Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

20

Brody

I’ve just stepped out of the shower late Saturday afternoon, ready to roll to family dinner and a night of pretending not to want to lick Rachel all over, when my phone rings.

It’s Zoë.

Instantly my heart starts pounding, because Zoë never calls anymore. All I can think is that something bad has happened to Justin.

Then I remember that Justin isn’t my responsibility.

A sour pool forms in the pit of my stomach—but it doesn’t make my heart slow down. Now I’m scared shitless for Justin and sad.

I guess it’s not so easy to stop loving a kid, just because he isn’t yours.

“’Lo?” I answer the phone.

“Brody?”

Zoë’s voice is low and unalarmed, and I take my first breath since the phone buzzed. “Yeah?”

“I need a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to take Justin tonight.”

I waited for a text last night from Rachel, letting me know that Amanda or Hanna or Lucy had spilled the beans about Zoë and Justin, but it never came.

I don’t know whether that’s because they didn’t tell her or because she didn’t want to ask me about it, but the idea of showing up at Gabe’s with Justin feels totally overwhelming.

I already have to pretend about Rachel.

Pretending about Justin to Rachel feels like more than I can handle.

“Justin isn’t my job anymore, Zoë.”

“I know, Brody. I’ll pay you. To babysit.”

That sits even worse with me. To be paid to babysit for the kid I held in my arms when he was newborn and red-faced? The kid I watched while he slept, my breath syncing with his, and rocked for hours when he couldn’t sleep? “No fucking way.”

“Just this once, Brody, please. My girlfriends are going to the casino, and I haven’t been out in so long. I’m dying.”

“Ask your mom.”

“She and my dad are in California.”

“Where the fuck is Len?”

“He’s…” She hesitates. “He went back to his wife.”

I close my eyes.

I want to hit someone. Preferably Len Dix. Of course, I’ve already done that once.

Rachel was there that night. She saw me lose my shit. That’s the only thing I regret about hitting Len. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The feel of my knuckles connecting with his nose was beyond satisfying.

I rub a thumb over my knuckles.

I relished that bruise for days, but I wish Rachel hadn’t seen me out of my head with drink and grief and rage.

In the background, I hear Justin. Babbling. He sounds like he’s giving a speech, holding forth on something. And suddenly I want to see him. To hold him up over my head, nuzzle his belly, make him laugh that fat, jolly baby laugh of his.

I want it more than I care about my pride.

“Okay,” I say.

“Please, Brody,” she says, at the same time, because she obviously wasn’t expecting me to say yes.

“I said okay. Are you two alone there right now? I’ll come get him.”

“Yeah. I’ll pack up an overnight bag for him. And the port-a-crib.”

“I don’t need the crib.”

“He needs a crib,” she says.

“I have a crib.”

It comes out like a confession. It is. I’ll admit it: I bought a crib for Justin to sleep in even though I’m not his dad, even though I’ll never be his dad.

I guess I knew that someday soon Zoë would ask this favor of me, and there was no fucking way I’d be able to refuse.

She comesto the door with Justin and his face lights up when he sees me, which fucking kills me. It’s been at least a few weeks since I laid eyes on him, and he still looks utterly delighted. He holds out his arms and I take him from Zoë. He reaches up and takes a handful of my nose, then face plants in my cheek.

“He’s started doing that. My mom says he’s giving kisses.”

My chest hurts so bad. I touch Justin’s cheek. It’s made of satin, the softest fucking thing I’ve ever touched. Also a little sticky. Zoë is a good mom, but wiping Justin’s face isn’t one of her strengths. “Can you bring me a warm, wet washcloth?” I ask her.

To my surprise, she does it without getting defensive. We argued a lot when Justin was a newborn, which maybe should have been my first sign that we weren’t all headed for domestic bliss. But we felt like a family and I wanted us to be a family so badly that I was willing to ignore all the warning signs.

I wonder if we would have lasted, if Justin had really been mine. We’d only been together a couple of months when he was conceived. We barely knew each other.

I just didn’t realize exactly how little we knew each other.

I clean Justin’s chubby face, while he twists and whines in protest, then hand the washcloth back to Zoë.

She looks as tired as she did in Oscar’s the other night. She’s pretty—dark hair, pale skin, and a body that’s snapped back well from pregnancy with Justin—but when I look at her now, I can’t remember what drew me to her. It’s like someone hollowed out that part of my brain.

“Is the car seat installed?” she asks.

“Yeah. I did it before I drove over here.”

I was surprised to discover I still remembered exactly how to do it. Then again, I’d installed car seats in both Zoë’s car and mine, and then in her mom and dad’s cars, my mom’s car, and Amanda’s car.

My mom and Amanda have been asking constantly to see Justin.

Well, now they will.

It’s a relief of sorts, because it postpones my having to explain why I can’t bring Justin around anymore.

I need to explain, though.

I just can’t imagine saying the words.

She cheated on me, and it turns out Justin is Len’s.

I remind myself that if I don’t tell them myself, they’re going to find out some other way. My siblings are too connected to the rumor factory of this town for it to stay a secret for long, now that people are talking.

Justin hangs on my hair and bounces up and down, babbling. Drool runs down his face.

“Is he teething?’

She nods. “I put the baby Tylenol in the diaper bag.” She bends down, picks up the diaper bag, and puts it over my shoulder for me.

It feels all wrong, now. I don’t want her touching me.

“Thank you,” she says.

I can tell she means it.

“Yeah.”

I turn and go out.

I don’t say you’re welcome.