“I’m pregnant, Quentin.”
The words ripped out, scraped my throat raw. Saying them out loud made my skin prickle, my belly seize like it didn’t know whether to clutch or soften.
Shock widened his eyes—but it wasn’t just shock. Something else flashed through, fast and bare: recognition. Like a man bracing for a storm he’d already read in the sky. Fear, awe, the weight of knowing—all of it flickered across his face before he caged it tight.
And that hit me harder than his silence. He’d known. Not in words, but in the way his eyes lingered on me, the way his hand rested at my stomach like instinct, the patience he’d wrapped around me all week. He’d known, and he’d been waiting for me to say it.
“I pulled back because I got scared,” I said, voiceshaking, belly twisting harder with every syllable. “Scared fast would be the excuse to run from this—” I pressed a palm to my abdomen, light, terrified—“baby. Then I told myself what we have is real, no matter the pace. But every time I blink, that bitch is in your space. Wherever you are, there her bobblehead ass is.”
I saw him cover his smile before turning serious. “She works with me.” His voice was way too contained.
“This is work?” My voice leapt, hot and ugly. Too loud. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head,Baby, don’t let them catch you looking out there looking like a messy bitch.
I swallowed it down, but it burned all the way. My stomach lurched again.
“We’re not doing this out here,” I said, quieter. “It’s been fast. I didn’t know everything. But I know enough.” I took a step back, because my body was already leaning forward, aching for him even in fury. “Don’t worry about the baby. Live your life. Have fun. I’ll figure it out.”
He reached—not to grab, but to anchor, his hand half-raised, steady. My chest clenched, nausea rolling hot. Touching him would’ve broken me wide open, forced everything out—the truth of how his voice steadied me, how his glasses made me feel safe, how I wanted him everywhere I was.
“Rayna—”
I ran.
Not a sprint. That fast, proud walk that pretends it isn’t fleeing. Boots slapping concrete. Keys clacking in my palm. My stomach pitching, throat burning. Altima. Door. Ignition. Pull out like the road moved just for me.
The tears came at the first red light. Hot. Stupid. I swiped at them with the heel of my hand, gagged on the salt taste sliding down my throat. The nausea, the fear, the anger—they all piled into the passenger seat, crowding me out of my own body until the city smeared into streaks of wet light.
My car didn’t ask where we were going. It knew. Daddy’s house. Porch light glowing steady like it had been waiting on me, like it always would.
Inside, he was posted in his recliner, the jumbotron humming some game he wasn’t even watching. I barely made it two steps before the nausea twisted sharp again, bile creeping high. I pressed a fist to my mouth, trying to will it down.
Daddy stood slow, eyes narrowing the way they did whenever he knew I wasn’t right. He didn’t ask questions. He just went to the fridge, grabbed two beers, and handed one my way.
The smell alone turned my stomach. I shook my head quick, bile crawling. “I can’t.”
He studied me—beer heavy in his hand—then grunted like something had clicked into place. He set mine aside, cracked his own, and eased back down. A pat to the couch cushion followed, no words. Just an opening.
I sank. The leather squeaked under me, my body vibrating with anger, grief, nausea, fear. Hands shaking in my lap until Daddy’s big palm found my back, once, twice. Slow circles, the same way he used to steady me over breakers and sockets when I was a kid.
That broke me.
The tears came ugly—hiccuping, choking, tearing upmy chest. My head fell to his shoulder, soaking his T-shirt, and I hated myself for needing to be somebody’s child when I’d just told Quentin I could handle it alone. But Daddy didn’t flinch. He let me pour every jagged thing out until I was empty.
“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” he said finally, voice low, steady as a benediction.
The words didn’t ask. Didn’t demand. They just held me, long enough for me to lean.
“Only when the ground shifts from beneath you can you trust someone to catch you.”
Chapter 28
A New Direction
Imust’ve cried myself to sleep, because when I woke, it was to morning light cutting through the blinds. My eyes were swollen, my mouth tasted like salt, and my stomach pitched the second I tried to sit. Daddy’s old throw was tucked over me, the fabric still carrying the same detergent smell I’d known all my life.
Quentin was in Daddy’s chair across from me. Glasses on, coffee between his large hands. Back straight, eyes locked on me like I was an equation he wouldn’t force but wasn’t walking away from either.
Every nerve in me jumped. My pulse kicked, stomach rolled fresh. Daddy clinked a spoon against a pot in thekitchen—translation not needed. He’s here because I let him in.
