Chapter 135 Practice

Chapter 135 Practice
Chapter Thirty-Six

Charlie

The doorbell rings at the worst possible moment.

Specifically, while I’m kneeling in the middle of the living room, surrounded by wooden rails, tiny screws, metal brackets, and an instruction manual that appears to have been created by someone with a personal grudge against expectant parents.

The crib is supposed to be simple.

That’s what the box claimed.

Easy assembly.

Minimal tools required.

Both statements are lies.

The instructions consist entirely of cryptic illustrations featuring a smiling cartoon man who seems far too pleased with himself. According to the diagram, part D connects to part F using screw H, except I have three pieces that could reasonably be part D, nothing labeled F, and enough identical screws to build a suspension bridge.

I stare at the crooked frame in front of me.

Something is wrong.

I’m almost positive I attached one of the side rails upside down.

Possibly backward too.

From the kitchen, Cade hums quietly while making lunch. The sound drifts through the house along with the scent of toasted bread and tomato soup, mingling with the cinnamon and vanilla that have become inseparable from home.

Jordan is upstairs going over materials for his job.

Or pretending to while playing video games and calling it research.

The doorbell rings again.

“I’ll get it,” I call, throwing the instruction manual onto the floor with more force than necessary.

Cade leans around the kitchen doorway. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I need to walk away before I burn that thing in the backyard.”

His gaze moves toward the half-assembled crib. “You’re doing great.”

“That sounds suspiciously like pity.”

“It’s encouragement.”

“It’s pity wearing a nicer shirt.”

His mouth twitches.

I head toward the front door before the bell can ring a third time.

When I pull it open, Lottie stands on the porch with Camellia balanced on one hip.

My twin looks entirely too cheerful.

Camellia looks equally pleased, which is more concerning.

Her dark curls have been gathered into two uneven puffs, one already escaping near her ear. She’s wearing tiny overalls over a yellow shirt and clutching a stuffed rabbit by one leg.

Lottie smiles.

“You’re babysitting.”

I blink. “What?”

She steps around me and enters the house without waiting for an invitation. “You heard me.”

I close the door and follow her into the living room.

“Lottie, I’m in the middle of something.”

She surveys the scattered crib parts.

“Building furniture for your own child?”

“Attempting to.”

“Perfect.”

She sets Camellia on the floor.

“This is practice.”

“For what? Surviving a home invasion?”

“For fatherhood.”

Camellia spots the pile of wooden pieces and immediately toddles toward them.

Her eyes lock onto a small silver screw.

“No.”

I lunge across the rug and scoop her up before she can grab it.

She squeals in protest, twisting in my arms with surprising strength.

“These are not snacks,” I tell her.

“Sna,” she repeats, reaching toward the floor.

“No snacks made of metal.”

Lottie places a diaper bag beside the sofa.

“She already ate.”

“Good.”

“She’ll need lunch in about an hour.”

“Less good.”

“There are chicken nuggets in the bag, along with fruit, crackers, two juice boxes, wipes, diapers, spare clothes, and her stuffed bear.”

Camellia lifts the rabbit. “Bunny.”

“That’s the bunny,” Lottie corrects. “The bear is in the bag.”

“Why does she need both?”

“Emotional complexity.”

I shift Camellia onto my other hip as she reaches for my earring.

She pinches it between two fingers and pulls.

“Ow.”

Lottie starts backing toward the door.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“You cannot drop a toddler in my house and disappear.”

“I can. And I am.”

“You haven’t left yet.”

She grins. “I’ll be back at six.”

“It’s barely noon.”

“Exactly. Plenty of bonding time.”

“Lottie.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I have a crib to build.”

She gestures toward Camellia.

“This is more important.”

“I’m not prepared for this.”

“Neither are most parents.”

“That isn’t reassuring.”

She opens the door.

“Call me if there’s blood.”

“Whose blood?”

“Use your judgment.”

Then as quickly as she arrived, she’s gone.

I stand in the entryway with my niece clinging to me, her fingers still tangled around my earring.

The house is suddenly very quiet.

I look down at her.

She looks up at me.

Her expression is innocent.

Too innocent.

“Well,” I say. “This should be interesting.”

Camellia smiles.

Then she smacks my cheek with the stuffed rabbit.

