Chapter Text
And your eyes look like coming home
All I know is a simple name
And everything has changed
All I know is you held the door
And you’ll be mine and I’ll be yours
August 30, 2025
I’m feeling like I’ve missed you all this time
This moment was always going to come sooner rather than later.
Mel ought to have planned for this better. Should have figured out what to say to the mentor she had trauma-induced sex with the night of an MCI that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy. As it turns out, having limited support during pregnancy and bringing home your first baby as a single parent doesn’t leave a lot of time to prepare a speech for your baby’s father.
So now she’s here, opening her apartment door without a script.
“Dr. Langdon, hi,” Mel says awkwardly. “Um, please come in.”
He steps inside with a grin, hands in his pockets.
It does something to her, that quirk of his lips. After twelve weeks of around the clock carework, bone-deep exhaustion all but permanently resides in her body. Together with the discomfort and awkwardness she feels for her postpartum body and being utterly touched-out from her contact-loving son, Mel thought herself incapable of feeling attraction right now. A hypothesis just proven false—his grin making her belly flutter, a ghost of those early pregnancy kicks.
She has no desire to act on it. Despite how tactile he’d been with her earlier, Mel can’t imagine he wants to either. How could he? He’s only here now because she forced his hand, had his baby. His presence has nothing to do with her. Any lingering pangs of desire she might feel for him don’t matter. Right now, her priority is ensuring Benji has a present father.
Step one: tell Dr. Langdon about Benji—complete.
In place of the anger or bitterness she anticipated from him for months on end—emotions that made her physically ill at times—things feel easy. As easy as they had during that first—that only—shift as she navigated unfamiliar waters under his careful guidance and unfounded belief in her.
She doesn’t deserve his kindness, not when she kept their baby a secret from him. Not when he only learned of his son’s existence this afternoon, by accident, at Abbot’s Labor Day party. Hate would be easier for her to manage. Instead, he leans against the wall opposite her, all casual and handsome. Mel suspects he’s trying to read her.
“Frank is fine,” he says lightly. “Given, you know, you’re the mother of my son and all. That probably puts us on a first name basis.”
“Oh! Yes. Sorry, that was silly of me, Dr. L—. I mean, Frank.”
Frank. She rolls the name around on her tongue, feeling the weight of it. Before this moment, she had only ever uttered it in her thoughts. (Or, at least, that’s all she’s willing to admit to, a blush rising to her cheeks.)
His eyes are warm, dancing in amusement. Mel is reminded why she stopped at his car to thank him after Pittfest. When his focus is on her, she forgets how to breathe.
Dangerous.
No, not important. These unbidden reactions will fade with exposure. Someday, her lungs won’t give out when her eyes linger over his jaw line. Her head won’t spin when she recalls the feeling of his trapezious and deltoids beneath her palms. Her heart won’t seize—insides won’t clench around nothing— when she remembers his promise to her that night. Not I’d spend hours between your thighs, but I got you, baby. Everything is okay.
As Frank looks further into the apartment, she quickly wipes the gathering tears from her eyes before he sees.
“Is he awake?” Frank gestures towards the living room. “Can I…?”
Nodding, Mel leads the way, grateful that his attention will be directed elsewhere. Where it belongs.
In his pack’n’play, Benji chews on the corner of a soft baby book. Frank’s face grows serious, his fingers reaching to tickle the baby’s belly. The book flails in his tiny fist as Benji erupts in giggles. Watching closely, Mel sees the small smile spread on Frank’s lips, not happiness—but not not happiness—maybe something sad and aching and beautiful all at once.
When Frank lifts Benji so that their faces are side by side, Mel is struck by just how identical they are. Of course, she compared photos when Benji was born, but all she had were those group photos publicly posted on their colleagues’ social media. It’s nothing like seeing the man in real life, though.
The lie about her ex from the VA died the moment Benji crowned with a head of dark hair. His tiny chin only damned her further. It’s why she’s spent the last three months avoiding circulating baby photos, ignoring most texts—praying people will take her avoidance as a symptom of postpartum brain fog and sleep deprivation.
