Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1 Read online

  “Pegging is a destiny?” Elodie mutters.

  I do not want to know how she knows that term.

  “What else is for sale?” I ask, cringing.

  “A Coldplay t-shirt,” Charlie says.

  “He’s a monster!” Elodie shrieks, as if that’s somehow more offensive than the strap-on.

  “What’s wrong with Coldplay?” I ask, genuinely confused. “I like their music.”

  Charlie and Elodie exchange a look of camaraderie in their shared disgust.

  “That’s what’s wrong with Coldplay,” she mutters, adding a shiver.

  “And a bunch of very nice cashmere sweaters, size M,” Charlie continues. “An original vinyl print from a Dave Brubaker album he says was a gift from her.”

  She has good taste.

  “And a Rush album.”

  Maybe not.

  “A very nice Rolex and some Montblanc fountain pens.”

  “Chloe must be horrified,” I say, slumping into a barstool at the kitchen counter. I feel my pulse in my hand where I cut it. “You said it’s all over social media now?” I ask Elodie, who nods.

  “Wait!” Charlie shouts. “The last sentence says: May someone else put this strap-on to good use, so you can get screwed just like Khloe screwed me over.”

  I read over the same words. “Bastard was with her for three years and still doesn’t know how to spell her name right? Khloe with a K is a Kardashian,” I grumble.

  “The auction is riddled with typos,” Charlie explains with a shrug.

  “Guy must have been drunk,” I muse. Poor Chloe. The strap-on issue is intriguing. I cringe.

  “Daddy, how can you like Coldplay and know who the Kardashians are? You’re a pop culture contradiction.”

  “I’m young enough to pay attention but old enough not to care, honey.”

  “What’s the name of the guy? The asshole ex?” Charlie asks, eyes gleaming.

  “Joe.”

  “Joe what? You know his last name?”

  “Joe Blow.”

  Even Charlie rolls his eyes.

  “Why?” My voice goes low. Charlie is scheming. This can lead to no good.

  “Because I have an idea.”

  “All of your ideas suck, Charlie.”

  “Only the ones involving other people’s money.”

  Fair enough. “I can call Anterdec and find out from security.”

  “You’re going to rescue Chloe again, aren’t you, Daddy?” Elodie is breathless with the excitement of a young woman who sees potential in every situation but has not yet experienced the full consequences that potential can bring.

  “Again?” Charlie’s eyebrow goes up.

  “Daddy tackled him in the hallway at work when Joe came after Chloe! He was like a Navy SEAL!”

  “A Navy SEAL, huh?” Charlie can’t help but laugh. “They teach you that at RISD?”

  “Yes. I took a course on ‘Evasive Maneuvers When Choosing Fabrics for Branding.’ It was useful when I finally got to business school at Harvard.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Find the guy. Contact his wife. Blow the lid on the affair.”

  “How’d you know it was an affair?”

  Charlie shrugs. “No guy that desperate isn’t married.”

  Good point. “And then what? I don’t want this to come back and bite Chloe.”

  Charlie taps on his screen and grins. “I don’t think you have to worry. I just Googled Khloe Brown, the way he spelled it—look.”

  The top news story shouted in all caps:

  PORN STAR KHLOE BROWN PEGGED AS ONLINE AUCTION MYSTERY WOMAN

  “Chloe spells her first name with a C and there’s an E at the end of Browne,” I say slowly.

  “He misspelled it. On purpose?” Charlie asks.

  “Definitely drunk.”

  “Gotcha. Good thing. Looks like Perkie Workie’s getting a nice PR boost.”

  “Perkie—what?”

  “That’s Khloe Brown’s character. You know...in her series.”

  “Series?”

  “Her porn series. She’s this milkmaid who—“”

  “Got it. Done. No need to elaborate.”

  “I only know this because at my last job, our developer team had just worked on an integrated USB device system for the production company for her series, and—”

  I ignore him, reaching for my laptop bag, logging in.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have an idea.” I find the site, Never Liked It Anyway, and search for the strap-on.

