Dropping the Ball

15. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Micah

“Too busy swiping right to join us?”

I glance up to meet my boss’s amused eyes. “Sorry, what?”

Dan turns to his admin assistant. “That’s what it’s called when you’re on a dating app, isn’t it? Swiping right?”

“Yes, it is, boss,” she says, grinning at me. “But Micah doesn’t date. He’s in his tortured artist phase.”

I turn my phone over. “Sorry, Dan. Madison Locke is in labor, and I’m waiting for an update.”

“Oh, are you the dad?” Dan asks. “I’m impressed. That’s really taking care of the client.”

I smile until the laughter dies down. “I was in a meeting with her and the interim director yesterday about construction next week when she went into labor.”

“Fair enough,” Dan says. “Why don’t you give us an update on that project, and then we’ll wrap up for the day.”

I do, overviewing the October timeline and where we are with the materials acquisition and budget.

“Sounds good,” Dan says when I finish. “We’ll look forward to you writing the name of Aster, Gervis, and Associates in the annals of history.”

“No problem,” I say. “Is it okay if it goes down in history for being a disaster?”

Dan laughs and gets to his feet, signaling the meeting is truly over. I immediately check my phone as everyone drifts out of the office. Other than the picture of her tired-but-adorable self hugging the tacos I left, there’s been nothing from Kaitlyn.

I’m itching to ask, but it’s definitely not my place, so I go back to my desk and try to focus on the plan I’m supposed to draft for an ADU in a neighborhood that was developed in the eighties. These are my bread and butter right now, easy plans I could do half asleep, but these aging housing tracts aren’t exactly inspiring. Dan has me on these because they don’t require a lot of imagination or follow-through and they’re easy to knock out while I work around the gala project. It means this floor plan also isn’t enough to distract me from my phone.

Finally, almost an hour later, a text from Kaitlyn lights up my screen.

Harper Ivy Mae Locke, born at 1:52 this afternoon, almost nine pounds. Madison and Harper are doing great.

Congrats, auntie. Hope you got her that tattoo she wanted while her mom was napping.

Madison won’t let her go but I did give Harper a high five when she pooped on her mom.

See? You’re nailing this cool aunt thing.

Maybe. She’s not good at high fives.

Probably a later milestone. Try again in six weeks.

*Puts reminder on calendar*

Tell Madison I said congratulations.

I set the phone down, smiling. I wish Kaitlyn had sent a picture, but again, it’s none of my business. I’m glad I got an update at all. I pack up for the day, and Kaitlyn texts as I reach my truck.

Madison says come visit.

The hospital?

Yes.

Now?

Yes. I think she’s high from smelling Harper’s head, but she says she owes you for the sweatshirt sacrifice.

On my way. You need anything?

Not unless you found the six hours of sleep I lost last night.

So, more coffee. Got it. Be there soon.

I make it to St. David’s in less than an hour, even counting the coffee stop, and a few minutes later, I’m standing on the threshold of a patient room with a card beside the door stating it’s currently occupied by Locke, Madison and Harper.

Oliver spots me first. “Hey, Micah. Come on in. Thanks for the tacos, man.”

“Sure.”

“Come meet our kid.”

Kaitlyn, wearing the socks and sweats I left for her, shuffles out of the way, and I get my first look at Madison, snuggling a small bundle against her chest.

“I was going to offer to pick up some dinner, but it looks like you already got a burrito,” I joke.

“It’s taking everything in me not to gobble her up,” Madison says. “Come tell me this isn’t the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen.”

I walk to the bed railing and look down at a tiny face in the bundle Madison cradles.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Madison says.

She’s . . . a baby? Pink. Kind of puffy eyes, closed, no eyelashes or eyebrows. I smile at Madison. “You said it. Are your parents excited?”

“They don’t know yet,” Kaitlyn says.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow, when we’re home,” Madison says.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t normal, but I don’t say anything. Oliver explains anyway. “My mother-in-law can be a lot in medical settings. We’re going to delay the fussing until we’re on home turf.”

I remember Kaitlyn being adamant about not going to the infirmary that day when she hurt her nose. I’d thought it was because she hated being fussed over, but later I’d heard her mom had made a huge scene and kept her at the hospital for hours.

As if she’s reading my mind, Kaitlyn chimes in. “She’s a hypochondriac. She’ll be here all of five minutes before she’s convinced she has a hysterical pregnancy. And my dad will feel awkward and cover it up by ordering the nurses and staff around.”

“Boundary issues,” Madison says. “If we tell them now, even if we tell them not to come over, they’ll do it anyway.”

A quiet rattling sounds at the door, and we all glance over to see an orderly coming in with a cart. “Dinner is here,” he says.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” I say, turning to go.

“No, don’t,” Madison says. “Oliver and I both need to eat, so why don’t you hold Harper for us?”

A pang of alarm ripples dully through my chest. “No, that’s okay. I’m sure Kaitlyn wants more time.”

Madison snorts. “She won’t hold her. Are you saying you’re scared too?”

I look at Kaitlyn, who is standing at the foot of the bed. She shrugs. “I don’t want to drop her.”

