When The Rain Falls

7. And Not a Ho

7 AND NOT A HO

AIMEE

I jump out of bed and nearly trip on the pile of clothes scattered across the floor. I should probably start using the dresser in this room at some point. But it's easier to find things when they're spread out.

I slip into my favorite fuzzy socks and happily float my way downstairs to the kitchen. When I feel the wooden hallway floor beneath my feet, I can't help it. I take a running start and slide into the kitchen, holding my hands out in front of me like I'm on a surfboard. I laugh as the stainless-steel fridge stops my momentum.

I'm about to pull on the handle when I see the calendar stuck to the front with a large Disneyland magnet. It's already September. I love September. Everything good happens in September. The leaves change. The air turns crisp. It’s just one month away from Halloween. Which is, by far, the best holiday. Also, my big race is in September. The one I've been training for all year.

I still can’t believe the hot man from the bar turned out to be Alicia’s neighbor. Of course this happened. It’s like all the consequences of my past bad decisions are creeping up on me at once. Bad decisions like going home with every hot man who offers to buy me a drink. And biting trolls at bars. Trolls who turn out to be my neighbor.

Luckily, dads aren't my type. Too many strings. Too much baggage. I won’t even be tempted. Probably. Maybe. Ok, just a little tempted.

"You're up early." I hear a voice behind me. I jump and spin at the same time, hand on my chest. Alicia is sitting in a dining chair, holding Logan in her lap. He's got his chubby hands around a chew toy and is gumming it happily. Are they still called chew toys when they're for babies?

"Holy shit. You scared me."

"Nice outfit, Aimes." Alicia gives me a tired smile. I look down at my fuzzy socks and the oversized hockey jersey I'm wearing. The jersey is so big that it falls mid-thigh. I stole it from a one night stand as a souvenir. Although, can you still call it a one night stand if you don’t really do much standing?

"I swear to God I'm wearing bottoms," I tell Alicia. I lift up my jersey to show her my cotton pajama shorts. "I don't want you to think I'm walking around your house dressed like a ho." I let the jersey fall back into place and pull open the fridge. I grab the orange juice container and shut the door.

"If I think you're a ho, it's for other reasons."

I mask my annoyance with a grin. I'd rather not do this. Not here. Not when the morning is so new and fresh and promising. I open the juice container by pulling back the paper flaps. I'm about to bring it up to my face when I catch Alicia watching me. Fine. She's got to ruin this, too. Orange juice just tastes better fresh out of the container. I put the juice down and open her cupboards.

"Top shelf to the left," she says. I bring down a glass and pour. I love orange juice. It looks so bright. It even tastes bright. It's like drinking sunshine.

"I thought I was the only one up," I tell her.

"Nope. We've already been up for an hour. This one is an early riser." She kisses the top of Logan's head.

"Alicia! Didn't you just get home from work? Give me Logan. You go to bed." I haven't spent much time with babies, but I'm sure I can figure it out. I mean he can't even walk. How hard can it be?

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You're letting me stay here. The least I can do is help out where I can."

"Greg will be up soon and he can take over,” Alicia says. She stands up and hands Logan to me.

Logan continues to gum his toy as he looks up at me. He's got bright blue eyes and the longest lashes I've ever seen. Alicia kisses his head. His gaze follows her as she walks away.

"Thank you so much. I'm so tired," Alicia says. "There's formula on the counter if he gets hungry." She walks down the hallway before I register what she just told me.

"Wait," I call out. But she's already walking up the stairs. "How do I know if he's hungry?" I look back to Logan's swirling baby blues. He just stares at me, toy in his mouth. A long string of drool falls from his mouth. I watch as it lands on his chest. Ew.

"Ok," I say, more to myself than to Logan. I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with a baby. "So, what's new in the crib Logie?" I bounce him up and down. "When your little baby friends come over, what kind of games do you guys play?" Logan gurgles into his fists.

"Beer pong?" I laugh at him. "Your secret is safe with me." I poke him in the chest and a deep laugh gurgles from his throat.

I look around the counter. It's strewn with mail, and papers, and baby supplies. There's got to be something here that will give me a clue about what babies like to do.

Logan is sitting in his baby chair on the counter while I pull a yogurt out of the fridge. We just finished an episode of The Bachelor . I tried to watch a baby cartoon, but it made me want to poke out my eyeballs. No wonder babies are so crabby all the time. They have really shitty TV choices. Who wants to watch a purple cat sing the ABC’s? Logan enjoyed The Bachelor , though. I had to explain the concept, of course. And give him the run down on all the contestants. We both agree that Becca is only on the show to create drama. There is no way the bachelor is actually into her.

I sing as I make breakfast. Logan screeches happily at my song choices, occasionally flinging a giraffe toy in the air around him. I knew I liked this kid.

"You like Brittany Spears?" I ask.

"Gah," says Logan, before he starts chewing on the toy giraffe head.

"I'll take that as a yes. A hell yes. Oops, don't tell your mom I said hell , ok?" I hit play on Baby One More Time and take a spot in the middle of the kitchen. I turn away from Logan and freeze during the opening instrumentals. When the lyrics start, I do a dramatic twirl and hold an invisible microphone to my face. I belt out the words with the same drama you'd expect from a live concert in front of thousands of people.

Logan's face lights up and he begins to belly laugh. His legs kick like a frog underwater. I'm on one knee belting out the chorus when Greg walks in wearing a navy blue bathrobe.

"What the hell?" His hair is pointing in every direction and his eyes are half closed.

I pause my performance to correct Greg. "You're in the presence of a child. Don't say hell." I get off the floor and stop the music app. Logan's face is as red as a tomato from laughing so hard.

"Aimee, it's 8:15 on a Sunday morning," he says with a yawn.

"Rise and shine, buttmunch."

"I can't say hell, but you can say buttmunch?"

"Exactly.”

"Why can't you be normal?" He walks over to a cupboard and brings down a coffee mug.

"I hate to break it to you, but coffee isn't going to transform you into a functioning human. That ship sailed long ago."

Greg rubs his temple. "So, how long are you going to be here exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know. Until harassing you stops being fun. So, probably for a while.”

He sighs as he sets his mug under his fancy espresso machine. It's a beastly sterling silver thing that I don't think I'll ever know how to use and takes up half the counter. He walks to the fridge and pulls out creamer. Before he closes the door, he glanced down at the calendar on the fridge stuck under a Disney magnet.

"Why is the 25 th circled? Did you do that?"

"That's my race," I explain. I lift Logan out of his chair and bounce him on my hip. I smell the faint odor of poop. Oh Lordy. That smells like death. How can such a small baby make such a large smell? Luckily, my shift is over. I'll let Greg deal with that.

"What race?"

"I'm running an ultra-marathon." I twirl Logan. He holds his breath as the air hits him and then grins up at me. He reaches a slobbery hand for my face and I let him grab my nose.

"What's that mean?"

I stop twirling and give Greg a look. Seriously? Every time I tell someone I'm running an ultra-marathon, they ask me what it is. Suburbia. Jesus. It's like these people aren't even civilized.

"Hmmm, let me explain in terms you'll understand. It's where you run really, really far. Do you know what running is, Greg? It's like walking, but you do it faster."

"Running isn't even a real sport. You just keep going. There's no skill involved."

"Like golf is a real sport?" I prod. "You guys ride around neon-green lawns in little go-karts wearing pleated pants."

"Well, running's a waste of time."

"Coming from a grown ass man who spends his time playing with a remote control tarantula."

"Hey, my tarantula is made with the latest in AI technology," he says defensively.

"Here, Greg." I hand Logan off to him. "Logie has a present for you."