hopeless romantic • taylor swift

CHAPTER THREE

MONROE

The numbers on the clock of the microwave mocked me as I paced the length of the loft. Every time I passed by it, the green glow caught my eye and made me sigh in desperation.

Three nineteen.

Alessandro had been crying since one.

I had been crying since two.

"Baby." A tear rolled down my cheek. "I don't know how to help you."

He cried, his face red and pulled together. He looked as distraught as I felt.

I gave him a bottle. I changed his diaper. I swaddled him. I unswaddled him. I rocked him in my arms. I put him against my shoulder.

Nothing worked. Nothing that I tried made him stop crying.

Nothing I was doing was right.

Did every new mother feel this helpless?

"Shh. Shh. Shh." I walked toward the open window, needing some fresh air. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

Before I left South Carolina, his pediatrician told me that colic usually peaked at six weeks old, then began to decline. But Alessandro's seemed to be getting worse.

His legs went rigid. His eyes were squeezed shut. He wriggled around, like the last person he wanted to be with right now was me.

"It's okay," I whispered, my chin trembling. This would pass. At some point, this would pass. He would never know about all of these torturous nights as an infant. He would never know that I was pretty damn close to falling into rock bottom. He would never know how hard being a mother was.

He would only know that I loved him.

"I love you, baby." I kissed his forehead as I closed my eyes.

God, I was so tired. I stopped nursing because he'd been so fussy. Maybe that was a mistake. The pricey, sensitive formula that was supposed to help didn't do anything except drain my bank account.

My feet hurt. My arms hurt. My back hurt.

My heart hurt.

Maybe I was delusional and naive. Maybe this move was a horrible idea. But the other option...

There was no other option. And since we'd only been here less than a week, it was too soon to call it a mistake. Not yet.

Don't give up.

"One more day. We have to make it through one more day, then we can rest this weekend."

Tomorrow—which was technically today—I was going to spoil myself a little with a triple-shot latte before going to work. Caffeine would get me through Friday. And this weekend, we'd be recharging.

I only had to get through one more day.

My first four days at The Swift Hotel had passed in a blur. Monday was spent doing paperwork and orientation. Tuesday, I did some cleaning. After three days of scrubbing, dusting, and vacuuming, every part of my body was sore. Muscles I didn't even know were there were screaming.

But it had been a good week. Granted, my standards when it came to what classified as a good day were low, but we'd made it to Thursday (Friday) and that was a win in my book.

Alessandro had been an angel at daycare. Every evening when I picked him up, I prepared myself to be told he had a meltdown. But Alessandro seemed to have these explosions only at night. For the quiet, dark hours, where the only person around to hear his cries was me.

Drying my tears, I walked away from the window and went back to pacing. His crying didn't seem as loud when I was moving.

"Shh." I bounced him softly, cradling him in one arm while my other hand rubbed his belly. Maybe it was gas. I tried the drops before I put him in the crib at eight. Should I give him more?