Page 77 of Best Friends
Malcolm comes over, already rolling up his sleeves. “Come here, little man,” he says, gently taking Jamie from my arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling sheepishly. “It’s a bad one. Maybe you should wear a hazmat suit.”
“I would if I had one. But it’s fine. You just changed him. It’s my turn.” Malcolm winks at me as he carries Jamie to the changing table we set up in the corner of the living room. He talks to him the whole time in a soft voice. “You need to stop doing this so often. Diapers are expensive, Jamie.”
The doorbell rings just as Malcolm is lifting Jamie’s legs to get at the worst of the mess. “I’ll get the door,” I say.
“Thanks. I have my hands full over here.”
Malcolm has taken to fatherhood like a duck to water. His attitude is amazing. Better than mine some days, honestly. Malcolm was a nervous wreck the night I went into labor, but he’s been my rock ever since. Once we got the baby home, while I was panicking about every little cry and hiccup those first few weeks, Malcolm seemed to know what Jamie needed. He’s the one who figured out that Jamie likes to be bounced in a specific rhythm when he’s fussy. He’s also the one who discovered that Jamie is apparently a fan of Taylor Swift. If Jamie is crying, all it takes are a few Swift songs and he’s suddenly in a much better mood.
I open the front door to find Cheyenne standing on the porch with a bag from our favorite deli and a huge grin.
“Aunt Chey comes bearing gifts,” she announces, holding up the bag. “I assume cooking is tough with a newborn. I thought I’d bring a delicious treat we could all share.”
“Oh my god, yes.” I step aside to let her in. “Malcolm and I haven’t eaten anything but frozen burritos the last week.”
“He’s not wrong,” Malcolm calls from across the room, not looking up from Jamie’s diaper change.
Cheyenne laughs, taking in the scene. Our living room looks like a baby supply store exploded. There are burp cloths draped over every surface, a bouncy seat in the corner, and at least three different types of baby monitors scattered around. “How are you guys doing?”
“We’re tired,” I admit, following her into the kitchen to unpack the food. “But happy.”
“You look happy,” she observes, pulling out sandwiches and soup containers. “Happier than I’ve seen you in... well, ever.”
I think about that as I get out plates. She’s right. Despite the exhaustion and the constant worry about whether I’m doing everything wrong, I am happy. Stupidly, overwhelmingly happy.
“Ta-da!” Malcolm announces from the living room. “One clean baby, ready for his adoring public.”
We carry the food into the living room, joining Malcolm on the couch. He’s got Jamie dressed in a fresh onesie and looking considerably more comfortable. Malcolm has his shirt off now which gets a whistle from Chey.
“To what do I owe the honor of a burlesque show?” she asks teasingly.
He grins. “Thanks to Jamie, I got a little poop on my shirt. I didn’t want to wear that around company.”
She laughs. “Otherwise you don’t mind?”
He shrugs and grabs a clean T-shirt from the pile of laundry on the couch. “If we didn’t have guests, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed.”
I sigh. “He’s not wrong. Baby poop is part of our life now.”
“I don’t envy you.” Cheyanne smiles as she settles beside me. “Jamie’s getting so big. Can I hold him? I’ve had lots of practice with my sister’s kids.”
“Don’t you want to eat first?” I ask, gesturing to the food on the coffee table.
“Nah, let’s visit a little, then eat. I gotta get my Jamie time in.”
I laugh. “Have at it.” I carefully transfer Jamie to her arms, watching as her face immediately softens. “He’s been more alert lately. Yesterday he tracked a toy with his eyes for ten whole seconds.”
“He’s pretty much a genius baby,” Malcolm says proudly, sitting on my other side. “Definitely gets that from me.”
I snort. “Please, you’re the eye candy in the relationship, not the brains.”
Malcolm grins. “I can live with that.” He leans over and grabs a plate of food. He slurps some soup, making a happy sound.
“Look at those little hands,” Cheyenne murmurs, letting Jamie wrap his fingers around her thumb. “God, I can never get over how tiny a newborn’s fingernails are. How do you even cut these things?”
“Very carefully,” Malcolm and I say in unison, then laugh.
