Page 23 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"You alright, dear?"
"Fine. Just, hormones."
She sits down without asking, purse settling on her lap like a small, practical mountain. "That baby can't be more than a few months old."
"Three."
"And you're out here crying on a bench at eight PM."
"It's been a day."
"Looks like it's been a year." She peers at Orry, who's managed to sleep through my entire breakdown. "He's beautiful. Takes after his mother."
"His father, actually."
"Is he in the picture?"
The question is gentle, nonjudgmental. The kind of thing a grandmother might ask while offering tea and cookies.
I shake my head. "Don't know where he is."
"Ah. One of those."
"Not like that. He doesn't know Orry exists. I don't even know his real name." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "We had one night and he lied about everything and I left before morning and now I have this perfect baby and no idea how to find his father and everyone keeps telling me I'm doing great but I'mnotand?—"
"Breathe."
I breathe.
"Better?"
"Marginally."
She pats my hand. "Here's what you're going to do. Go home. Feed that baby. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, when you're not crying on benches, you're going to make a list of everything youknow about this man. Where you met him. What he looked like. What he said. Then you're going to follow the threads until you find him."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you raise that boy with so much love he never notices there's a gap. But you try first. For him." She stands, smooths her skirt. "You're stronger than you think, mama. Trust me. I've seen plenty of women in your shoes. The ones who keep going? They turn out fine."
She walks away before I can thank her.
I sit there for another ten minutes, listening to Orry breathe against my chest. His heartbeat steady and sure. His tiny fist curled against my collarbone.
Orry.
I'd whispered that name to him in the hospital, right after they placed him in my arms. Before the exhaustion hit. Before reality set in.
It felt right then.
It still feels right now.
"Orry Newman," I say out loud, testing it. "We're going to find your dad. Or we're going to be fine without him. Either way, we're going to be okay."
He hiccups again, softer this time.
And I almost believe it.
Home isa one-bedroom apartment above a vintage record shop that smells perpetually of old vinyl and patchouli.
