Mel's not home when I arrive, which is both a relief and a disappointment. I'm not ready to talk about this yet, but I also desperately need to.
I drop onto my bed, still in my yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt, and pull out my phone. I should call the therapist I was seeing when the divorce process started. Should tell her what's happened and get her professional insight on how to navigate this situation.
Instead, I open my calendar and try to calculate when this baby might arrive. The dates bleed together.
My statistics textbook sits on my nightstand, a silent reminder of Monday's exam. I should be studying. Should be focusing on school, on building the future I keep saying I want.
But all I can think about is Tucker's face when I told him. The way he immediately asked if I was okay, if I was healthy. The way he saidthis is my baby,like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My hand moves to my stomach, still flat beneath my sweatshirt. There's a baby in there. Tucker's baby. And mine. A tiny cluster of cells that will become a person with his blue eyes or my green ones, his blond locks or my curls.
A person who will need me to be strong, to be stable, to be everything I'm not sure I know how to be.
"I can do this," I whisper to the empty room. "I can do this alone if I have to."
But a small voice asks what if Tucker really could be different than Josh, than my own father, different from the playboy persona he's shown me? Tucker speaks of having a father who sounds like make-believe to me, when I never even got to meet mine.
It’s always been what’s driven me in my studies. I am called to help people make different choices, and I can only do that if I get serious about finishing my degree now that there’s a deadline where things are going to get exponentially more complicated.
I reach for my statistics textbook, determined to pretend, at least, that I'm preparing for Monday's exam. The formulas and definitions swim before my eyes, meaningless symbols that have nothing to do with the chaos of my actual life.
I make it through three pages before my eyes start to close. The exhaustion I've been fighting all week finally wins, pulling me under despite the textbook still open on my lap and the late afternoon sun streaming through my window.
CHAPTER 15
TUCKER
Stag family dinneris chaos as usual. My uncle’s house on the North Side of the city has plenty of room for all thirty of us, but everyone is crammed in the living room watching my cousin Wyatt on TV, playing in some summer soccer series.
Usually, I’d be invested—trash-talking and scanning the crowd for his girlfriend, Fern. Today, the game might as well be cricket for all I’m following the action.
"Pass it, you idiot!" Odin yells at the screen, throwing a handful of popcorn for emphasis.
"He can't hear you, genius," Alder points out from his spot on the floor, where he's leaning against Lena's legs. She's perched on the arm of the couch, her fingers absently playing with his hair. But we aren’t supposed to comment on their touchy-feely vibes.
Odin, oblivious to my inner turmoil, punches my cousin Petey next to him on the couch. “He should be able to feel my psychic energy telling him to PASS THE DAMN BALL."
Wyatt, predictably, doesn't pass. He takes the shot himself and misses.
The room erupts in groans and I-told-you-sos. Usually, I'd be right there with them. Today, I just feel hollow.
"Tuck, you want more potato salad?” My dad appears at my elbow, holding a plate piled high with food. "Your mom made extra."
I glance at his plate—perfectly charred ribs, grilled chicken. My usual Sunday dinner haul. My stomach turns.
"I'm good, Dad. Thanks."
Ty's eyebrows rise. "You feeling okay? You never turn down food.”
"Just not hungry."
He studies me for a moment longer, then sets the plate on the coffee table. "Well, here’s a plate if anyone’s hungry.” The food is gone in a flurry of grabby Stag hands. I’m not even sure if my brothers or my cousins are the ones who will win these Hunger Games.
Across the room, Gunnar is arguing with Stellan about something. My mom and one of my aunts are in the kitchen, their laughter carrying over the sound of the game. My Uncle Tim is on the deck with a beer, actually smiling as he talks to his own youngest brother.
It's all so normal. So perfectly, impossibly normal.
And I'm sitting here knowing that in a few months, everything is going to change. I'm going to be a father. Sloane is pregnant with my baby, and she doesn't want me involved, and I have no idea how to fix it. Will my kid even be able to come to Sunday dinner?
