Oliver fusses, and I wonder if I should pick him up to console him. I know next to nothing about babies, yet the urge to hold him, snuggle him against my chest, is strong. I relent and scoop him into my arms until he’s nestled in the crook of my neck. His tiny baby breaths tickle, but I welcome them.
He still and lets out a small, contented sigh. When I met him a few days ago, he was just a tiny baby, and now he’s my brother. Even if my parents don’t end up adopting him, he’s going to know he was loved when he was part of our family.
I adjust him to rest in my arms. This gives me a chance to stare at this face. His eyelashes are long, perfect. His cheeks have the slightest hint of red; they’re chubby and pinchable, and I realize I’ll hurt anyone who tries to hurt him.
My finger traces a line down his nose and over his lips. He puckers and then stretches. I know I’m breaking every parental sin out there by touching a sleeping baby, but I can’t help it. Oliver’s eyes flutter open, and we stare at each other. I expect him to fuss or let out a scream, but he doesn’t. He looks at me, blinking every few seconds. Does he know I’m his big sister? It’s unlikely, but maybe he sees me as security.
“Hi, cutie.” I pull out my phone, turn on the camera, and adjust Oliver so we can take a selfie. I send it to Ben with the caption: Oliver says, Hi, Uncle Ben! I wait for Ben to respond, but he doesn’t.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Oliver.”
He stretches and yawns. I frown, knowing I woke him from his slumber. I stand and hold him to my chest. We walk around the room, and I sing to him until he’s asleep. Instead of putting him back in his crib, I lie him on the bed and fall asleep next to him.
“Do you have any kids?”
I clear my thoughts and smile at the lady next to me. She told me at the beginning of our flight that her daughter is eight months old, teething, and not enjoying the flight to LAX. The woman is apologetic and on the verge of tears each time her baby fusses or cries.
“No,” I tell her. “My parents are fostering a baby though. He’s just a couple of months old.”
“I love my daughter, but—”
“She’s not bothering me,” I tell the mother. “She’s a cutie.” I touch the little girl on her nose, and she tries to bite me. I laugh, but the woman is horrified.
“She puts everything in her mouth. She likes to test those chompers.”
“I can imagine.”
The intercom crackles and the pilot announces our descent into Los Angeles. I’m excited to be home, see Ben, and fix the issues we were having before I left. Every part of me hoped Ben would’ve shown up at the cabin, and things would be back to normal, but he didn’t, despite my many texts.
I inhale deeply and try to calm my nerves. Ben hasn’t responded to a single text of mine since the night of our fight. I don’t know whether to expect to see him at baggage claim or find him idling along the curb. He’s never left me stranded before, and I can’t imagine he would this time.
After the plane lands, I help the mom next to me gather her things and then follow her off the aircraft. I wish her well when she has to stop and wait for her daughter’s stroller and thank the universe she’s not a Page Six subscriber and recognized me as Harrison James’ daughter. I meander through the airport with just my ballcap on. It’s late, and there aren’t a lot of people waiting around. I let Ben know I’ve landed, and don’t bother to wait for his reply. Anxiousness and dread wash over me even though I fight to stay positive. He’ll be outside, my mind repeatedly says as I make my way to luggage claims.
I don’t know how long I stand outside, up against one of the pillars, waiting for Ben to arrive. The minutes tick by, and then a full hour. LAX is quiet. There’s a lull in arrivals due to the early morning hours. With each set of headlights that appears, my heart races at the thought of Ben driving toward me, but each car passes by.
“Can I call someone for you?” The porter approaches cautiously. “Do you need a taxi?”
I start to shake my head but then nod. “That would be great, thank you.”
He radios for someone to come to the terminal, and within minutes a yellow car pulls up. I climb into the backseat, shut the door, and fight a wave of tears.
“Where to?”
“Um . . .” I should give him my address, but I don’t. I give him the address to the studio. I have a couch in my office, and I’ll sleep there for the night. The fifteen-mile drive usually takes over an hour unless it’s three in the morning, and then it’s twenty minutes. I hand the driver a wad of cash and wish him a happy New Year before climbing out. He pulls away the second I slam the door, leaving me standing on the sidewalk. It’s cold, but nothing compared to what we experienced in Vermont. I look at the sky, wondering if Los Angeles will ever see snow, and then laugh at my thoughts. The entire city would shut down in straight panic if it snowed.
Thankfully, I have the keys to the studio and make my way inside and to my office. I collapse on the couch and let the anguish I feel rush freely. My sobs turn into hiccups, and any make-up I have on runs down my face. I don’t bother changing and lie on my couch with my knees pulled to my chest. I don’t know how to fix this issue with Ben, especially if I can’t get him to talk to me.
When I wake, it’s because of the sounds I hear in the other room. My assistant, Debra, walks in, startles at the sight of me, and then quickly closes my door. “What are you doing? Are you okay?” she whispers.
I sit up and rub my face. She hands me a box of tissues and then goes to my refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
I shake my head. “Ben and I fought before I left for the cabin, and he hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts.”
“Oh, Elle.”
I sigh heavily. “I don’t know how I’ll face him this morning. I want to jump into his arms and strangle him at the same time. This meeting is going to drag on forever.”
“You need to get cleaned up.” She stands and starts rummaging through my bag, setting the things she needs on top of my desk. Thankfully, I keep a steamer in one of my desk drawers, and she gets to work on one of my shirts. “It’s a good thing you don’t work for someone because you look like shit.”
“It’s a good thing I like you, or I’d fire you for saying I look like shit.” I stand and head into the tiny bathroom attached to my office. Someday, I’ll be in a high rise with an ensuite and a view that looks over the city. Until then, I’m happy with what I have. The rented space is perfect for my bands and me.
Debra laughs, knowing I’d never let her go. She runs this place, and I know it. She appears in the doorway with my shirt and leather jacket. “You need to feel like a badass this morning.”
“But I don’t feel that way at all.”
“I know, but this morning, you need to. The meeting won’t take long. Plum are already here, all three women.”
“Plum,” I grimace. “I’m still not sure I like that name for a band.”
“It’s catchy,” she says. “It’s one word, and people will remember it. Plus, it fits the personality of the girls. It screams pop with an edge.”