Kris Fletcher - First Came Baby

Remembering that one second when Jamie had first settled in his arms and looked up at him told him that it would be worth it.

Remembering the confusion on Kate’s face told him that he needed to let her know why this was gonna take work.

With his marching orders clear, he pulled on sweatpants and followed his nose to the kitchen.

Kate sat at the kitchen table with Jamie on her lap. He squealed and bobbed and dove like a prize fighter. The spoon in her hand hovered just out of Jamie’s grasp, like she was waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and shove food in his mouth. Or maybe she was waiting for the right moment in the song she was singing—something about wheels and a bus and beep, beep, beep. Boone was torn between fear that Jamie would slide right off the slippery little robe Kate wore, and admiration at how easy she made it look.

She glanced his way with a faint smile. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

He could say the same. Except for her, even with her hair askew and glasses instead of contacts, it would be true.

“Hope we didn’t wake you,” she continued. “Somebody decided that five was the new eight.”

“I guarantee you, he didn’t inherit that from me.”

She waved toward the counter. “Coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”

A couple of minutes later, coffee appropriately doctored and that first life-altering sip working its way down his throat, he pulled out a chair on the other side of Jamie. “Safe to sit here?”

“Should be. We haven’t started finger food yet, so he doesn’t have anything to throw.”

Boone peered into the bowl that sat on the table just out of Jamie’s reach, assessing the contents while wondering how to start the conversation he knew was needed. “Do I want to know what that is?”

“Rice cereal. This is his first solid food, so we’re still figuring it out.” As she spoke, she slipped the minuscule spoon between Jamie’s lips.

“It looks like there’s more coming out of him than staying in.”

“That’s okay. He’s getting the hang of it, aren’t you, Jamiekins?” She buried a yawn in her upraised arm. “Sorry. Rough night.”

The guilt devil shoved a pitchfork in Boone’s conscience. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Some. I’ve had worse.”

Jab, jab.

She spooned up more slop and took aim, but stopped before the spoon made it to Jamie’s mouth. She sat a little straighter, took a deep breath, then turned to Boone with the spoon extended.

“Here you go, Daddy. Your turn.”

It was so obvious she was forcing herself to do this that his gut twisted.

Mierda.

He took the spoon and set it gently on the table, then leaned forward in his chair, arms braced along his thighs, hands clasped. “Kate, I need to explain something.”

She tipped her head but stayed silent.

“Last night, when I was so...weird...about holding Jamie, it wasn’t anything to do with him, okay? It’s because...” Damn. This was harder than he’d expected. “When I was twelve, I was in a foster home with a bunch of other kids. There was a baby. Tristan. He was...maybe a year old? I can’t remember exactly, though I know he was older than Jamie.”

Actually, what he remembered the most was the weight of Tristan in his arms, more solid and bulky than Jamie. Though since Boone had still been just a preadolescent himself at the time, it was hard to compare.

“Anyway, one night Tristan was sick. I don’t know what was wrong exactly. I just remember I was the only other kid home, and the mom was out of medicine and Tristan was asleep, so she asked me to keep an eye on him while she ran to the store. Ten minutes, tops.”

Which had been true. What had turned out to be false was the assurance that Tristan would sleep through her entire absence.

“As soon as she was out of the driveway and around the corner, he woke up. And I could tell something was wrong. He was shaking. Hard. His arms and legs were jerking and he kept tossing his head back and forth while he made this weird sound.”

Kate lowered her free hand, which she had cupped over her mouth as soon as he launched into the description. “A febrile seizure?” she whispered.

He wasn’t at all surprised that she knew what had happened even without seeing it. “Yeah. That’s what it was. The thing is, I had no idea what the hell was happening. For a minute there I thought...well... You can imagine all the things I figured might be happening.”

“Boone, you were twelve. Nobody would expect you to—”

“I know. The thing was, I also didn’t know what to do about it. And so instead of leaving him in his crib and calling for help, I picked him up and tried to hold him.”

Kate’s quick inhalation told him that she’d figured out what had happened faster even than it had played out in real life.

“It was so fast. One minute I was putting him up on my shoulder, and then he twisted and threw himself backward.” Boone glanced up at the ceiling to steady himself. Even now, twenty years later, he could still feel his hands trying to grip Tristan as he arched and flew back. “He, um, hit the floor. Hard.”

Kate probably had no idea that she was clutching Jamie tight to her chest. “Oh, God. Boone. You... He... What...”

“Broken leg. Concussion. Hairline fracture of the collarbone.”

Kate’s death grip on Jamie eased slightly. “Oh, that poor sweet bunny. But at least... I mean, those are all things that can be fixed.”

“Yeah.” Not that that had been much consolation at the time. Boone would never forget the cold rush of panic that had raced through him when Tristan’s moans had become high-pitched howls of pain.

“I guess that explains why you were a little freaked at the thought of holding Jamie.”

Kate’s soft words pulled Boone back from the past trap. He focused on Jamie’s wary eyes, the hideous cupboards, the hum of the refrigerator. Here. Now. This was what mattered. History was just that. He couldn’t change it but he could learn from it.

And he could damned well make sure it didn’t ruin the moment.

“So. I guess we kept Jamie waiting long enough.” He made himself smile as he reached for the spoon. “Shall I?”

It was ridiculous to be so warmed by the pride in Kate’s eyes, but there it was.

“Absolutely.” She pushed the bowl in his direction. “Just put a little on there, and slip it in gently.”

He could do this. He would do this.

Jamie’s eyes followed his movements as Boone scooped up a hummingbird-sized portion of slop and aimed for the target. But his son was no dummy. At the last second, he turned his face so the food ended up smeared across his cheek.

“Crap.” Boone caught Kate’s eye. “Wait. Am I allowed to say that in front of him?”

She tapped her finger against the end of her nose. “Well,” she said after a moment, “the other day, I dropped a hammer on my foot and let loose with some words that I’m pretty sure were never spoken in Nana’s house before. So trust me. He’s heard far worse.”

That was a relief.

“And by the way,” she added softly, “the first time I gave him cereal, I made it too thick and gave him too much and he choked on it. For a few seconds I thought I was going to have to do the baby Heimlich on him.”

Boone was pretty sure she’d told him about that for his benefit far more than from any need to confess.

Did that make him any less appreciative? Oh, hell, no.

“Go on,” she urged softly. “Try again.”

Boone loaded his spoon once more and leveled his gaze on Jamie, now rocking back and forth on Kate’s lap. His little arms windmilled at his sides.

“Is he trying to take off?”

“Hope not,” she said. “He doesn’t have a passport yet.”