Page 8 of The Archer and his Rosebud

“Yeah, there are some downsides, but I can’t complain.” Archer takes a napkin from the stack in the table’s center and wipes his mouth. “I noticed you have quite the pile of notebooks and binders in that open box in your living room. Are you in school?”

“Yeah, at UVM. I mean, not over the summer, but I’ll return to classes in the fall.”

Clem whimpers and Archer pats her back on instinct. “UVM? Vermont?”

“Oh, sorry, yeah, Vermont. UVM is what locals and anyone associated with the school call it. It’s Latin forUniversitas Viridis Montisor University of the Green Mountains.”

“Ahh, the green mountain state makes sense. What’s your major?”

“Strategic Communications. I want to do something in PR. At least that was my plan before Clementine happened.”

“So, you’re in Vermont for school. Where’s home?”

“Grand Rapids, Michigan. That’s where my mom and brother are.”

Nodding, Archer rubs his lips together like he’s holding back a question. When he takes another bite, I ponder what he’s thinking. He’s probably wondering about my baby’s daddy, and if I wasn’t teetering on the edge of crying at one wrong look, I’d offer up the details.

“This dance instructor slash chef you work for, who you will have to praise for me, does that mean you’re a dancer?”

I smile. “For as long as I can remember. I was four when my mom put me in my first ballet class. Dance was my first love.”

“Do you teach at a studio?”

“Ruby’s Dance Academy. It started out as a fun gig my freshman year, a few classes here and there, but when I got pregnant with Clem, I became a part-time instructor to pick up extra cash. Ruby and her family have taken me in.”

“I’m glad you have a support system.”

It’s hard not to let out a humorless laugh. Not because the Pratts aren’t supportive, but they have their own family. I’m still little ole me. The girl who hates asking for help. “Yeah.”

Archer’s dishes are scraped clean, but when I offer him seconds, he declines, patting his full stomach. As I’m stacking our plates, the loudest, juiciest rumble leaves Clem. Dread weighs me down, and as expected, when I glance at her, her striped onesie is toast and Archer’s hand is coated in yellowish-brown muck.

Nooooooo. No. No. No. “I’m so so sorry.” I burst out of my seat, dropping the plates on the table. “Clementine Rose, why?”

“Willa, it’s fine.”

I take Clem from him. “It’s not fine.”

“It is.” He chuckles as he walks to the kitchen sink and washes his hands. “This isn’t the first time a baby has pooped on me. Trust me, I’ve seen some gross things.”

“But I bet they were your babies. It’s different when a semi-stranger’s kid poops on you.”

“You’re not a stranger. You’re my neighbor. And I’m serious. My boys do disgusting things these days. This is baby poop. It doesn’t even smell that bad, and she’s cute, so that helps.” He jerks his head toward the sink. “Bring her over.”

I sidle up beside him, removing Clem’s onesie and diaper, holding her over the sink. Archer checks the temperature before splashing water on her back and up her neck, the onesie having created a mess coming off.

“Do you want me to get some baby shampoo or wash clothes?” he asks.

I nod. “I’ve been bathing her in a little seat in this sink, so everything is in the bottom cabinet to your left.”

In a stroke of luck, the sink is empty since I found time to do the dishes last night. Otherwise, this craptastic situation would’ve been made that much more difficult. Archer digs out her bath stuff and places it on the counter beside him. He sets everything in the sink like a pro, and I recline Clem in her seat, laying a warm washcloth over her belly. It’s the only way she lets me bathe her, she’s too cold otherwise.

“What did you call her earlier? Clementine Rose?”

“Yeah, my middle name is Rose. Since she came out looking like her biological contributor, I wanted to give her some part of me.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He strokes her velvet cheek. “I don’t even think I know your last name.”

I chuckle. “Hawthorne.”

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