The first ten minutes go surprisingly well.

That should have warned me.

Camellia sits on the rug, contentedly moving wooden blocks between two plastic cups while I return to the crib.

I keep her within sight.

I check on her every few seconds.

She hums to herself and occasionally announces the color of a block, though most of her answers are either “boo” or “wed,” regardless of what she is holding.

I manage to remove the backward rail.

I turn it around.

I locate the proper screws.

For one brief, foolish moment, I believe I’m in control.

Then I look over, and Camellia is gone.

My blood runs cold. “Camellia?”

No answer.

I stand so quickly that I nearly trip over the instruction manual.

“Cam?”

A giggle comes from behind the sofa.

I round the corner and find her crouched there with one of my sneakers clutched in both hands.

The laces are in her mouth.

“No, no, no.”

I lift her away.

She holds on to the shoe. “Mine.”

“That is absolutely not yours.”

“Mine.”

“It is several sizes too large.”

“Mine!”

She twists, trying to escape with the sneaker.

I pry it from her grip and set it on the coffee table.

Camellia stares at me.

Her lower lip trembles.

“No,” I say carefully. “Don’t do that.”

Her eyes fill with tears.

“Camellia.”

Her face crumples.

The scream that follows is astonishing.

It isn’t crying.

It’s a declaration of war.

Cade appears in the kitchen doorway holding a spoon.

“What happened?”

“She tried to eat my shoe.”

Camellia reaches toward the sneaker, sobbing. “Mine!”

Cade presses his lips together.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are absolutely laughing.”

“I’m observing.”

“That is not observation. That is betrayal.”

Cade disappears into the kitchen before I can say anything else, but I hear him chuckling.

I crouch in front of Camellia.

“The shoe is dirty.”

She continues crying.

“It’s been outside.”

No change.

“You have toys.”

She points at the coffee table.

“Mine.”

I look at the sneaker.

Then at her.

“We need to work on your negotiation skills.”

She sniffles.

I offer her the stuffed rabbit.

She knocks it away.

“All right.”

I pick up two blocks.

“Do you want the red one or the blue one?”

Her crying pauses.

She looks between them.

“Boo.”

I hand her the blue block.

She accepts it.

The tears stop instantly.

I stare at her.

“That was manipulative.”

She smiles.

I begin to understand why Lottie left so quickly.

Lunch is an exercise in diplomacy.

I strap Camellia into the portable booster seat Lottie left behind and place a plate of chicken nuggets and sliced fruit in front of her.

She examines the meal with deep suspicion.

“Nugget,” I say, pointing.

Camellia looks at me.

“Nugget.”

She picks one up.

Victory.

Then she drops it onto the floor.

I close my eyes. “Why?”

She points beneath the table. “Dog.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

She peers down again as if one might materialize through determination.

“Dog eat.”

“There is no dog to eat it.”

She looks offended by this failure in household management.

I retrieve the nugget and throw it away.

When I return, she has placed three pieces of strawberry into her water cup.

“What are you doing?”

“Soup.”

“That is not soup.”

“Soup.”

“You have actual lunch.”

She stirs the floating fruit with her spoon.

Cade sits across the table with his own bowl of tomato soup, watching the exchange with a level of amusement that borders on disrespectful.

“You could help,” I tell him.

“You said this was your practice.”

“I did not say that. Lottie did.”

“Same family.”

“Not the same person.”

Camellia lifts the cup toward me. “Drink.”

I recoil. “No.”

“Drink.”

“I am not drinking strawberry hand-water.”

Cade coughs into his fist.

“You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”

He smiles. “You’re doing fine.”

Camellia tilts the cup toward herself.

I catch it before she can pour the entire mixture into her lap.

“Fine is a generous word.”

Eventually, she eats one nugget, half a strawberry, four crackers, and the corner of a napkin.

I count that as success.

After lunch, I decide we need a calm activity.

Something structured.

Quiet.

Safe.

Coloring seems perfect.

I clear the coffee table, spread several sheets of paper across it, and place a box of thick crayons in the center.

Camellia climbs into the chair beside me.

“We color on the paper,” I explain.

She nods. “Papah.”

“Exactly.”

I demonstrate by drawing a crooked circle.

She takes a magenta crayon and makes a line across the page.

