What if he wants to keep it andIdon’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 fadingout, 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. Iwantto 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 makemy 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.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer. Just sits there quietly, twisting her fingers together in her lap. The lake is still tonight, the moonlight dancing across its dark surface.
“Blake,” I urge. “Talk to me.”
“I’m pregnant.”
The world stops.
