“I don’t know what’s going on, but maybe you should see a doctor for that infection. That’s nasty.”
I recognize him instantly. Kale something or other, the asshole from the legal clinic. His hair is Ken-doll neat, plastered to the side of his face. Everything about him screams expensive and privileged. He nudges the guy next to him, who looks utterly grossed out.
I slap the brochure against his chest. “I’m breastfeeding, you douche.”
I swear I hear a mooing sound behind me, but when I turn around, both guys are walking away.
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk across campus. With each step, I drip more. My emotions are a cross between embarrassment, anger and frustration. Embarrassment that I’m leaking all over. Anger that I even care what that fuckface thinks. And frustration that all my precious breast milk is filling my bra cups and staining my shirt. Crossing my arms over my chest doesn’t do any good. The pressure makes the milk come out faster.
By the time I get to the library, I’m a fucking mess. The reference clerk who holds the keys to the lactation room gingerly hands it over, careful not to make any contact with my flesh.
A woman is just leaving as I arrive. “All yours,” she says cheerfully.
“Thanks,” is my dour response.
She catches the door as I start inside. “Bad day, huh?”
Her voice is so kind and understanding, I nearly break down. “You have no idea,” I answer, but then realize she, of all people, probably does have an idea. “Or maybe you do. But yeah, it’s been a shit day.”
“Hold on a sec.” She digs around in her bag. “Here.” She hands me a small plastic package. “I actually have a second set and I’ve never used them.”
“What’s this?” I turn the package over, examining the petal-shaped silicon pads.
“You stick them on your nipples and they stop the leaking.”
“Seriously?” I gape at her.
“Yep. They’re not perfect, and if you wait too long, the milk will eventually wear the adhesion off, but they do work.”
I clench the package tight in my fist, filled with overwhelming relief. I have to fight off the tears again. “I would hug you right now if I wasn’t all gross. But thank you so much.” I spot a distinctive red textbook with black and gold lettering on the spine sticking out of her bag. “1L?” I ask.
“Third year, actually. I was hoping to wait until I was done with school before this all happened.” She waves her hand at the insulated lunch bag she’s carrying. Her milk must be in there. “How about you?”
“1L.”
She grimaces. “Good luck, honey. Just remember, every year gets easier after the first one. And the first one is really just a war of attrition.” She pats me on the back. “You’ll be fine.”
I slip inside and attach myself to the medical grade pump. It’s a trek to get to Widener Library from the law school, but the pump engine is here, which means I only need to carry my bottles, horns and tubes, and I didn’t have to spring for the cost of an expensive portable pumping machine. My checking account is already weeping from the ravaging that my textbooks did to it.
I undo my silk button-down and pull off my bra. I should be grossed out, but I’m too damn tired. I’m mostly vaguely irritated given that it takes twenty minutes for the stupid machine to pull out two ounces of food from my boobs that Jamie doesn’t even want to eat.
Rocking in the chair, I pull out my phone to read my texts. Hope and Carin messaged me, but I skip those and tap on Tucker’s name.
Tucker: Went over to see J over lunch.
Underneath the message is a picture of Jamie sleeping in the crook of his arm. My heart squeezes, and the place between my legs—which I figured was dead from labor—pulses wildly. There’s nothing sexier than a loving dad.
Tucker makes all my hormones do a giddy dance.
Me: She’s such an angel.
Tucker: I hate leaving her.
Me: I leaked breast milk all over my shirt. It was horribly embarrassing.
Tucker: Awww. Poor baby. I’ll come over later and rub ur back.
Me: I have 1000 pages to read and that’s not even an exaggeration.
Tucker: I’ll take care of J. U study.
Me: I’ll take u up on that.
Tucker: Good. U never let me do enough.
Because I don’t want to drive you away.
Of course, I don’t type that.
Me: You’re the best dad J could ever ask for.
Tucker: U have low standards, babe, but I like it.