Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
And my insane reaction to all of it.
“I ran out of the coffee shop without saying a word to her,” I say, but my voice rasps with guilt and shame. “She looked scared, and…and I couldn’t do anything but leave.”
“Brother, you found out your girl was pregnant in a fucking newspaper in a busy coffee shop,” Randy says through a soft laugh. “That would make any man want to run. Even men who haven’t been through the shit you’ve been through.”
“I don’t know, Ran. I feel awful for fleeing the scene like that. I didn’t go over to her, didn’t say a word. I just left like a fucking coward.”
“Relax, man. You’ll fix it.” He pats my shoulder. “I know you don’t think about this much, but once upon a time, my brother was so confident in himself, he didn’t think there was anything he couldn’t fix.”
Both of us know he’s right. But both of us know why I haven’t been that guy lately too.
And with no one and nothing but myself to worry about, I didn’t need to be.
That’s changing now. Breezy—and the baby we made together—need me to be more. I have to choose to be the best version of myself, for them.
Breezy deserves that.
Our baby deserves that.
And fuck, maybe I deserve that too?
In one smooth motion, he snatches his gloves from the dashboard and pops the door open to climb back out of the truck. Before he can close the door, I stop him.
“Randy, wait.”
He turns back, slightly disgruntled. “What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what exactly?” he asks, quirking a cocky eyebrow in my direction. “For my years of patience with these stupid fucking sheep? For my sage wisdom? Or maybe it’s everything combined?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “For everything combined,” I tell him. “You are, obviously, the better brother. I wouldn’t have survived without you.”
He nods, his jaw rolling. “Oh, I know.”
No more.
It’s time to start living my life like I’m alive again. It’s time to stop focusing on where I should’ve been ten years ago and start being where I need to be right now.
38
Breezy
Monday, March 22nd
I didn’t think the hardest part of being pregnant would be sitting still.
But here I am, perched in a green pleather chair that squeaks every time I breathe too deeply and gripping a clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. The OB-GYN office smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender lotion, and soft jazz hums through the speakers like it’s trying a little too hard to be calming.
But it’s incredibly hard to be calm when you’re newly pregnant and your baby daddy has been MIA since finding out the news.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Tad since Eileen dropped the baby bombshell in the middle of Josie’s coffee shop, and while it’s got me tied up in knots not knowing what he’s thinking or feeling or wanting, I’ve resigned myself to giving him some space.
It’s only been twenty-four hours since he found out. Hell, I’ve only known a day longer than him, and my brain feels like a hamster on a caffeine bender.
So, for now, I’m doing my best to stay hopeful and take this one heartbeat at a time. Sure, Tad could decide he wants nothing to do with me or this baby. But unless he Ubered out of Red Bridge overnight, the fact that his truck was still in his driveway before I left for this appointment tells me he hasn’t bolted for the Canadian border.
Silver linings? I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.
Women dot the space all around the reception room, some with bellies already swollen with babies and some without. All of us waiting. All of us quiet. And for a moment, it reminds me of New York. The anonymity. The pretending. The guessing who everyone is without ever really knowing.
I used to love that kind of mystery.
Now, even though I’m in a room full of people, it feels solitary to be sitting here by myself.
I click the pen attached to the clipboard and start filling out the medical history forms the lady at the front desk gave me. I understand why they need all the information, but it has to be one of the top five worst chores of adulthood.
Name, address, date of birth.
Easy enough. I write my answers down.
But when I reach Employer, the pen stills.
For the first time in my adult life, I don’t have one.
I stare at the empty line. Once upon a time, I would’ve written Bishop Galleries in big, confident letters. But that woman is gone.
Now, I’m just…me. A woman who fell into a small town, fell into a man’s bed for two months straight, and wound up pregnant with his baby.
I have no career and no official home. I’m a wanderer. Nomadic. A finder of new experiences and a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pantser.