  “Whoa. Five hundred eighteen bucks for this thing. Eleven hundred for the entire lot,” I say, rubbing my hand on my chin, my stubble irritating the cut on my palm.

  “Deadpool made pegging cool,” Elodie elaborates. “Prices are higher for—”

  “Would you stop saying that?” I grouse.

  “What? Deadpool?”

  “No.”

  She smirks at Charlie, who stifles a laugh.

  I put in a bid.

  “You’re going to buy Chloe’s strap-on?” Charlie asks, agog.

  That’s right. I can be carefree. Just watch me.

  Carefree with my Visa, that is.

  “Just curious how this works,” I say with a meaningful throat clearing.

  “You’re hardcore, Daddy.”

  “I don’t think this is a particularly strong example of anything, my dear.”

  “You’re saving Chloe.”

  I don’t know what I’m doing, frankly, but I won’t admit that to my kid. I just know that shutting down Joe’s antics is priority number one. The longer this stays online, the sooner it’ll get back to Chloe, and possibly hurt her personally or professionally.

  Five minutes after a call with Anterdec security, I have Joe’s last name.

  And Charlie gets to work.

  Chapter 11

  Chloe

  Your average Sunday. Read the papers, drink coffee, do laundry, look at Facebook. Wish Nick would call. Go for walk, take shower, wish Nick would call. Scoop catbox, wish Nick would…

  You get the idea.

  At six p.m., I decide on an early dinner for one. I am putting the chicken breast in the baking dish, closely supervised by Minky, when the back door bursts open and there’s Henry, with Jemma just behind him.

  “Hey!” I greet them. “There’s only one chicken breast but we can make chicken chili. I have tomatoes and...”

  “Chloe, what the hell? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Henry interrupts.

  “It hasn’t rung..?”

  Now that I think of it, it hasn’t rung all day. Which is odd.

  “The social worker called,” Jemma says urgently. “Yvonne called us because she couldn’t reach you, and we’re your emergency contacts. Li had the baby. A baby girl, just like in the ultrasound.”

  There is silence. I just look at them.

  “Chloe, honey?” Jem puts her hand on my arm. “There’s more. She had the baby, and then she disappeared. She checked herself out of the hospital. No one knows where she is.”

  I’m still staring. This is not in the birth plan.

  “No one knows..? Where.. but where..?” I stammer.

  “The baby is at the hospital. Li signed all the papers with Yvonne before she left. The baby is yours, but the hospital social worker and Yvonne have been calling all day and you didn’t answer. Why haven’t you answered?”

  “It didn’t ring!”

  “Well, we’ve got to call them right now. And get over there. We’ll drive you.” Henry hands me my jacket. Jemma’s turning off the oven and putting the chicken back in the refrigerator.

  I grab my bag and shuffle through it, looking for my cell. The phone case is bright orange, chosen for this exact reason: so I can find it in a bag full of other things, which are all bigger than the phone.

  Here it is. I press the button.

  Twice.

  Dead.

  “Never mind,” Henry says, “You can use ours. Let’s g
o.”

  They’ve parked behind me in my spot.

  “No,” I finally find my voice. “We have to take mine, it has the baby seat in it.”

  “We’ll take both,” Henry says. “You come with me. Jemma can drive yours.”

  At this point, for the first time in my life, I will do exactly as I am told. I hand Jem my keys and get in their car.

  To get my daughter.

  * * *

  Have you ever seen race-walkers? It’s that sport where the athletes look like they’re just walking, but they’re actually moving at five times normal speed? That’s what we look like headed down the hospital hallway toward the maternity ward.

  Unsurprisingly, Henry gets there first.

  “We just had a baby,” he says urgently to the woman seated behind the reception desk. “We need to find her right away.”

  The woman gives her co-worker the side-eye, the kind that says, I may need you to call security very soon. She arranges her face into an expression of calm concern.

  “Can you give me a little more information?” she asks. “Are you the father? Can you tell me your name?”

  “Henry Holliday. This is my wife. And this—” he pulls me forward “—is the mother.”

  She looks at me nervously. “And you just gave birth, dear?”

