Page 11 of The Archer and his Rosebud

I’ve done what I can. Contrary to what she said, I’m not a knight. I can’t save every woman who needs help, and in truth, getting involved in her life might not be the best thing. We’re neighbors, but we’re strangers. Complicated is written all over her and her daughter’s pretty faces, and I refuse to add complications to Willa’s life. I’m going to give her space. She has my number. If she needs me, she knows where to find me.

ChapterFive

WILLA

After a long dayand in desperate need of washing my body, I gain the courage to bring Clem into the shower with me. The experience is equal parts the best and worst idea I’ve come up with. While I’m clean and she doesn’t let out a single cry, trying to hold onto her tiny, slippery body is damn near impossible. I almost drop her at least three times. Never again. I’d never forgive myself.

Clem allows me five minutes to get dressed and brush my wet hair before she’s bored of the floor. Silver lining to my life? While I’m unable to dance, she gives me a daily workout by holding her night and day.

Bringing her out of the bedroom, I grab a greek yogurt from the fridge. Breastfeeding makes me hungryall the time, and so damn thirsty. I refill my jug of water—the same clear, plastic jug I got at the hospital—and head to the living room, stopping by the window between the two rooms. A man in a backward baseball cap and two boys playing catch on a grassy patch outside snag my attention. Archer. The three form a triangle, passing from one to the next, though I can tell they’re going easy by throwing underhanded to Eli.

I should’ve taken him up on his offer the other day. It’d be good to get out, but on the realistic hand, getting attached in my current state would not help my situation. This man has no need for a new, not quite twenty-one-year-old mom to hitch her wagon to his. I’m not a hot mess. I’m simply a mess.

He may be generous and kind, but I don’t have to take advantage. How does that continue to make me look? Backing down from a challenge isn’t in me. I beat out five seniors in high school to win President of the Debate Club my junior year. I can dothis. I have no choice. I have to learn to get used to this life. She wasn’t a part of my plan, but I chose Clem, and I can be strong for her.

But I do need to get out in the worst way. Most of my friends left Vermont for the summer, and the local ones haven’t called since the baby shower Priya threw at the end of spring semester. Even if they did call, it’s not like they’d want to hang out with a sleep-deprived parent and fussy newborn. They dropped like flies after the two pink lines appeared, making up—sometimes the most unbelievable—excuses not to be around my depressed ass. Though, I suppose it began before that. The exodus started when Ty and I ended. Before I peed on a stick, before the self-pity. Stop dating the frat boy, and lose half your friends. That should be a warning posted on campus. Without Ty, our common pastimes and interests shifted. His lifestyle wasn’t one I subscribed to before I met him.Oh, what sexy boys will do to a rose-colored-glasses girl.

Even if I were the party girl I pretended to be with Ty, who wants to party with a baby momma who can’t drink? That’s not what this twenty-year-old spends her weekends doing these days. Eat, sleep, change diapers, cry. Repeat.

There has to be something I’m missing. As hard as the newborn phase is, many people told me to savor this time. It’s the best one. If this is the best, why is it that all I want to do is cry? Why is it that I look at Clem and I don’t even know who she is? She came out of my body, but I don’t recognize her.

* * *

A possible dairyand soy sensitivity. The pediatrician couldn’t tell me if it was one or both. Dairy is what my body makes, and they’re telling me Clementine’s been screaming and crying because everything I feed her hurts her tummy.

Granted, at least I know I’m not the problem. She’s not fussing because she hatesme. It’s because her body hates my breast milk. Go figure.

The solution? Either I go on a dairy-free/soy-free diet or give her a hypoallergenic formula. The problem with that is it costs a fortune. I’m on a tight budget as it is, and an allergy-friendly formula is double the cost of a regular one. I found that fun tidbit out when I stopped at the store to buy some to test the doctor’s theory. It wouldn’t be a Monday, or any day ending in -day, if I didn’t cry. Plus, I struggle to take care of myselfwithoutdietary restrictions. The pressures of being a single mom keep mounting.

How am I supposed to do this?

Diaper bagand grocery sack looped around my arm, I reach for the passenger side door to get Clem, but the distinctpopof the locks stops me. I tug on the handle, but it won’t budge.No, no. No, no, no.I reach for the car keys in the side pocket of my diaper bag, but nothing. I check the other, but my cell phone is all I find. I try the handle again, then rush to the driver’s side, but it’s no use. My eyes latch on the keys in the center console. So out of it, I must’ve dropped them there when I was grabbing the bags.

At that moment, Clem wakes and lets out a wail. I tap on the window. “I’m right here, baby girl. I’m right here. It’s going to be okay.”

She disagrees, her tiny arms and legs flailing, her face turning red. It’s eighty-five degrees today, and I locked my baby in a car. What kind of mother locks her baby in a car?

My heart hammers in my chest as I spin in circles like the surrounding vehicles will give me answers.What do I do? What do I do?Patting the side pockets of my diaper bag once more, I find my phone and hit the contacts. Archer is listed at the top. With tears building behind my eyes, I press his number.

“This is Archer.”

His voice sends a rush of tears down my face. “I locked Clem in the car, and I left the keys inside. I can’t get to her. I can’t get her out!”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Where are you?”

“The parking lot.”

“Downstairs?” A sniffled squeak is all the confirmation he receives. “I’m on my way.”

It doesn’t take more than a couple minutes, though it might as well be an eternity, when the clomp of tennis shoes on asphalt draws closer. I turn as Archer sprints across the parking lot, his boys trailing.

“How long has she been in there?” he asks before making it to my side.

“A few minutes.” And the temperature is rising.

Waving Eli and Nolan to stand back, Archer darts to the opposite side of the car with a metal tool at his side.

“What are you doing?”

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