Love Song(112)

“What about Dad?”

“He’ll support you too, or I’ll divorce him.”

I laugh weakly. To be fair, I’m not sure she’s even joking.

A question tickles my throat, bringing a queasy sensation to my stomach. “Do you think I should get rid of it?”

There’s a long pause.

“I think that might be easier,” she finally says. “But easier isn’t always right. Only you can know what’s right.”

“But I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know right this second. We’ll figure it out.”

“What about Wyatt? I have to tell him.”

“Yes, you do. But again, it doesn’t have to be right now, okay?”

“He’s not going to want a baby,” I mumble, and my body starts shaking again. “You know him. He can’t be tied down. He can’t even stay in one place for too long. He’ll hate me if I keep it.”

“Aw, honey, you don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” I let out another laugh. There’s nothing funny about this, yet it’s all I seem capable of doing. Laughing at the absurdity of it. “He’ll feel like I trapped him, and then he’ll run, or even worse, he’ll try to do the right thing when he really doesn’t want to.” The tears start falling again. “I wouldn’t be able to stand that.”

“Blake,” she says firmly. “You’re spiraling. Take a breath. Take a step back. You don’t need to tell him until you’re ready.” She cups my face, forcing me to look at her. “You don’t need all the answers. You’re scared, and that’s okay. But you are not alone in this. Whatever you decide—to keep it, not to keep it, talk to Wyatt, don’t talk to Wyatt—I will stand with you always.”

I bury my face against her shoulder and let myself cry harder than I have in years. Or maybe ever. This isn’t only about a pregnancy. It’s about Wyatt and me and everything I feel for him. Everything I fear for us.

What if I tell him and he looks at me like I ruined his life?

What if I want to keep it and he doesn’t?

What if he wants to keep it and I don’t? That one’s unlikely, but it could happen. Anything could happen.

The fear gnaws at my insides like a scavenger until my stomach feels like it’s torn to shreds. Mom holds me and lets me cry, stroking my hair in a slow, soothing gesture.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says as I sob in her arms. “I promise.”





Chapter 43


WYATT





BLAKE IS ACTING WEIRD. SHE’S barely argued with me about anything these past couple days, which is unsettling on its own, but she’s also not initiating sex, naps, jokes. She claims she’s not feeling well, and Grace did make her soup for dinner last night, but I can’t shake the feeling like there’s something else going on, a piece of the puzzle that I’m missing.

She seems lost in thought, and I wonder if it has to do with school. Maybe agreeing to do the podcast with the Spencers has made her rethink going back to college altogether. But she only has one more year. She might as well power through it and earn her degree. You never know when one of those could come in handy. Not that I know. I skipped college. Wasn’t for me.

Tonight, I’m in the studio Dad’s been toiling over since he got here. His labor of love. I can’t even make fun of him for it, because I get it now. I spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about ways to make Blake happy.

As the speakers play the last notes of the melody before fading out, I shift nervously in my chair. Although the studio is still missing some equipment and furniture, it’s mostly done, and Dad wasted no time taking my mother downstairs, blindfolded, to reveal her surprise. She cried when she saw it. Mom rarely cries, so I know how much this must’ve meant to her.

“So?” I ask, holding my breath.

From her perch near the mixer, Mom simply says, “It’s beautiful.”

I feel a burst of joy. “Really?”

“I think it might be the best thing you’ve ever written.”

I search her face, but I don’t see even a hint of dishonesty or bullshitting. I think she means it.

“Is it ready for Tobey Dodson?”

“Absolutely.” She smiles at me. “Do I even need to ask who it’s about?”

I played “Lightkeeper” for her, which is, of course, about Blake. But so is “Stop the World.” So is “You Know.” So is every other line and verse I wrote this summer.

Before I can answer, my phone lights up with a text from Blake. Her ears must be burning. I lean over to check the message, then frown.

FRECKLES

We need to talk. Meet me on the dock.



We need to talk. Shit. Those words are never good.

But this is also what I’ve been desperate for. She’s been shutting me out for two days, and that worries me. I want to talk.

“Can we finish this in a bit?” I ask, sliding off my chair.

“Of course. Whenever you want,” Mom says.

I waste no time slipping my feet into a pair of slides and striding outside. A minute later, the dock is creaking beneath my shoes as I make my way toward Blake. She sits cross-legged with her phone beside her. She doesn’t even look over when I join her. That’s concerning.