Page 23

Chapter Sixteen

WYATT: Don’t freak out.

I have an ongoing mental list of texts I don’t like waking up to.

There was the time he texted me that he was going to miss our anniversary because of the football rally fundraiser.

I was only mildly mad because . . . football.

Then there was the text that only said, “Sorry . ” It took me a while to realize what he was apologizing for, and when I saw the cracked windshield on the Jeep, I was relieved it was something so trivial.

I think this is a new level, though. There’s really no way to not freak out when reading this. And then for him to not answer my texts on top of it—that’s the kicker.

“You hear from Wyatt yet?” Tasha asks as she snaps gum and flips through social media in the chair next to me. She’s clothed and not covered in ultrasound gel while awaiting someone to roll a device around her stomach.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my phone . . . you know . . . filming this? ”

Tasha drops her phone into her purse on the floor and fumbles in her seat.

“Oh shit, right,” she stammers, flailing my phone around her lap before getting it situated the right way so she can record. “Okay, you’re live, baby.”

I grimace.

“I don’t want to be live .”

She levels me with a look that reads, “Duh.”

“I know, I was being creative. It’s a saying. I mean, I’m recording. Now, smile and tell us what we’re doing here.”

I roll my eyes until my focus lands on my doctor’s waiting gaze.

“Sorry,” I say, ignoring the frustrated expression barely concealed behind Dr. Mazel’s glasses.

“Hi, Wyatt. Here we are. It’s the big three-month check-up. Are you ready?” I hold up two thumbs.

“Good work, Mamma,” Tasha says, encouraging me. I’m in a bit of a funk today, and not only because of the mystery text Wyatt sent warning me of impending doom.

I miss him. And I don’t want to lean into those feelings because he’ll feel bad. I know he misses me too. He wanted to be here for this, and I wish he were. But football is his dream. And he’s good at it. Gah! He’s so good.

“That’s the head,” Dr. Mazel explains. Tasha captures the blur on the monitor. It doesn’t look like much yet, but the heartbeat is strong. I see our baby, and I know we can’t tell yet, but I swear it’s a boy.

“Want to hear it?” the doctor asks.

I nod, and she turns up the volume on the monitor, the regular swish of our tiny human’s heart flooding my ears. The tears come fast, for me and for Tasha.

“Wyatt, I hope you can hear this. That’s our girl right there,” Tasha says, throwing in her opinion.

She’s the most vocal with her guess. Or should I say, her statement.

She insists she’s never wrong about this.

I don’t remind her that she thought she was having one baby, and she thought it would be a boy. She’s oh for two.

“I’ll make you a digital recording. You should be able to send it to him.”

I nod and sniffle at the doctor’s offer.

While she clicks around and measures a few things, typing various numbers that don’t seem to raise any alarms, Tasha captures a few more seconds of my appointment before ending the recording and giving me back my phone.

I text Wyatt the video, hoping maybe that will get his attention and he can fill me in on the freak out I’m not supposed to have.

My phone buzzes in my palm about thirty seconds later, and I answer without even thinking.

“Hey, babe. Did you get it?”

I get a glare from the doctor and cup the phone with my hand.

“Shoot, sorry.”

She shakes her head and chuckles, seeming to finally lighten up.

“We’re done here. Go ahead and get dressed, and I’ll meet you outside,” she says.

Tasha rests her head on mine, and when I pull my phone back up, she butts in to brag to Wyatt.

“Your baby is beautiful, Wy. So beautiful! Mwah!” My friend mouths to me that she’ll meet me outside, and when the door shuts behind her and the doctor, I exhale and put the phone on speaker so I can get dressed.

“I wish I was there,” Wyatt says.

“I know. Me, too. But we got good video. And really, you’ve seen me in a paper dress before. I’m just wiping jelly off my stomach and pulling on my leggings.” I discard the napkins and toss my paper gown into the bin before shaking out my leggings and moving to sit on the edge of the exam table.

“I do enjoy watching you hop around when you put on leggings,” he teases.

“Ha ha. I’m not hopping, thank you very much.” Only because I’m afraid I’ll fall on my face. I’m trying to be cautious about everything right now—no horses, no tumbling, and zero wardrobe hopping.

“So, I’m guessing you haven’t seen it yet,” Wyatt says.

I freeze with one leg dressed, the other bare.

“Is this the freak-out thing, Wyatt? Why am I going to freak out?” My heart is pounding so hard I may need to press the medical button to get my doctor back in here.

“Well, you know how we were on the balcony?”

Shit. Oh no.

“I guess someone saw us and took a pic, and then they posted it, and it’s kind of trending.”

“Wyatt!” I shove my other leg into my pants and scoot up to fully sit on the table so I can flip through my phone. I quickly find what he’s talking about.

Because by trending he means it’s the number one search on everything!

“Oh, God,” I breathe out, covering most of my face, though I can’t seem to avert my eyes.

“The team PR person said not to worry. She said it happens all the time. It will get replaced by something else later today.”

“Oh, she said. Great. Anonymous PR woman said not to worry, so it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s fine! ”

“Peyt? You don’t sound fine.”

“Because I’m not fine!”

Tasha cracks the door open, probably because the entire back office and waiting room can hear me. My body is so hot. I know my flesh is beet red. I hand my friend my phone, and she immediately covers her mouth to hold in her laughter.

“It’s not funny, Tash.”

“Okay, Peyt. It’s kind of funny.”

“See? It’s not that bad,” Wyatt says.

“Oh, hey, Wyatt.”