  “Yes! No!” That should clear things up. “My baby is here. I’m Chloe Browne, you called me, my phone was dead, I don’t know how that happened, I’m so sorry, but here I am! Where is she?”

  Before the receptionist can answer, an office door behind her swings open and a tiny, curly-haired woman with an ID badge around her neck comes rushing out.

  “Ms. Browne? I’m Kate Moss. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Conversation stops as we all stare at her. She sighs.

  “Not that Kate Moss. I’m the social worker on duty. Yvonne will come back tomorrow to go over specifics. I need you to fill out some forms, and then we can go to the nursery. This is a bit of an unusual situation.”

  A bit.

  “Go ahead. We’ll wait right here.” Jemma gives me a quick hug.

  In Kate’s office, I sink into a chair. She picks up a folder from her desk and hands me a pen.

  “What about Li?” I ask her. “The birth mother. Do you know where she is?”

  “I’m sorry,” Kate answers. “I know you have a personal relationship with her, but I can’t tell you anything. You could try calling the Boston police.”

  Police? Why would I need to call the police? What the hell happened to Li?

  “Is she alive?” I ask, hearing the hysteria in my voice, knowing I need to tone it down. They won’t hand a precious newborn off to a woman who’s falling apart in front of them.

  The social worker frowns, then sighs. “All I can say is that we’re pretty sure she is.”

  “Pretty sure? She wasn’t the victim of—has Li been—oh, God, she’s almost a child herself!”

  “Ms. Browne,” Kate the social worker says, her eyes going kind. “The police are working on the case with the birth mother. Let’s help you focus on the baby.”

  There is too much happening right now to process. I just need my baby. I need to take her home. Then I can think about everything else.

  I sign the papers, I fill in the information, I produce my identifying documents. Kate makes copies.

  And then.

  Then we go to the nursery.

  It’s climate-controlled in here. There are rows of plastic bins, each with a tiny occupant sporting a knitted cap with a pink or blue ribbon, each swaddled in a pastel-striped cotton blanket. A few are protesting, as best they know how, but it doesn’t sound very serious. White-painted rocking chairs are positioned here and there, and seated in one of them is a new mom in a bathrobe and slippers, intently nursing her newborn.

  Nurses move silently between the bins, going about their routines. Kate talks to one of them briefly, showing her paperwork and nodding toward me with a smile. She catches my eye and points to one of the rocking chairs.

  I sit, and a moment later the nurse appears at my side. She is holding a small bundle with a pink hat, and she leans down and places it in my arms. It’s surprisingly light.

  Here she is, at last.

  Oh, hello.

  I’m almost afraid to look at her. Can this be happening? Can she really be mine? This was supposed to happen in the future. Months from now.

  Her baby skin. Her tightly closed eyes, her impossibly small pink lips. With a shaking hand, I slide her cap off, uncovering a head of silky black hair. I didn’t know they came with long hair? I stroke it with one fingertip. Someday I will braid this little girl’s hair, tie a bow in it, pin it up with flowers for her prom. Someday in our future.

  Forever starts right now.

  I want to see all of her, her hands and fingers and knees and toes, but she’s wrapped so tightly, a little baby package. Tentatively, I pull on the edge of the blanket, and it loosens enough for me to find one of her perfect, miniature hands. She’s only hours old. This brand-new hand has never been held before. I’ll never let it go.

  She breathes in and out, all by herself. Miraculous.

  Mine. She is mine.

  “I’m yours,” I whisper.

  I’m her mother. She’s my daughter. Every yearning, every fear, every fight, everything that led to this moment, all worth it.

  I don’t know how to change her diaper.

  Panic bubbles up in my chest. What does she eat? When does she eat it? What if I have to take a shower—who will watch her? I can’t just leave her alone in her crib! What if she has to have a bath—how is that supposed to happen? Can I hire someone? Oh dear god, I am unqualified for this assignment!

  I used to have a recurring nightmare in which I was standing in a board room, about to give an important presentation, and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Everyone was staring at me, waiting. I was exposed as knowing nothing about my job. This feels horribly similar.