Because anyone who has spent more than fifteen hours with Frank—a category she cannot place herself in—will realize what happened between them the moment they get a good look at her son. In part, it’s why she showed up at Abbot’s party this afternoon; Mel needed to reveal the lie for what it was before she returns to work next week. An act of self-preservation. Maybe the worst of the gossip will die down by then.
(They can say what they want about her, about Frank. But Benji, he doesn’t deserve their cruelty.)
The first angry wrinkle of Benji’s nose has Frank bouncing him a bit. He laughs wetly, his palm rubbing circles into Benji’s back.
“Jesus, Mel,” Frank says, sniffling. “He’s perfect.”
She beams.
That was the other unknown here—not only his emotions towards her, but what he would feel for this son he had with a stranger without his knowledge. Based on ED gossip and the memory of his other son’s bracelet on his wrist, Mel hoped he enjoyed being a father enough that he wouldn’t reject her baby outright. Perfection is more than she could have dreamed.
“I like to think so.”
Settling on the couch, Frank brings Benji to his chest and watches as pudgy fingers poke and grasp at the chest hair peeking out from his unbuttoned henley. Mel finds Benji’s concentration and confusion adorable. Other than his pediatrician, Benji hasn’t been held by a man before. It only makes sense that he would be curious about the hair.
After a minute, the baby searches for her, maybe realizing that the person who holds him is a complete stranger. Mel smiles brightly at him and nods her encouragement, hoping he won’t burst into tears. When he doesn’t immediately refocus on Frank, she sits on the couch so Benji can keep her in his line of vision.
“Hey, buddy,” Frank says softly. “Hey, I’m your dad.”
Benji shoves a fist into his mouth and sucks on it, his eyes trailing from Mel to the ceiling fan. She smooths back his downy hair.
“Say hi to Daddy, Benji.”
“Benji?” Frank asks, looking at her crestfallen. “Shit, I should have asked at the party. Just the whole thing…”
“Benjamin,” she answers, finding it difficult to meet his gaze. “I mean, his full name is Benjamin Ira King.”
“Ira? You a big This American Life fan?”
Oh, does he not like it? In her limited experience, people tell her it’s a lovely name even when it’s obvious to her that they think it’s bad. What if Frank…?
As she starts fidgeting with her hands, Frank reaches over, entwining their fingers together. The way some tension in her shoulders eases with his touch startles her. Mel likes how big and warm and solid they are—hands accustomed to putting things back together. Like a flicker in the dark—bright and quick—she wonders if she might count herself among those things.
“Is it a family name?” he asks. “Your dad’s?”
Her gaze drops to her lap. “I never knew my dad.”
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“I thought about giving him your name as a middle name,” she explains, getting lost in those blue, blue eyes. “Then I realized I… I didn’t actually know it. Your badge says Frank, but I wasn’t sure if you were maybe a Franklin or a Francis. And obviously Franklin wouldn’t work, but I didn’t want to get it wrong and then look stupid.” She quiets. “It was a terrible idea anyway, so…”
She shakes her head, trying to fight off the tears. Ever a fan of lists, Mel had made enough in those couple of weeks following her positive test. To keep or to terminate being the first. That one spawned the creation of another: things I know about my baby’s father. His legal name and phone number were question marks, but the fact that he was a married man hadn’t been.
“Mel?”
She blinks away her memories. Frank squeezes her hand reassuringly.
“I love the name,” he says sincerely. “And it’s Francis.”
Unable to control herself, she bursts into tears.
“There’s so much I don’t know about you,” she explains, voice cracking.
It killed her to not be able to ask his friends in the ED all the questions she had about him. But what could she possibly say to justify them? I’m having his baby? And so she kept to herself, stealing bits of knowledge from passing conversations that may or may not have been true as her belly swelled with their son.
“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” Frank releases her hand and brings his arm around her, drawing her against his side. As they watch Benji pick at a button on his shirt, Frank rests his cheek against her head. “We have time to learn.”
September 2, 2025
I just wanna know you better
For the third time this week, Mel finds herself wrapped in Frank’s embrace—a friendly, one-armed hug that lingers a beat longer than she expects. Long enough to take a deep inhale of his scent—his fresh cologne laced with summer sweat. The sense memory of last September comes alive, sweat and sex in the air, his cologne faint as a fading pulse as he pushes inside her.