“I don’t want to drop her either.”

Madison sighs. “You’re both idiots.”

“I’ll take her,” Oliver says, pushing up from his chair.

“Wait, no, I’ll do it,” I say. “She says you need to eat.”

“Thank you,” Madison says, already lifting the baby toward me. “Just support her head.”

Somehow I survive the handoff, settling the baby into my arm like Madison had. I hold my breath, and she gives a baby grunt, but she doesn’t wake up. I stare down at the tiny burrito in awe. This morning, she didn’t even exist in this world, and now here she is, a whole, actual human. It really is kind of beautiful.

“Can I go sit on the sofa with her?” I don’t think I’ll drop her, but just in case, it would be a much shorter fall.

“Of course, man.” Oliver is busy removing the covers from their hospital trays, and I’m glad now that I said I’d hold the baby. The man clearly needs to eat if he’s anxious to dive into the anemic-looking pork chops he reveals.

I walk carefully to the sofa, which means I have to go around the end of the bed and past Oliver, trying to keep my eye equally on the baby and the floor ahead of me. Kaitlyn scuttles out of my way, but when I settle onto the couch with a sigh of relief, she comes to sit beside me, leaning over to drop a kiss on her niece’s head. I’d bet she hasn’t been home since yesterday morning, but she still smells nice. I catch a whiff of something kind of herbal when she leans down, her hair close to tickling my nose.

“Thought you were scared of her,” I say.

She straightens, her soft eyes still on her niece. “I’m afraid of dropping her.”

“She was like this when she got her first kitten too,” Madison says around a bite of pork chop, “but she got over it fast.”

“I love Daisy Buchanan, but she is a cat ,” Kaitlyn protests. “Of course I’m even more nervous about a baby.”

“You named your cat Daisy Buchanan?” I ask, amused. We’d studied The Great Gatsby in ninth grade, which is an interesting experience in a class full of filthy rich kids. I’m not sure any of them ever believed that it was a book of only villains. “Is she materialistic and amoral?”

“She was born at Gatsby’s when Madison worked there.”

“Ah.” I look down at Harper’s little face. “You’re missing out. This is the coolest thing ever.” Kaitlyn makes a grumpy sound, and I glance over at her. “I’m winning at baby holding.” If that doesn’t push her buttons, nothing will.

She squirms, frowning at me.

I look down at the baby and pretend to ignore her, until Kaitlyn grumbles, “Give me her.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

She leans back against the sofa and extends her arms like I’m about to plop a cord of kindling in it. “I want to hold her.”

I give her arms a narrow-eyed look. “She’s not firewood.”

Kaitlyn scowls. “She’s my niece.”

“But this is my job right now, and I don’t like your form.” I hear a smothered laugh from Oliver.

“Give me that baby,” Kaitlyn says, and this time I know I better obey. I’ve heard that same determination in her tone before when we worked on group projects in school. It means she’s tired of someone’s nonsense, and now we’re doing it her way.

I sigh. “Fine, but fix your arms. Make them like a cradle.” She hesitates, and I add, “Pretend you’re a Renaissance Madonna.”

She rearranges them to be more cradlelike, then tilts her head at a stiff angle and makes her eyes go blank. She speaks without moving her lips. “Am I giving Sistine Chapel?”

I roll my eyes and carefully shift toward her and complete a not-terrible transfer of the baby. This time, Harper doesn’t even grunt.

I sit back when the handoff is complete. The room has gone silent. Madison and Oliver are watching Kaitlyn. Madison’s eyes are welling slightly, and Oliver flicks a glance my way and gives me a smile and a nod. Kaitlyn is transfixed, staring down into her niece’s face like she’s proof that magic exists.

Madison clears her throat. “I think she loves her even more than the cat.”

“It’s a tie,” Kaitlyn says, not looking up.

“You’re not supposed to say that,” I tell her.

“Daisy is a pretty great cat,” Oliver says. “We get it.”

The new parents eat their dinners in record time, but Harper starts making small sounds of distress before they finish.

Kaitlyn looks at me, and I get the feeling she’s trying to stay calm. “What do I do?” she asks in a low voice.

I want to have the answer, but I have no idea. “Maybe like . . .” I make an up-and-down motion with my hands.

“Weigh her like a melon?” Kaitlyn asks.

“Bounce her?” I say.

“She wants to eat,” Madison says, pushing away the hospital table with her tray on it.

I surge to my feet. That’s my cue to exit. “I’ll leave you to it. Kaitlyn, let me know when you want to reschedule our meeting.”

“Why would we reschedule?” she asks. “I didn’t have a baby.”

“Right.” I feel kind of dumb. “So Tuesday then?”

Oliver is coming over to take the baby from her. “You didn’t have a baby, and you don’t have to stay here. Go home and get some sleep.”

Kaitlyn yawns, then stands as well. “You’re right. I will. Except . . .”

“Your car is at work,” Madison finishes.

Kaitlyn is reaching into the pocket of her sweat pants for her phone. “I’ll get a Lyft.”

“I can take you to your car.”