  Only worse. In the dream, no one’s life depended on me.

  The nurse—her ID tag says Keisha—touches my shoulder. “Everything all right?” she asks quietly, wide brown eyes peering at me with an expression that says she’s figured out I have no idea what I’m doing..

  “I don’t—I can’t—I don’t...” My eyes fill up with tears. “She’s so early! Li wasn’t due for eight weeks!”

  Keisha looks at the baby’s chart, then gives me a sad smile. “I see the due date is far in the future, but the doctors assured us she’s full term. Sometimes due dates are wrong, especially when prenatal care is—” She pauses, clearly searching for a tactful way to say what she needs to say.

  “Uncertain.”

  Her face floods with relief. I’ve rescued her. “Yes.”

  “But she’s healthy? The baby?”

  “Great APGAR scores. 10/10,” Keisha says proudly, like my daughter nailed the SATs.

  “Thank God.” I’m staring at this baby with eyes that don’t know the world. Everything is new. Everything is shiny and heavy with responsibility and gravitas. She’s seven pounds but as heavy as the universe.

  “No sign of drug withdrawal either. We’ll have blood work results soon.”

  I tense. Oh, Li. Oh, baby. “The, um, birth mother said she didn’t do drugs.”

  Keisha nods slowly. “That’s good.” I can tell she wants to say more, but is measuring her words.

  “I’ll show you how to change her and feed her, and we have booklets on other basic skills,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. Just remind yourself that every parent has to figure it out the first time. Did you bring an outfit for her to wear home?”

  “Oh, yes.” I reach into my bag and pull out a doll-size suit with embroidered ducks. And a matching hat with yellow fluff on top. My mother sent them from Italy last week. The child doesn’t yet have a crib, doesn’t even own a teddy bear, but by god, she can make a chic appearance on the streets of Rome. That’s my mother for you.

&
nbsp; “Bring her over here and you can change her,” Keisha says.

  “Bring her…? Me?”

  She laughs. “Yes, you, Mom. Stand up. You won’t drop her.”

  Mom.

  I scoot forward in the chair and successfully rise to my feet, both arms securely around my bundle. Not too hard. Then I look down at my bag on the floor. My eyes fill up again.

  Keisha takes pity on me and picks up the bag. She leads the way back to our bin.

  “Okay. I’m going to show you how to change her diaper, then you can dress her.” She pulls the blanket open and unsnaps the hospital undershirt. I watch her every move as if it were surgery. I see how she supports the baby’s head and guides her little arms. Then she opens the tabs on the ridiculously small diaper.

  I look down and gasp.

  “Oh my god, what is that? What’s wrong? It’s horrible! Will she live?”

  For a moment, Keisha is nonplussed. Then she starts to laugh. “That’s the umbilical cord stump, honey. Everyone’s born with one. It will fall off in a week or so.”

  “Fall off? Are you sure that’s normal?”

  Keisha tries hard not to roll her eyes, and she almost succeeds. She finishes the diaper demonstration. “I’ll get you a full set of booklets,” she says. “And some handouts. And an emergency-number sheet. Now you get her dressed.” She walks away. I almost call her back.

  My daughter’s eyes are still closed. I am becoming suspicious. Is she really sleeping, or is she afraid to look?

  I regard the yellow and white suit in my hand. Two arms, two legs, and a long zipper. This simple garment suddenly seems extremely complicated.

  Come on, Chloe. You can figure this out. Think of it as a very, very small slipcover.

  I take a deep breath. Then another.

  I unzip the suit, spread it open, and carefully edge the baby onto it. Her eyes are still closed. So far, so good.

  Fifteen minutes later, I have coaxed all four tiny limbs into the correct openings. She is properly dressed and looks, if I may say so, adorable. Maybe I’ll be okay after all. A drop of sweat rolls down my nose. I look around proudly for Keisha.

  At that moment, I hear a sound like the tiniest cough and look down. Without ever opening her eyes, my baby scrunches up her face and begins to squall. It must be my fault, but what did I do?