When he draws back, his lips graze across her cheekbone—their height difference making it intentional—which sends a shiver down her spine. It takes her a moment to set aside the sudden thrum in her body.
“Where’s the baby?” he asks.
“Oh, um, at home. I just thought that maybe it wouldn’t be good for him to overhear this conversation?”
Mel supposes it’s a natural question, but one she hopes her answer sufficiently satisfies. Thinking about Benji for too long won’t end well.
She hasn’t been separated from him since the nurses took him away for testing just after she’d given birth. It took every ounce of inner strength she could muster to walk out her door this morning. Her tears hadn’t ebbed for the entirety of the ten minute drive between her apartment and the breakfast place. Twice, Mel nearly turned around, composing an apology to Frank in her head to text later, after cuddling and comfort-nursing Benji. But that wouldn’t have been fair, not when they have things to discuss. Not when she owes it to him to allow space for his recovery process.
“He’s three months old, Mel.”
“I understand child development,” she counters, admittedly overly sensitive as she navigates this new and difficult parental milestone. “I know this isn’t rational.”
Frank raises his hands defensively. “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to be an asshole. I’m sorry.”
He’s quick to apologize, which… confuses her. The man she sat next to in the break room last September—who soaked up her tears with a tissue in his car—seemed considerate. Since that night though, ED gossip suggested Frank Langdon was anything but apologetic. Better to describe him as a snarky jerk with no emotional intelligence, sense of appropriateness, or understanding of basic human needs.
(The conversations she overheard about his marriage were… eye-opening. But, of course, who can say how many of those stories had basis in fact. She didn’t think she was in any position to judge him then—not with one hand digging into the bundle of screaming muscles in her lower back and the other cradling her heavy belly—and she’s not sure she’s in any better position now.)
How can she possibly reconcile these two versions of Frank? As much as she would like to trust her personal experience, Mel’s painfully aware that she’s easily fooled. She spent an entire semester freshman year thinking she had a secret admirer. It was only after waiting for three hours at an off-campus burger place and returning to her dorm to find her sniggering roommate and her roommate’s friends that Mel discovered it was a cruel joke at her expense. If he really is the person everyone at work claimed he was, then Frank could easily make her believe whatever he liked, couldn’t he? But why? Why toy with someone who you’d only known for a few hours?
If he is that person, wouldn’t his apology sound too good to be true? Practiced and smooth? This isn’t that. This is quick and careful, like he’s walking on eggshells. (She thinks that’s the phrase; it’s a stupid one anyway.) For that reason alone, Mel wants to believe him. She understands fawning—a term she learned in therapy years ago after unpacking her difficult childhood. She recognizes it in others, and while not exact, Frank’s reaction feels closer to that than a pretty lie she’s meant to swallow. How often does he do this and to whom? Robby, Gloria, and the board? Or his wife and family? How many eggshells has he crushed along the way?
“No, I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I accept that I won’t always be able to protect him, but he’s so tiny. I want to do everything to make sure he has a healthy, loving environment if I can.”
“And my addiction…?”
Mel sighs, frustrated that she isn’t communicating clearly. “Benji will know that his dad is in recovery for substance use disorder. It’s important that we normalize and de-stigmatize it for him from the beginning. Your disorder isn’t antithetical to the kind of environment I’m trying to cultivate for him.”
Frank blinks at her owlishly. Maybe she was too blunt? Many people struggle to navigate conversations about substance use disorder, so perhaps she should have been more polite. Frank is probably more accustomed to that from family and friends. She’s not trying to be indelicate; it’s just that Benji was up every two hours last night, and Mel doesn’t have the energy to wrap her words up in a pretty package that will be better received. Besides, Frank isn’t even the problem.
“I want to be honest with you about my experience if our conversation goes there,” she clarifies, interlocking and relaxing her fingers repeatedly. “There are some things about the circumstances of his conception and my pregnancy that he doesn’t ever need to hear even if he can’t understand.”
“Mel.”
