Page 1 of My Wife
1
LIAM
If I werethe type of guy who kept a journal, I wouldn’t be able to write today’s entry because my arm is asleep and hurts worse than stepping on a Lego brick—a new frontier of agony that I recently experienced.
In this house, enter at your own risk. Lesson learned. It’s shoes on all the time now.
Having slept on the floor for the thirteenth night in a row, I shouldn’t be surprised if I develop a full-body cramp or find a kid’s toy lodged somewhere indecent. Can’t afford that. Not today. After two weeks in the proverbial penalty box, I’m back on the ice.
I should be more excited. Truth is, I’m exhausted. I roll onto my back, trying to shake out the numbness in my arm which feels like I’m being stabbed with a thousand cold, tiny needles.
January in Nebraska is no joke and I’m wondering if the heating system in my new place is busted.
Last month, I moved into The Old Mill to be closer to the Ice Palace rather than commuting from Omaha. It’s a factory building in Cobbiton converted into an indoor shopping space on the lower floors, offices and studios for artisans on the middle level, and four massive lofts on the upper level.
I shiver and the hairs on the back of my neck lift. I sense someone staring at me. Well, not just anyone. Risking a glance, I look up at the bed across the room. Yup. He’s already awake, as usual, looking at me with wide blue-gray eyes.
I’m not keen on acknowledging that they’re the exact color of mine, but the resemblance is undeniable. But that’s where it ends. Whereas I’m almost six and a half feet tall, he’s pint-sized.
“Morning, kid.”
He blinks at me.
“We made it through another night,” I mutter.
Thumb in his mouth, he watches me as I sit up and give my arm a hard shake.
He seems to shrink into his covers but still watches my every move.
Going to be real. It’s unsettling.
The kid doesn’t speak but has full-on meltdowns if I leave the room at bedtime. After a few sleepless nights, I tried everything. Standing in the doorway until he dozed off—turns out the floor squeaks. Sat in a chair inside the room—my footsteps must’ve tipped him off even though I tried to be stealthy.
Totally exhausted one night, I fell asleep slouched against the wall. It inadvertently worked like a charm, and the kid finally calmed down and slept.
I’m going to figure out a solution and it’s not getting an air mattress. I’m a grown man with a king-sized bed in the master bedroom and I intend to sleep in it.
Seriously, I will.
First, we need to get our bearings. The best way I know to do that is on the ice, which will finally again happen today. However, this may present a new problem. I’ve been keeping my newfound fatherhood situation on the hush.
Arm still aching with pins and needles, I continue to flap it, elbow jutted out.
The kid’s lips widen around his thumb and it falls out as the corners of his lips lift ever so slightly. I’ve yet to see him smile. Then again, I’ve been told I have a resting grump face.
The puck doesn’t fall far from the stick … or something.
On my feet now, I flap my arm, desperate for it to wake up. I’m no use running defense with only one functional limb.
The kid gets to his feet and mimics me but flaps both arms. I know next to nothing about children except that I once was one long, long ago, in a lifetime far, far away.
Is he mocking me?
In a swift motion, I scowl and flap my arm more forcefully than I would to one of the guys in the locker room.
The kid’s face falls and his eyes widen with alarm.
Wrong move, Ellis.
