Page 3 of The Archer and his Rosebud

This shouldn’t be so difficult. It’s clear this girl could use a little help. “It’s just that I’ve heard her crying, and I assume you’re by yourself. And—”

“You hear her crying?” Her bottom lip quivers. “Of course, you can. She’s a banshee.”

Dammit, why the tears? Tears have me crumbling like a sandcastle at the mercy of the waves. I step closer, touching her shoulder with care, and offering an apology. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” but she’s not listening.

“She keeps you awake, doesn’t she? Why wouldn’t she with our shared wall and popcorn for insulation. She cries non-stop, and when she wears herself out, all I want to do is sleep because I get no sleep.” Tears streak her pale face as she continues without a breath. “When I put her down, she cries. When I hold her, she cries. Not even those stupid baby bouncers help, and she hates the wrap, so I hold herevery waking moment. I can’t even use the bathroom without taking her with me.”

Her daughter jolts, a pout forming when her mother barks a mirthless laugh. “I mean, look at me.” The tears are fast and furious, and her rant continues as she shuffles backward, leaving her door open. I follow her inside with a creeping step, unsure if I’m welcome.

“I haven’t showered in over a week, I’ve barely slept, my body isn’t mine, my boobs aren’t mine, mymindis not mine.” She sinks to the floor and sets her daughter on a colorful play mat. “I can’t do this. I was stupid to think I could. I should go home. I’m alone, I’ll…” Her words become muffled as she buries her face in her hands.

Leaving the food on the surface closest to the door, I debate leaving, then survey the apartment. The kitchen sink and part of the counter contain dirty dishes, and a full trash bag sits tied by the door. Books and papers spill from open moving boxes pushed along the sparsely decorated living room’s exterior wall. My chest tightens at the thought of walking out on this overwhelmed mom and her newborn daughter.

Before I question my intentions, I sink to my knees a few feet across from her, telling her she can do this. Her shoulders shake with the force of her emotions, and as if understanding her mother’s misery, her daughter joins.

My boys are several years past the infant stage, but parenting instinct never fades. I reach out at the sound of those newborn cries and settle my hand over her tummy, my palm the size of her miniature body, jiggling her to and fro so she won’t feel alone as I attempt to talk her mother down from her emotional spiral.

Ducking my head in a fight to gain my neighbor’s attention, I clear my throat. “I’m Archer, by the way. Archer Thomas.” The woman continues crying behind her limp blonde hair, and I prod. “I never caught your name.”

No answer.

Failing with mom, I shift my attention to the floor, hovering over the innocent instigator of this meltdown. “You’ve sure done a number on your momma, little peanut. You know that? You should give her a break.”

The woman across from me sniffles, but I keep my head tilted, allowing her time to regroup without embarrassment.

“Since your momma hasn’t told me her name, how about I guess yours?” I give her soft tummy a squeeze, the urge to brush a finger over her velvety baby skin crazy strong, but out of respect, I resist.

“Let’s see, how about Charlize? Gigi? Um, Ariana?” Slate blue eyes focus as I speak. “No? Okay, I suppose you could be a Scarlett or an Angelina. You do have that pouty lip thing going on.”

A throaty chuckle gives me pause. “Her name is Clementine.”

“Clementine?” I lift my head and meet watery golden brown eyes and a partial smile.A vast improvement to the tears.“And her mother is?”

The smile grows. “Willa.”

I nod. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Willa. And Clementine. Wow, that is a big name for such a tiny lady. It’s no wonder you scream like a howler monkey.”

Willa’s laughter continues. “She really does. Also, did you just name every gorgeous woman in Hollywood you could think of?”

“Not everyone.”

Swiping her palms across her red cheeks, Willa tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth before sighing. “Thank you, Archer?” she verifies. “I’m sure this isn’t what you expected when you knocked on my door.”

“Don’t worry about it. We all have our bad days.”

“Or years?” She shrugs, combing her fingers through her hair.

“Or years,” I agree. “Do you want to shower?”

“Excuse me?” Willa shrinks. “I don’t know if I should be offended or embarrassed. Is this your way of laying out a hint, like when your friend’s coffee breath is atrocious, and you pull out mints as a casual suggestion?”

I balk. “Not my intention.”

“Or I should be flattered?” She plays her question off as a tease, but her tone has a touch of wariness.

I raise my hands in surrender and groan at the clumsy presentation of my offer. “I wasn’t trying to do either. I know it sounds crazy since you barely know me—”

She frowns. “I don’t know you at all.”

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