The worry in his tone is palpable, as if he wants to ask what she meant by that but doesn’t know if he can. And he can’t. He’s not allowed to have that, not today.
“We should go inside,” she says, twisting her fidgeting hands in towards the entrance. “I would really like some pancakes.”
The restaurant is packed, which Mel doesn’t typically mind since the food is delicious. However, the din of utensils and conversation, the dizzying checkerboard flooring and shining metal fixtures fatigues her within thirty seconds today.
It must be obvious. As soon as he adds their names to the waitlist, Frank finds them the quietest corner he can manage and blocks her line of vision with his tall frame. And it’s not awful, being boxed in by him, not when it allows her space to breathe. Mel sneaks glances up at him, observing him people watch out the window. Seemingly unconsciously, he runs his fingertips up and down her arm. She shuffles a little closer.
Within fifteen, they’re seated with their drinks. When the server comes back for their order, Frank asks for three glasses of water, one for him and two for her.
“We have a nursing baby at home,” he explains, prompted by their young server’s curious look.
Mel barely hears the short exchange that follows—the young woman’s aww-ing and Frank’s insistence that the server looks at a picture on his phone—her head having turned to mush. His words—we and baby and home—play over and over, softening the rest of her. He said it so naturally, as if they’d prepared for parenthood together for a year. No hesitation, just a family of three with a place to call their own. Even if it is fiction, Mel wouldn’t mind living in it for a little while.
(And it also brings up so many questions of how things might have gone differently. Would he have triple checked her food for her first trimester aversions, insisting on sending the meal back to the kitchen to be remade because she and the baby needed to eat? Would he have gone out at midnight for the fig newtons she craved for the entirety of January? Or shaved her legs for her when it became too much of a chore to reach them? It’s too easy to imagine Frank there beside her, getting a drink at the little cafe she went to after every appointment. In bed next to her every night, rotating who read a children’s book to the baby after he developed hearing. Holding her upright with each contraction threatening to split her open as she paced the room to move her labor along.)
Her heart growing heavy, Mel sits with those thoughts. If she hadn’t already cried herself out, the idea of having gone through her pregnancy with Frank—maybe not the real one, but the man she imagines he might be, at least, based on this one tiny exchange—would make her weepy.
After they get their water, a moment passes. Frank begins to fidget with the empty creamer pods from his coffee. He avoids looking at her, suddenly uncomfortable despite playing the proud father not a couple minutes before.
“How much do you know?” he asks, finally breaking his silence.
“Only that you went to rehab. There was a lot of speculation, but I didn’t want to assume.”
With a sigh, Frank explains everything. Mel learns about the back injury, the prescription, the withdrawal treatment—each point in the narrative making her frown deepen. Then he gets into the worst of it—diverting medication, putting patients at risk as a result, being discovered by Trinity and what followed. It’s rehearsed, but not insincere. Like he’s become accustomed to the weight of the shame he carries, developed the strength to bear the burden of it.
“You used the day we met?” she asks.
Mel already suspects the answer, but clarity is important.
“I did,” he says, staring into his coffee. “Enough to take the edge off so I could focus on work. But I’m not saying that to minimize my actions.”
“I understand.”
Frank pauses, the muscles in his jaw working.
“There’s something else. After things calmed down, Robby and I fought. I said some things I shouldn’t have; I’m not proud of it. But Mel, I had some diazepam stashed, and I took them. More than I needed to treat the symptoms or withdrawal.”
“Before or… or after?”
When he looks at her, Mel sees the recognition there; he knows what she means by that question.
“Before.”
Her throat tightens.
“So you were…”
“Yes.”
Her eyes close tightly, shutting him out for a minute because she can’t.
Frank was high when they were together. That night… and she… oh. Unbidden memories surface. He’d been so gentle with her, held her and reassured her everything was okay. That he had her. Her anchor in a storm. Before he even touched her, he told her what a fuck up he was, how he couldn’t take care of anyone; Mel didn’t see it then. He took care of her. She can understand how he might think that now, but where did that leave her? How broken did she have to be to be put back together by a man whose life was crumbling in front of him?