“Good job.”

She smiles proudly.

For five peaceful minutes, everything works.

She colors.

I begin sorting the remaining crib hardware.

Cade returns to the kitchen.

The house settles.

Then I hear the faint scrape of wax against something that is definitely not paper.

I look up.

Camellia is crouched beside the coffee table, drawing a bright magenta spiral across the wooden leg.

“No!”

She jumps.

The crayon moves in one long streak.

I rush toward her and take it from her hand.

“We color on paper.”

“Pretty.”

“It is pretty, but it’s also expensive.”

She points toward the wall.

“More.”

“Absolutely not.”

She grabs for another crayon.

I grab the box first.

Camellia darts around the table.

“How do you still have one?”

She squeals and runs.

I chase her through the living room.

She makes a sharp turn beside the sofa, then heads directly toward Cade’s favorite leather armchair.

My stomach drops.

“Camellia, stop!”

She reaches the chair before I do.

One bright magenta line appears across the leather.

I freeze.

She freezes.

We both stare at it.

“No.”

Camellia adds a second line.

I lift her into the air.

“Art time is over.”

She laughs as though this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened.

Cade appears again.

His gaze moves from me, to the crayon, to his chair.

He presses one hand over his mouth.

“Do not.”

His shoulders shake.

“Cade.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are not sorry.”

“I’m a little sorry.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“It may come off.”

“May?”

“I did like that chair.”

Camellia reaches toward the mark.

“Pretty.”

Cade looks at the bright magenta lines, then at her proud expression.

“I suppose it has more personality now.”

I stare at him. “You’re taking this disturbingly well.”

“She’s two.”

“That doesn’t make the chair less expensive.”

“No, but it does make the vandal very difficult to prosecute.”

Camellia smiles.



The diaper incident begins beneath the kitchen table.

I notice Camellia has gone quiet.

I’ve learned enough by now to understand that silence is rarely a positive development.

“Camellia?”

No answer.

I check behind the sofa.

Nothing.

I look toward the hallway.

Empty.

Then I hear a whisper from beneath the table.

“Hide.”

I crouch.

She’s sitting between two chair legs, hugging the stuffed rabbit to her chest.

“There you are.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No find.”

“I already found you.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

A suspicious smell reaches me.

I pause. “Oh.”

Camellia’s eyes widen. “No.”

“Yes.”

She crawls backward. “No diapah.”

“You need a diaper.”

“No.”

I reach beneath the table.

She scoots away.

What follows is a humiliating chase through the kitchen, around the island, into the hallway, and back toward the living room.

She is shockingly fast.

I catch her near the stairs.

She screams as if I’ve betrayed her at the deepest possible level.

“I know,” I say, carrying her toward the changing pad. “This is difficult for both of us.”

“No diapah!”

“You cannot negotiate this.”

“No!”

I place her down.

She twists immediately.

One leg kicks free.

Then the other.

“Camellia.”

She rolls onto her stomach.

I roll her back.

She arches like a tiny possessed bridge.

I try singing.

She screams louder.

I make faces.

She kicks me in the chest.

I offer the stuffed rabbit.

She throws it at my head.

“Okay.”

I sit back on my heels, sweating.

“We need a new strategy.”

Her face is red.

Tears cling to her eyelashes.

I feel terrible even though I know I’m not hurting her.

Then inspiration strikes.

I clear my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen.”

Camellia’s crying falters.

I deepen my voice. “Welcome to the Diaper Changing Five Hundred.”

She sniffles.

I point dramatically toward the clean diaper.

“Today’s brave contestant is Miss Camellia Logan.”

Her eyes follow my hand.

“The challenge is simple. Can she defeat the terrible Diaper Monster before time runs out?”

“Monstah?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

Her crying stops.

“The monster is very stinky.”

She giggles. “Stinky.”

“Extremely.”

I make exaggerated gagging noises.

Camellia laughs harder.

“And the winner gets a prize.”

Her eyes widen.

“Pwize?”

“The best prize ever.”

“What?”

My mind goes blank.

“A story.”

She considers this.

“A special story about a brave little girl who defeats the Diaper Monster.”

“Me?”

“You.”

She lies back.

I move faster than I’ve ever moved in my life.

“Contestant Camellia raises one leg.”