The two of them banter for a moment while I snag my phone and stare at the photo again.

Coming down a tick from the height, I do see how it could be worse.

Nobody can see any . . . parts. Wyatt’s on his knees, and I’m in front of him.

In my cheer outfit. I know what he’s doing, but it also just looks like he’s adoring me.

My belly. It’s explainable. And that did happen.

It’s just not what’s happening in this photo.

I take Wyatt off speaker.

“Okay, I’m calmer.”

“Oh, good,” he sighs.

“I didn’t say I was calm. I’m simply calmer. Wyatt, this is going to be a thing.”

“I know,” he admits.

I don’t have to say it. We both can read the tea leaves.

There are a few people in the Coolidge Schools system who are rather .

. . conservative. One of them happens to be the parent of one of my athletes, and she’s not my biggest fan.

But frankly, her daughter is not very good.

I kept her because, well, her mom scares the shit out of me.

I’ve heard the woman take on the town council and the school board.

I wanted to be under her radar, not square the fuck in it.

“I love you, Peyt. I’m really sorry.”

It breaks me to hear him sound sad. Especially about us.

“Wyatt, you weren’t alone in this. And you know what? We didn’t do anything wrong. We’re married! I’ve seen a lot of football players in Coolidge skate by with a lot worse on the Internet. Being appreciated by my husband should be pretty easy to explain away.”

I wish I believed everything I’m saying as much as it sounds like I do. I am rather angry about it. Well, pre-angry. But it’s only a matter of time before I will have to deal with Adrian Sommers, cheer mom with a vengeance.

“Okay, I’ll call you tonight. I’ve got film with Phillips all day. More teaching opportunities,” Wyatt says in a wry tone.

“Soak it up, baby.”

I blow a kiss into the phone and end the call.

“I know you’re worried about the school district, but Peyt . . . this is showing up on the teen socials. Which means . . .”

“Fuuuuuuck,” I groan.

This is going to impact Ellie. At the start of a school year. A rather important year. Eighth grade.

I give Tasha the keys to the Jeep, and she drives us home while I scour every app on my phone, taking stock of the chatter.

It’s mostly harmless. Of course, there are a lot of “atta boys” slung in Wyatt’s direction.

I’m sure this will be great for his reputation, which again, is bullshit.

By the time we reach the driveway, I’ve culled dozens of copies of the image, and none of them appear altered to show something that isn’t there, and they all show Wyatt’s mouth on my stomach.

You’d have to have joined us on the balcony to know where his hands were, and truthfully, it’s possible he was only kissing me at that time.

I rather recognize the particular tilt of my head, though. But again, that’s personal. My details.

I breathe in deeply and right my head. My mom is out in the pen with a client, so I can make my way to her before approaching my sister.

My mom’s good with a PR crisis. She’s been through most of the obvious ones that come along with being a pro-athlete’s wife.

The number of times people printed photos of the two of them on vacation and claimed my mom was another woman could fill five years of calendar photos.

“You good?” Tasha says, handing me the keys as she pushes open the Jeep door.

I shrug and take them in my hand.

“Good . . . ish? ”

She laughs, and I fake one. I hug her outside the Jeep, then head to the arena while my friend heads to her parents’ house to pick up her girls.

My mom spots me as I approach and says something to the father and son walking in slow circles with Torrid, one of our mini horses. They nod and wave to me, which fills me with relief. Not everyone spends their entire day looking at social media. I’m sure they haven’t seen the photo.

“Appointment go well?” my mom asks, moving right in for a hug.

I let out my breath during our embrace and adjust my hands along her back to hold on for a while.

“Something wrong?” Her worried tone spikes my pulse.

I shake my head along her shoulder.

“No, the appointment was great. Everything is perfect. Right on time. She thinks we can find out the gender soon.” My words are happy, but my expression is being pulled to the earth. My mom can’t see it, but I think she senses it, because she begins to rub circles on my back.

“I need some advice,” I begin, backing away enough to pull my phone from my purse. I show her the picture, and she spends a few long seconds swiping through the several screenshots I saved. Her face is devoid of judgment, and that’s probably the only reason I’m not crying.

“I mean, it only looks bad when someone writes a headline saying it’s something bad,” she says, handing my phone back to me.

My shoulders relax a little, but I can still feel my pulse in my belly.

“Okay, but what about the uniform? That’s not good, is it?”

The way her face bunches up is answer enough.

“Ugh,” I groan, pushing my hand into my hair.

“You’re the worst sister in the entire world!

You ruined my life! I hate you!” The barrage of vitriol hits me without warning.

I didn’t hear the bus or her bike. And I’m so stunned and hurt by her words that I can’t even make sense of the scene until she’s halfway across the driveway on her way to the house.

“Ellie! Talk to me!” I move to follow her, but my mom grabs my wrist to stop me.

“Give her an hour. Let her process on her own. She’ll be ready to listen then. Well, more ready.”

I feel sick.

My sister’s bike is at the start of the driveway, lying on its side. She probably tossed it and sprinted with rage when she saw me. I barely got to take in her face. Was she crying? She was definitely spitting. I saw teeth. Lots of teeth. This is awful.

And just when I thought my universe had bottomed out for the day, my phone buzzes in my hand. Not a call, but a text. From the president of the school board.

DISTRICT OFFICE: Peyton, your presence is requested at 6 p.m. Tuesday. The board has some questions for you, as a decency complaint has been filed. Thank you for your understanding in this matter. Your athletes have been notified that practices are on pause until the board makes its determination.

And just like that, my day got infinitely more . . . awful.