More than that, how did she miss the signs of substance use? She’s a doctor! They were intimate. Close. She had sex with him. What had she done?
Mel apparently still has a little left in her to cry, her eyes tearing up.
“I’m so sorry, Frank.”
He blinks. “You’re sorry?”
Mel scrunches a napkin in her fist, forcing herself to continue. “You couldn’t consent.”
Frank reaches across the table for her hand, but Mel withdraws, moving it to her thigh and gripping. Knowing what she knows—what she did—she can’t possibly touch him now.
And Benji. Thank god he isn’t here. He can never know about this. It would devastate him, and she’s trying so hard to give him the life he deserves.
Mel can’t suppress the sob that bubbles up quickly enough. Her palm covers her mouth in an attempt to be discreet in this crowded restaurant. Why did she think this was a good idea?
“Melissa?” he says carefully. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
It’s only the gentleness of the request that gets her to do it. Even then—with his sad blue eyes on her—she can barely hold his gaze.
“I wanted to be with you that night,” he continues. “You felt it.”
“The body’s physiological response to genital stimulation has no bearing on whether the participant consents to intercourse,” she explains in a rush.
“You know, it doesn’t feel fair that one of the best and worst things to happen to me happened on the same day,” Frank says, pivoting.
“Please don’t talk about Benji right now,” she pleads, reaching across the table as if she can physically stop him. “Not when we’re discussing this.”
“I wasn’t talking about the baby, Mel.”
Then what? What else happened?
Frank takes her hand, uncurling it as it goes slack when it hits her. But he couldn’t possibly mean…
“You saved me,” he explains. “I was spiraling. I thought my life was over, and you showed up like some fucking angel and knew exactly what I needed to hear. I know it was probably the drugs intensifying everything, but you were so beautiful to me that night. I probably loved you a little bit just then. Nothing could have stopped me from kissing you back.
“I know it was selfish and fucked up. We were in shock. We made a mistake and showed a lot of poor judgment. I should have done right by you, Mel. It was my responsibility as your mentor to stop something like that from happening. I owe you an apology for all that. But I’m not going to let you beat yourself up over consent here.”
I probably loved you a little bit just then.
I probably loved you.
Her breath grows shallower each time it echoes across her heart. He…? But no, she can’t. Mel firmly reminds herself that she does not know Frank Langdon. She has no business getting worked up about something like this, over someone who she has still only known for less than twenty-four hours. The only reason she came today was to support Frank’s recovery and to talk about Benji. Benji is her priority.
(And why does she keep focusing on her relationship with Frank so much today when normally she can’t stop thinking about her baby?)
If she plays back Frank’s words just now—setting aside what he felt for her—it all comes down to two things: mistakes and responsibility for them. How it shouldn’t have happened. What did that mean for her son?
At her apartment three nights ago, Mel was so certain that Frank cared for their baby. He said it himself that Benji was perfect. In fact, hour after hour he promised he would leave soon, overstaying his welcome in the end and disrupting Benji’s bedtime. But how could she kick him out when he looked at their son with such tenderness? How could she wake them when they dozed on the couch, Benji curled up on his chest, his face planted against Frank’s neck?
Mel refuses to believe that he could fake that affection. Still, she owes him an out given the situation.
“Frank, I don’t want anything from you. I’m not going to hold you accountable for something that happened while you—while we both—were compromised, especially since I made the decision to keep him without your knowledge.”
There. That was neutral. Clinical. (Soul-crushing.) Mel forces a smile onto her face, but whether she succeeds or not is another matter. Maybe it’s more pained than reassuring. Sometimes her facial muscles don’t cooperate how she’d like them to.
The way Frank recoils indicates her failure.
“Fuck, that came out wrong,” he says, panicked. “We shouldn’t have slept together, but I don’t think the baby is a mistake. You gotta know that.”
Does she? How is she supposed to know that?
“Sweetheart, can I hold your hands for this next part?”
Hesitating only a moment, Mel places both in the center of the table, her palms up. Frank takes them in his own. (They really are big; she doesn’t know why Dr. Garcia always calls them tiny.) The tremor in his fingers makes her think he’s nervous or scared. Immediately, she feels the connection pull taut between them; she gets it—this whole thing is terrifying.
