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God, I’ve missed him.
“You need to leave, Arsen.”
I must be speaking a different language. Because he interprets “leave” as “hold me tighter and never let me go.”
“Arsen…” I struggle not to surrender my weight to him. Not to let myself sink into the solid warmth of his chest.
But his arms are like vise grips around my body and after a few seconds, my willpower drains away with the rest of my energy.
I’m so tired. And it feels good to stop fighting.
He walks me back to the bed and settles me into the mattress.
For the first time since Nina was born, I sleep like a baby.
51
ARSEN
As I fold the muslin swaddle around my screaming infant in what must be my fifteenth attempt in the last twenty minutes, a lot of things are becoming clear.
For instance, why Laila’s under-eye circles have been practically tattooed on the last week.
Another thing becoming crystal clear is that Laila has not been tucked away peacefully in this nursery, rocking Nina and singing sweet lullabies like I imagined.
Nina is a warrior, and this bottle of milk is her sworn enemy.
I tickle the tip of the bottle against her lips, trying to coax her mouth open. “Come on,” I mutter, knowing she can’t hear me over her own screaming. “Let me help you.”
I kick a fleece blanket against the crack at the bottom of the door to try to stifle the noise. Laila was still asleep when I rolled out of bed and carried Nina to the nursery, and I’d like it to stay that way. If she wakes up and sees me fumbling with our daughter,she might remember what a deadbeat I’ve been and kick my ass to the couch.
Nina must be on her mother’s team, though, because the crying ratchets up another decibel.
“It’s okay,malyshka. Papa’s got you now.”
She looks at me, like,Who the fuck is Papa?And okay, fair enough. But our reintroduction starts now. I’m going to get this right.
“Come on.” I bounce her gently, letting a tiny bit of milk dribble onto her lip. “Just a little taste. You’ll love it.”
She bats the bottle away with her hand and twists her face away. Her cheeks are blotchy from the strain of crying.
The nursery door flies open. I assume it’s Laila coming to relieve her useless husband. Instead, I look up and see a floor-length dressing gown and fuzzy white slippers.
“Polina.”
She frowns at the scene in front of her. “Torture may suffice in your line of work, but all it’s going to do with her is wake up the whole house.”
“She’s being stubborn,” I explain miserably. “She’s hungry, but she won’t take the bottle.”
“She won’t do what’s best for her even though it’s right there in front of her face?” She hums like it’s a divine mystery. “My goodness, I can’t imagine where she gets that from.”
“You’re really gonna come in here and bust my balls at three in the morning?”
“Only because you deserve it.” She closes the door and instantly starts snapping at me, making her way across the room. “Take your shirt off.” She catches the look of confusion on my face and rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, little boy. Skin-to-skin contact is the fastest way to make her feel safe.”
I hand my screaming daughter to Polina and tug my shirt off. Then I try the cradle hold again, folding Nina against my bare chest. She’s still wailing, but the sound falters like she’s trying to determine if it’s worth continuing to make a fuss or not.
I rock her back and forth, swaying until my arms are numb and my hearing is irreparably damaged. Finally, her crying begins to taper off. Then, even more slowly, it stops.
