Page 105 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Briana pressed her hand to her heart. “Thank you! It’s like the universe put you right in my path.”
“Do we need your car seat?” he asked.
“No, my mom has one in her car, but would you mind doing something for me?”
“Anything,” Georgie answered.
“I’m forever waiting until the last minute to buy formula. Could you pick some up for me? And, of course, I’d pay you back.”
He waved her off. “No need. We’re happy to do it, Briana.”
“You two are lifesavers. Here,” she said, handing him Ollie’s diaper bag. “I’ll call my mom on the way to the hospital and let her know to meet you here.”
“Good luck! We hope everything goes well with your patient,” he said.
The woman nodded, kissed her son’s cheek, then jogged back to her car.
They watched as Dr. Briana Casey-Beaver sped out of the parking lot and disappeared into the city. Unmoving, they stood there for a beat before his wife broke their dazed bout of silence.
“Did someone just trust us to take their baby grocery shopping?” Georgie asked with a bewildered bend to the words.
He glanced at the smiling Ollie as an image of the VR diarrhea baby flashed through his mind.
But this was not virtual reality. This was a flesh and blood baby, who needed formula.
“Yeah, I think that’s exactly what happened,” he answered, the weight of this moment sinking in.
Georgie’s expression grew pensive. “We know the brand of the formula. We saw the can at their house. I assume we just buy the same thing.”
“Yeah,” he answered, still a little dumbstruck.
“Would you like my cart?” a man said, pushing an empty one toward the outdoor cart corral.
“Sure,” Georgie answered.
The man grinned as his gaze slid to Ollie. “Mine are nine and thirteen now. Enjoy them while they’re little. It goes by in the blink of an eye.”
“Okay,” Georgie replied, sounding stunned as the man turned and headed for his car.
“Should we put him in it?” he asked, angling the offered cart toward his wife.
Georgie shook her head. “Not yet. Grab the disinfectant wipes from the back of the car. We need to get it sanitized. And get Faby. We’re all going in together.”
“Right!” he said, remembering the wipe stand in the simulation, then sprang into action as hope and anticipation fluttered in his chest.
This was their chance. Their shopping with a baby re-do.
Lucky for them, Ollie looked wholly incapable of shooting an endless stream of baby poo. Thank Christ, they had biology on their side—or at least basic volume.
He wiped down the cart, then buckled little Ollie into the seat. Georgie set Faby next to him, and the delighted six-month-old giggled and cooed, tapping and touching his plastic seatmate.
“Look at that. Faby made a friend,” Georgie said, pushing the cart toward the entrance.
And that’s when he discovered he’d developed dad eyes.
Yep, dad eyes—the ones that see danger lurking around every corner.
All of a sudden, every crack in the pavement, every bird, every car, every person near them became possible threats.