“Mel, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” His eyes are focused on her so intensely that it’s unnerving, but only because she feels like he might see right into the hidden parts of her she refuses to show anyone. “You should’ve never had to go through any of that alone.”
“You didn’t know,” she protests.
“I lied to you that night about seeing you on the next shift. I knew I wasn’t coming back. We slept together, and I didn’t call. Even if we hadn’t conceived, that was shitty of me. I was so self-absorbed that I didn’t bother to think of you. It was a choice I made, Mel, and I’m owning it.”
Her brain spins. He loved her, but he didn’t think of her? He lied and didn’t care? Mel wants to ask him to stop. In part, it pains her to hear how he treated her so insignificantly when she couldn’t stop thinking about him for days. Weeks. And that was before she even missed her period. Her face heats with embarrassment at the thought of the tattoo to the side of her spine, the one she got as evidence of their night together after the bruise from his car faded. Nevermind the stretch marks on her belly, her breasts, her thighs—her body going soft to carry the child she conceived with maybe the only person who has ever made her feel cared for.
Then there’s the rest of it, the other reason why she wants him to stop. Despite what he claims, Mel doubts she’s truly entitled to this. Frank is putting all of this on himself when she made a choice in that car too.
But Mel doesn’t stop him. His touch is gentle but firm, his eyes so sincere and apologetic. It’s heady; no one has ever apologized to her like this, not with their whole being. Their soul laid bare. She wants to hug him, but Mel has no idea who would be comforting whom.
“I would have been there,” he continues. “Look, I can’t say much about how I might have acted, but I can promise you that much. I wouldn’t have missed your appointments if I had a choice. You wouldn’t have had to bring our son into this world by yourself.” He shuts his eyes tightly. “Fuck, Mel.”
She isn’t sure how to respond. Should she be honest here and admit how relieved she would have been to have had another adult to help decide on a birthing plan? (The Frank in her heart would have been useless really, insisting that the only plan was to do whatever necessary to keep her and the baby safe and healthy.) Or explain to him how jealous she was of the other mothers and their partners passing her door in those early hours? How nice it would have been to hold onto a warm, sweaty palm instead of the cool plastic of her bedrail? How much easier it would have been to suffer through all two hours and eighteen minutes of pushing if she had more than herself and Kendrick Lamar to encourage her through it? Would he have caught the baby if she asked him to—the first touch their son would ever know his father’s, like his first voice was hers—or would Frank have refused to leave her side?
Grief plagues her memories of her early morning delivery, as palpable as that grief she carried after her mother’s death. But Frank can’t know about that. About how badly she wanted him. About how she almost called his number—the one she got from Cassie—before her epidural kicked in, as she sucked in sharp breaths and choked back sobs, her body creeping closer to ten centimeters dilation.
(Not the first time she almost called him, but the only time she had her phone in hand.)
She won’t put that pain on him right now. Maybe ever. And none of it changes what she needs to tell him.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing his hands. “I forgive you.”
Tears wet his lashes, but Mel suspects that they’re not bad tears. Or at least, not only bad ones.
“I want to be a part of Benji’s life now, if you’ll let me. I’ll accept any conditions you give me. Just please, let me see my son.”
His voice cracks with desperation. Not for the first time does she consider what kind of conflict he might be experiencing with Abby over the kids. Though he hasn’t mentioned it, Mel learned about the divorce secondhand. Samira brought it up before she’d gone to Abbot’s party, figuring that Mel might hear it from someone there. Better it came from her, Samira said. As one of the very few people who knows about Benji’s paternity, Mel appreciates the care Samira takes to keep her up-to-date on things.
Should she tell Frank that she knows? No, she thinks, resisting the urge to shake her head, dislodging the very idea of it. She doesn’t need to know more about his marriage. And it’s not any of her business; it’ll only fuel more questions.
“Of course you can see him.”
Frank exhales, relieved.
“It’s important that Benji keeps to his schedule, so we’ll need to plan in advance,” she continues. “Find our shared days off when I’m back to work. And, I’d prefer that you didn’t show up unannounced. I can set up a shared Google calendar when he goes to sleep tonight.”