She does.

“Excellent form.”

I clean her up.

“The monster is losing ground.”

She giggles.

“Now the other leg.”

She lifts it.

I secure the clean diaper.

“And she wins!”

Camellia throws both hands into the air.

“Win!”

I collapse beside her.

“Yes.”

I am sweating through my shirt.

She pats my face.

“Story.”

I close my eyes.

Of course.

By four o’clock, I’m exhausted.

By five, I’ve accepted that the house may never recover.

Camellia refuses her nap.

She builds a tower from the crib hardware boxes.

She spills juice on my shirt.

She hides three crackers beneath the sofa cushion.

She demands the Diaper Monster story five times.

Somehow, between disasters, I finish assembling the crib.

It isn’t perfect.

One side squeaks.

I have two screws left over, which feels ominous.

But it stands upright and doesn’t collapse when I shake it.

I consider that progress.

Near six, Camellia finally slows down.

She crawls onto the sofa beside me, still clutching her rabbit, and leans against my side.

Her eyelids droop.

“You tired?” I whisper.

“No.”

She yawns.

“Clearly not.”

I lift her onto my chest.

She squirms once, then settles.

Her head rests beneath my chin.

One small hand curls into my shirt.

Within minutes, her breathing becomes slow and even.

I stare at the ceiling.

My body aches.

There is magenta crayon on my arm, glitter in my hair, and something sticky dried near my elbow.

The living room looks like a toddler-sized hurricane passed through it.

But Camellia is warm and trusting against me.

Her heartbeat flutters beneath my palm.

Something shifts inside my chest.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Something deeper.

A sense of purpose.

When Lottie returns, her eyes move across the room.

The scattered toys.

My stained shirt.

The finished crib.

The magenta streak across Cade’s armchair.

Then she looks at me.

“Well?”

I dn’t move.

“I’m exhausted.”

She smiles.

“Did you have fun?”

“Your daughter is a terrorist.”

Lottie gasps softly.

“A cute terrorist,” I add.

“That’s better.”

“She stole my shoe, vandalized Cade’s furniture, fought me during a diaper change, and tried to make me drink strawberry soup.”

Lottie looks toward the kitchen.

“What is strawberry soup?”

“Don’t ask.”

She notices Camellia sleeping against my chest.

Her expression softens.

“She likes you.”

“She drew on me.”

“She does that to people she loves.”

“That explains Cade’s chair.”

Lottie winces when she notices the damage.

“He’s going to make you clean that, isn’t he?”

“He’s already threatened me with cleaning supplies.”

“She doesn’t fall asleep on everyone,” Lottie says quietly. “Especially when she’s somewhere unfamiliar.”

I look down at Camellia.

Her face is peaceful now, the wild curls framing her cheeks. She trusts me completely, despite everything.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I guess she does like me.”

Lottie kneels beside the sofa and carefully lifts her.

Camellia stirs, makes a small protesting sound, then curls against her mother.

Lottie reaches for the diaper bag.

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

“The crib looks good.”

“There are two screws left.”

“There are always extra screws.”

“That is something people always say before furniture collapses.”

She laughs.

“You did well.”

“I aged ten years.”

“Parenthood.”

“This was only one afternoon.”

“Exactly.”

She kisses my cheek before heading toward the door.

“See you soon, Uncle Charlie.”

Camellia lifts one sleepy hand.

“Bye, Unca Char.”

The door closes behind them.

Silence fills the house.

I remain on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

Cade steps out of the kitchen.

He’s been suspiciously absent for most of the difficult parts, though I caught him watching from the doorway more than once.

He leans against the frame now, arms crossed over his chest.

His stomach curves beneath a lightweight spring sweater, more visible than it was only a few weeks ago.

A fond smile rests on his face.

“You handled that well.”

I look at the state of the room.

“I was a disaster.”

“You were patient.”

“She kicked me.”

“You stayed calm.”

“She colored on the coffee table.”

“You redirected her.”

“After the line was drawn.”

Cade crosses the room and sits beside me.

“You were creative.”

“I invented a competitive diaper-changing event.”

“And it worked.”

“I’m pretty sure there is glitter inside my ear.”

He laughs.

The sound fills the room with warmth.

“You were kind even when she was frustrated.”