She yawns again and shakes her head. “No, too tired for that.”

“I can take you home if that’s easier,” I say.

“You don’t know where I live.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to be anywhere right now.”

“Go with Micah,” Oliver says. “That way you don’t fall asleep in a random rideshare.”

“Barton Hills,” she says, naming a wealthy part of town. “That’s where I live.”

Interesting. That’s more family homes, not young professionals. “No problem. I’ll go pull my truck around to the entrance.”

A few minutes later, we’re on the road, Kaitlyn’s address punched into my navigation system, but it’s dead quiet in the car because she’s out like a light. I’m not sure I’d even made it out of the parking lot before she slumped against the window, sound asleep.

I smile and focus on the road. It’s a twenty-minute drive, and she doesn’t stir once. When I turn into her neighborhood, I’m glad she’s not awake because she can’t see my surprise. I’ve been around wealthy people my whole life, but these homes have to be at least three thousand square feet each, on quarter- to half-acre lots. Even for rich people, it’s unusual for someone our age to live in a house like these. But sure enough, the GPS prompts me to turn into the driveway of a house that could comfortably fit three families.

I park and cut the engine. “Kaitlyn.”

She still doesn’t stir.

I try again, louder. “Hey, Kaitlyn.”

Nothing. She’s so out of it, I’d worry except she lets out a muted snore. She’d be furious if she knew I heard it, but it’s pretty cute.

How do I wake her without startling her? I decide to rock her awake, which means rocking in my seat to shake the truck. Given the number of times in high school I would have loved to be guilty of scandalous behavior in a car with Kaitlyn, it’s ironic this is why we’ve finally set one to rocking.

It works. Her forehead scrunches in her sleep as she shifts to find a new position.

“Kaitlyn? You’re home. It’s time to wake up.”

More forehead wrinkles, then a sleepy eye opens. “Mphmfh?”

“You’re home,” I repeat.

She nestles against the door again, eyes closed. “Mphmmmmfh.”

I stifle a laugh and try my next plan, climbing from the truck to walk around to her side. I brace myself to open her door and catch her if she falls out.

She doesn’t, only moves away from the door with an annoyed grunt.

“Kaitlyn,” I say, giving her forearm a soft squeeze. “If you come out of the truck, you get to go sleep in your own bed.”

Nothing.

I squeeze her shoulder. “Kaitlyn? Don’t you want to sleep in your own bed? I bet you have a big, fluffy blanket and soft pillows.”

She lolls her head to face me, her eyelids reaching half-mast. “Pillow?”

“Yes. Your own pillows in your own house. So nice, right?”

She closes her eyes, but her thinking wrinkles are back. “Home?”

“Home. Bed. Pillows. Blanket.”

She moves her feet toward the door, and I step back to give her room, but instead of her getting out, I suddenly have an armful of Kaitlyn as she leans her head against my chest, her butt still in her seat but the rest of her trying to fall asleep on me.

“Whoa, Kaitlyn. You’re almost there. I’m going to lean in and unbuckle your seat belt, then I’ll help you to your door, okay?”

She turns her head to nod. “Loud heart. Mmmkay.”

I suppress another laugh. If this is sleepy Kaitlyn, drunk Kaitlyn must be an entire event. I reach in to remove her seat belt, and she snuggles into me harder. Somewhere inside me, seventeen-year-old Micah celebrates.

“You’re free,” I tell her when I guide the seat belt to retract without giving her neck burn. “Can you walk?”

She slides her arms up my chest to clasp them behind my neck. “Nope.”

My heart gives a single extra hard thump. That felt way too good.

“I’m going to carry you to your door, okay? Do you have your keys?” She mumbles our birth year, and I realize she probably has a keypad lock with a less-than-genius passcode. “Hold on tight, okay? I’m going to pick you up.” I slide my arm beneath her knees, and she keeps her grip around my neck.

I carry her toward the front path. She says nothing, only rubs her cheek against my chest, and I don’t rush. She feels right in my arms. Warm. Pliant in a way that’s too tempting to dwell on. Maybe it’s better that we’ve reached the door . . .

Our birth year does, in fact, work on the keypad. I turn the handle and nudge it open with my foot.

“You made it,” I tell her. “Time to put you down. You’re home.”

She lifts her head, stares at her open door, and burrows into me again. “Too tired. Carry me.”

I obey, stepping inside, not able to resist satisfying my curiosity. She gives a vague wave and mumbles “living room.” I follow the almost-point of her finger. The house is dim, only a light shining down from the stairs and another from the kitchen, but it’s indirect. I can’t see much detail, but Kaitlyn has gotten us to the living room.

“Sofa.”

I carry her to it and set her down. She promptly curls into a ball, her hands tucked beneath her cheek.

“You sure you don’t want to go up to your bed?” I ask.

“Sleepy,” she says. “And if you ask me about this, I’ll deny it happened. Night-night.”

I stare at her, my jaw slightly dropped, but her eyes are still closed. I shake my head and smile, see myself out, and make sure the door is locked behind me.

Tuesday can’t come soon enough.