“Just like that?” he asks, skeptically.
“Yes?” She bites her lip. “Well, there is one more thing. I don’t want you to have him by yourself right now. The rates of parental abduction are concerning despite convoluted data.”
Frank laughs. Mel tilts her head, confused.
“Mel, c’mon. You can say you’re worried about the drugs. It won’t upset me.”
But it’s… not that? She was very direct about her condition and why. Her brow furrows. This has nothing to do with any concern over upsetting him; she’s not worried about that. Why would he—
Mel watches his face go from amused to serious all of a sudden.
“You’re not joking.”
“Why would I joke about something like that?” she asks.
“You don’t trust me,” he realizes, and for some reason it hurts when he expresses those sentiments. “But why would you? You don’t know me.”
“No! No, it’s not like that,” Mel says earnestly. “I’m just protective. Benji is my whole world. He’s all I really have right now.”
Mel swallows hard at that thought, drawing her arms around herself. Her social group has always been limited, a side effect of looking after Becca since their mother didn’t parent them very well. Full-time carework exacerbated the problem. Moving to a new city hadn’t helped, nor had getting pregnant immediately. There was only so much fun she was willing and able to have given the circumstances.
But they did go out a few times early in her pregnancy—her, Samira, Trinity, Dennis, and Victoria. They always thought to include her, to keep her in the loop via an active group chat, even when she’d gotten so big that the walk from the car to the restaurant winded her too much to be worth it, Benji’s long legs brutalizing her battered lungs. She dated a bit too, typically not more than a dinner, her impending motherhood only attracting creeps with a fetish. And there’d been Simon, this sweet guy who worked at the local coffeehouse by the hospital. He seemed solid—she even introduced him to the girls—but things with the baby took a turn, and she didn’t have the capacity for that connection any longer. All she could manage was her friendship with Samira.
The only constant in her life is Becca, but even that’s not entirely true anymore. It hurts to even think about her sister. The rejection began during her first trimester when her morning sickness and exhaustion disrupted Becca’s schedule and expectations. They worsened when she started showing, Becca uncomfortable with the changes in Mel’s body. Mel thought Becca would get excited over a gender reveal party and she had been, right up until Mel pulled away a slice of cake with a thick blue line of frosting in the center. Becca had a meltdown over the sex, saying things that Mel can’t unhear. Mel followed, sobbing on Samira’s shoulder while Trinity, Victoria, and Dennis cleaned up the remnants of her party.
And she tried to give Becca a sense of normalcy, so much so that her OB had a hard conversation with her at her 24-week check-up after the discovery of Benji’s VSD. Her priorities had to change. It was a disaster. By the time she was eight months pregnant, Becca completely transitioned into the assisted-living unit of the Center. She didn’t come to the baby shower. For the last seven weeks of her pregnancy, Mel worked as much as she could just so she didn’t have to sit at home alone. It took Dana and Robby cornering her in the breakroom and explaining, not unkindly, that she was going to work herself into premature labor that Mel finally went on leave.
If Frank knew any of that, he would understand her misgivings about letting Benji out of her sight.
“I know you’re a good person, Frank. I’m just not ready. If anything happened…”
She sniffles. It’s killing her to be away from Benji right now even though Mel knows he’s in Dana’s youngest’s capable hands.
“I understand.”
She frowns. “I upset you.”
“When I said I’d accept any of your terms, I meant it, Mel. Whatever you’re offering.”
She should be happy, but Mel can’t help but wonder why he readily accepts whatever she wants. Why he gives into her irrational worry without understanding everything informing it. Does he trust her that much? Is setting and respecting boundaries part of the work he’s doing in recovery? Mel wants to understand this dynamic better, to let him know that he’s Benji’s parent too, and if he ever thinks she’s making the wrong call, he should speak up. He has more experience, after all. But before she can formulate a question, Frank rummages in his backpack and pulls out a gift bag, pushing it across the table.
Mel tables her question for now, taking the shift in mood as a sign that maybe they’re both at their emotional limit. When Frank gestures at her to open it up, Mel does, finding a baby Pens beanie and penguin plush inside. Tucked between the tissue paper and bag sits an envelope with Benji’s name written in Frank’s handwriting.
