Page 13 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I fold my arms and scan the immaculately clean room one more time.

“And her clothes? The ones I bought online? Were they thrown away too?” I ask.

“Closet,” he grunts, setting the car seat near the door. “She supposed to sleep this much?”

I look down to find her tiny eyelids still firmly shut. “I think so?”

“You think?” he barks.

“I don’t know? She slept a lot in the hospital, and the nurses never batted an eye, okay? So, yes. I think she’s supposed to sleep this much.” Peanut fusses quietly, her restless body fidgeting beneath the yellow, gray, and white giraffe blanket I’d splurged on while I was pregnant. “But it looks like she’s waking up, thanks to your yelling. So, good one there, Milo.”

“Now you’re blaming me?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I ignore him and search my memory for the last time she peed or pooped. “Look. She’s probably hungry. Or maybe she needs her diaper changed? I don’t think she’s cold…”

“How can younotknow this?” he argues.

With a glare, I squat down next to the car seat. “They don’t exactly come with a manual, Milo.”

“Yes, they do. It’s called a parenting book. Ever read one?”

“Gee, sorry I didn’t have the time to read a freaking book while I was carrying the weight of having to raise a child on my own.”

“And who’s fault would that be? Huh?” he counters, his body almost vibrating with fury. I shouldn’t be surprised he went from cool and indifferent to a damn volcano on the verge of erupting in under ten seconds flat, but it still grates on me.

With a quick glare up at him, I peel off the giraffe blanket and search for Peanut’s binkie, her cries growing louder with each passing moment.

Where is the stupid thing?

“She probably wants her binkie,” Milo mutters from above me.

“Yeah. I figured that part out,” I huff, my fingers catching on the small pink pacifier. I press it to Peanut’s lips, but she wiggles her head from side to side, her screams amplifying in the small room and Milo’s massive presence.

“You should probably get her out of the seat first.”

Dropping the binkie back into the car seat, I grit my teeth and fumble with the buckle. “Look. You’ll have to cut me a little slack if I don’t know exactly what she wants every minute of every day. I’m doing the best I can, and I’m sorry if it isn’t good enough for you.”

I click the giant red button on the car seat, but the straps around her shoulders and chest are too short to get her out.

Why is it so damn tight?

There’s a way to loosen them, and I know I’d remember if I could…think for a second. But I can’t think right now. Not with Milo hovering over me like this. Not when he’s watching my every tiny move and judging me for being a shitty parent even though he hasn’t even given me a chance to prove myself.

My heart pounds against my ribcage as Peanut fusses in the background, begging to be picked up yet still tied down in her five-point harness.

What the hell is wrong with this thing?I want to scream, tugging at the seatbelt.

Her wails grow louder.

The floor creaks beneath Milo’s weight as he squats next to me, hooks his thumb beneath the edge of the car seat cover, grabs the straps around her tiny chest and pulls softly. They loosen. Once there’s enough room to get her out without bending her arms at an awkward angle, he stops and stands up.

Looking up at him, my face flooding with shame, I ask, “How did you––”

“There’s a latch to loosen the straps.”

I slip my finger beneath the bottom of the car seat. Sure enough, a small latch is there.

“I’m going to work,” he announces.

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