, I don’t resemble the guy Andi was in the park with.

“Chase needs to clean up Little One’s mess.”

“Messh.”

I spy a roll of paper towels on the counter and go to work. Those pain pills have made me a bit loopy, and when I bend down, my head spins a bit. Cheerios have made their way clear across the floor. No doubt Andi will find these things for years after this kid stops eating them. When the cleanup on the floor is done, I tackle Little One. She grins like a goon the whole time. She sure is a good-natured little kid. After the catastrophe is taken care of, I let her out of her chair and suppose it’s time to head out of here. But I don’t want to go without leaving Andi a note, thanking her.

There’s a notepad on her counter, along with a pen, so I jot down a quick note.

There’s another dilemma facing me: Little One. My friend used to crate his dog when he left, but I’m pretty damn sure you don’t do that with a kid. What should I do with her? I don’t want to barge into Andi’s bedroom. What if she and the husband are, well, I can’t think of that.

My ass falls back onto the couch as I try to figure out my next move. I’m sitting there thinking when I hear a key rattling the lock in the door. When it opens, I’m surprised to see Andi’s husband walk in.

“Hi.” He pauses before he says, “I’m Owen, and you must be Chase.”

“Yeah.” I stand and hold out my hand. We shake, then I add, “I was just about to leave.”

We’re interrupted by Little One yelling, “Mama. Mama.”

I turn to see Andi walk into the room, sleepy-eyed, with bed hair, and fuck me, all I want to do is take her in my arms and kiss that sweet mouth of hers. And doesn’t that make me the shittiest guy around when her damn husband stands not two feet away?

“Good morning, sweet Violet,” she says, as Little One runs into her arms. Violet. That’s the kid’s name.

Andi casts a guilt-ridden look my way. “I hope she wasn’t a problem. I never planned to sleep this late.”

“No worries. She’s a great kid.” Maybe now’s not the time to tell her about the little present waiting for her in the bathroom.

Then she asks, “You’ve met Owen?”

“Yes, just now.”

Owen steps forward and says, “I was only stopping by to drop this off. You forgot this when you picked up Violet last night.”

“Oh, thanks,” Andi says.

This is weird. Why would she pick up Violet?

We all stand in a circle, when Violet breaks the silence. “Dada,” she yells.

An awkward laugh comes out of me. Andi cocks her head and levels her eyes at me. She doesn’t speak for a moment, but when she does, she says, “Owen, thanks for dropping by. Can I call you later?”

“Oh.” Owen looks weird. “Yeah, sure.”

Owen dips his head and leaves. Now I’m extremely confused. Why would her husband leave, unless he’s not her husband at all?

When the door closes behind Owen, Violet runs around, as happy as can be.

“Chase, there’s something we need to talk about … something that’s long overdue.”

I couldn’t agree with her more. But I need answers about this Owen guy.

“Why did you send your husband away?”