“What’s this?”
“Listen, I know it’s a little early, but I’d like to come over on October 7th if that’s okay. It’s the opening game of the season. I thought we could have some father-son time. You know, snacks, pizza, beer. Non-alcoholic, of course.”
“He’s too little for pizza.”
“I mean, yeah. I’d give him a bottle, or you could join us on the couch to nurse. I’d rather you take the time to relax though.”
Relax? The very thought makes her slightly hysterical. When was the last time she soaked in the tub? Or read some smutty romance novel in bed? Or—most luxurious of all—had a meal without a baby in her arms or attached to her breast? She would make it a point to pump enough for a bottle feed or two.
As she reaches to open the card, Frank stops her.
“That’s for Benji. And before you remind me that he can’t read,” he says with a lopsided grin, “I wrote it for him to read when he’s older. You’re not the only one I need to apologize to.”
Straightening the little jersey on the penguin, Mel tries to steady herself. She thought it would take more time for Frank to bond with this baby who he didn’t have nine months to prepare for. The baby he’s not mad about at all. The one he’s just cuddled and changed for the first time. As taxing as this conversation has been on her heart, Frank’s acceptance of his role in Benji’s life is a balm on all of it.
“I’ll add the 7th to the calendar,” she says softly.
“I also need to make you aware of this habit I have. I, uh… I tend to buy things for people who I know I’ve disappointed. Overcompensate because I’m a fuck-up sometimes. A lot of the time. It’s not a habit that I want to start with Benji, but I can be impulsive,” he explains. “The point is, I’m trying to do better, but I’m not always going to get it right. Like today. I’d appreciate it if you’d help keep me honest. I’m working on myself right now, Mel. I’m taking my sobriety very seriously for the kids and my relationships. It’s going to take time though.”
“Oh, yeah,” she agrees, a little perplexed. “O-of course.”
Mel has spent all this time trying to figure out how Benji fits into Frank’s life that she didn’t let herself consider how she might fit in as well. In what other ways would he need her help? What would their family look like—just the three of them or would she meet his other children someday too? How would they coparent together? Would they be cordial colleagues who share a child or become best friends? (Anything else doesn’t bear thinking about.)
Frank continues, “You should also know that I tried to get you something, but everything I came up with didn’t even come close to what I owe you. I mean, I even went to a jewelry store—I was panicking, Mel—and I almost bought these two-carat diamond earrings because I couldn’t get the horseshoe earrings you wore on your first day out of my head. Like, I interrogated the guy about where the diamonds came from because I know you’d want them to be ethically-sourced.”
At this point, Mel thinks Frank is talking to himself. She watches his facial expressions, his gestures, as he recounts the story with all the curiosity of a researcher studying someone in a lab. Note: subject rambles when uncomfortable.
“And then I thought, she would hate these. These aren’t her at all, and why am I even here? That’s when I realized that I was trying to fix things between us by buying you off, and I just walked out in the middle of whatever he was saying. Come to think of it, that was really fucking rude of me.”
“Oh um, I’m sure it wasn’t that rude, all things considered,” she says, noticing the sudden guilt on his face. “It is retail.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He nods, apparently comforted. “I definitely still owe you a hundred footrubs and a push present though.”
“A… what?”
“Push present? You know, a present you get for giving birth?”
“Isn’t the baby the present?” she asks, utterly confused.
Frank laughs, full-bellied and sincere. He looks at her softly, a tenderness there that she hasn’t seen since the night they conceived Benji.
His smile fades, the sadness pressing in again.
“Sweetheart?”
“Yeah, Frank?”
“I’m probably going to spend forever trying to make this up to you.”
Forever—that’s a dizzyingly long time to think about, especially when her life right now seems to be measured between feeds. If Mel allows herself to think beyond the baby though—and she hardly can, not when there are so many things she left a mess prior to Benji’s birth—she realizes there’s so much more to figure out.
Frank isn’t the only one with a debt to pay. But maybe… maybe he’d be willing to figure it out together.