“I thought I was going to cry during lunch.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Neither did she, once she got the blue block.”

Cade’s smile softens.

“You’re going to be a great father.”

The words settle between us.

I look toward the crib.

Then at the crayon mark on the coffee table.

Then back at Cade.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.”

His hand moves over his stomach.

Our son has been more active lately. At five months along, Cade says the movements still feel like tiny bubbles or the flutter of wings, subtle enough that I can’t feel them from the outside yet.

I place my hand over his.

“What if I mess it up?”

“You will.”

I stare at him.

“That was fast.”

“We both will.”

He turns his hand beneath mine, linking our fingers.

“We’ll get tired. We’ll lose patience. We’ll make the wrong decision sometimes.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

“It isn’t supposed to be.”

He leans closer.

“Being a good parent doesn’t mean never making mistakes. It means you keep showing up afterward.”

I think about Camellia screaming during the diaper change.

The moment I could’ve become frustrated.

The way I stopped, changed my approach, and found something that made her laugh.

I look toward the crib again.

“I was terrified when she disappeared behind the sofa.”

“That’s probably healthy.”

“I checked every room twice.”

“You kept her safe.”

“She ate part of a napkin.”

“Mostly safe.”

I groan.

Cade rests his head against my shoulder.

“You cared about what she needed, even when you didn’t understand what she wanted.”

“That happened most of the day.”

“Welcome to parenting.”

I turn my head and press a kiss into his hair.

His scent wraps around me, sweet and warm.

“I think Lottie planned this.”

“Of course she did.”

“She wanted to see if I could handle it.”

“No.”

I glance at him.

“No?”

“She already knows you can.”

“Then why abandon me with her child?”

“Entertainment.”

“That makes more sense.”

Cade laughs again.

I slide lower on the sofa and rest my hand across his stomach.

“Did he move today?”

“A few times.”

“While Camellia was screaming?”

“Yes.”

“He was probably trying to escape.”

“He may have been taking notes.”

“That’s worse.”

Cade covers my hand with his.

For a while, we sit quietly.

The house is a mess.

The crib may or may not be structurally sound.

My body feels as though I’ve spent the day running from wild animals.

Yet beneath the exhaustion, something warm remains.

Camellia asleep against my chest.

Her small hand gripping my shirt.

The certainty that when she needed comfort, she found it with me.

“I think you might be right,” I say.

Cade lifts his head.

“About what?”

I look at him.

“Maybe I will be good at this.”

His expression becomes impossibly tender.

“I know you will.”

I lean closer and kiss him.

It’s brief, soft, filled with everything I don’t know how to say.

When I pull away, Cade’s eyes remain closed for a moment.

Then he opens them.

He looks toward the magenta streak on his armchair.

“You should probably clean that before it sets permanently.”

“Do you think we can move and leave the chair behind?”

“No.”

“Replace it?”

“I’ll know.”

“Set it on fire?”

“Charlie.”

“Fine.”

I push myself up with a groan.

Cade catches my hand before I can walk away.

“You really did well today.”

The teasing has left his voice.

He means it.

I squeeze his fingers.

“Thanks.”

As I gather crayons from beneath the coffee table, I glance toward the newly assembled crib.

In a few months, our son will sleep there.

He’ll cry in the middle of the night.

He’ll spit up on my clothes and fight diaper changes. He’ll grow into a toddler who runs faster than seems physically possible, colors on things that should never be colored, and insists that shoes belong in his mouth.

The thought should terrify me.

It does.

But not in the same way as before.

Now the fear carries anticipation with it.

Wonder.

A strange kind of confidence earned through one chaotic afternoon.

I won’t always know what to do.

Today proves that.

It also proves I can figure it out.

I can adjust.

I can stay patient.

I can turn disaster into a game and panic into laughter.

Most importantly, I can love a child even while he is making an absolute mess of everything around me.

I look at Cade.

He stands near the crib now, one hand braced against the rail while the other rests over our baby.

The spring sunlight spills through the windows, catching on his hair and warming the room.

My family.

My future.

My purpose.

The crib squeaks ominously.

Cade looks down at it.

I point toward the leftover screws.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice those.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You’re rebuilding it.”

I sigh.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not call me that.”

This time, the smile he tries to hide gives him away.