Page 5 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

Four

Tamsin

A nother day, another venue. It’s early in the morning, with clear, bright sunshine lighting up the city park. Green grass stretches in all directions, and leafy trees rustle in the breeze. Above are blue skies and puffs of cloud.

A special stage has been built here for the summer festivals and touring artists, and we’re the latest group to rock up and drive onto the grass with all our big trucks.

There’s no one else around, but dried-out tire treads in the earth mark where folks have come before.

Over by the first truck, a city official is hurrying around with a high vis and a clipboard.

“Damn.” Patty whistles beside me, tugging on a spare pair of men’s work gloves. The canvas is all baggy and threadbare, and they’re about three sizes too big for her, but they’ll do the trick. “This place is nice .”

It really is. After what feels like an endless parade of concrete parking lots and sports stadiums, this leafy park is a patch of paradise. Birds chatter over in the treetops, flitting from branch to branch, and in the distance, there are even fish ponds and flower gardens.

“Yup.” I turn and grin, squinting against the sunshine. Patty snorts and flicks my sunglasses down onto my nose for me as I tug on my own gloves. “Ready to sweat?”

The photographer has started picking up crew shifts for some extra cash, though she also says it’s a great workout and an excuse to spend time with me, her bestie.

I got all flustered the first time she said that, blushing and stammering, because I’ve never really had a best friend in my whole life—but Patty has said it again since then so I guess it must be true. Wild.

And she’s actually dragging herself off the crew bus at the crack of dawn in these new venues with the rest of us suckers, then sweating and grunting through the day until all the cases are unloaded and the noise boys can set up the sound. It’s not just talk. You’ve gotta respect that.

Someone somewhere calls out for us to start, and then the first truck doors are cracked open and a ramp hooked from the truck to the grass.

Inside, black flight cases are packed from floor to ceiling, their metallic edges glinting in the sunshine, all heavy as hell and crammed with expensive equipment.

“Let’s do this.” Patty holds her baggy-gloved hand up for a high five, then joins the line of crew waiting to unload. I follow, but my steps are a little slower. I’m dragging already.

It’s crazy—for the last few months, I’ve been so tired during these shifts that even lifting my arms up to tighten my ponytail feels like a monumental effort.

My muscles feel heavy and slow, and my lower back twinges if I bend over wrong.

I’ve been guzzling bottles of water and crashing into my cubby bed as early as I can every night, sometimes stealing an afternoon nap too, but it’s never enough. I’m tired.

Maybe I’m burned out. Maybe I need more than a single day off.

Or maybe I’m just too freaking sad, and I need to get over Jett Santana.

“You’re up, Tams.”

Leonard, the bearded, graying guy who’s leading the crew this morning, calls me up the ramp to collect a flight case. My boots thud against the metal floor, and when I grit my teeth and pull a case off the stack, I’m praying for a lighter one.

No such luck. The heavy weight slides into my arms, and it takes all my core strength not to get knocked off balance. Cheeks hot with effort, I set the case down and wheel it down the ramp, hurrying to keep up with it and steer.

Ahead, Patty’s trundling her own case along the temporary paths to the stage, her platinum blonde bob pulled back into a stubby little ponytail. Head woozy, I follow.

It takes us three hours to unload all the trucks, all of us working flat out with occasional sips of water.

After the trucks are empty, we get exactly fifteen minutes to breathe before we start the build, where Patty drags me into the shade beneath a tree and props me up against the trunk then fans me.

“I’m worried about you, Tams,” she frets, resting the back of her knuckles against my forehead and then clucking about how overheated I’m getting. “Maybe it’s all this sun. Do you need to go lay down on the bus? Do you need to eat something?”

“I’m fine.” I bat her off, but offer up a weak smile. “Seriously, I’m fine. It’s been like this for a few months now.”

Patty blinks at me. “For a few months ? That’s not a good thing, Tamsin! That makes it way worse!”

“I’m fine.”

Just exhausted by life and, you know, pining over a rock star.

Every spare moment, my brain goes over that night with Jett… and that morning when I snuck out. Replaying the best bits over and over again, then kicking myself for not making different choices.

If I’d woken him up in the morning and confessed to all my lies, would he have laughed and forgiven me? Or would he have been angry and tossed me out anyway?

It’s relentless. Jett has been on my mind non-stop for the last three months, so it’s no wonder I’m tired all the time. I’m like Patty’s laptop when it gets overheated on the crew bus, the little fan whirring extra loud as it begs for a break. A hard reset.

“I really think you should eat something.”

Patty digs a granola bar out of the back pocket of her jeans, then pushes it into my hands. It’s gone all smushed and lumpy from being warmed by her body, and it’s a sweet gesture, but my stomach lurches.

“Oh.” One hand claps over my mouth, and I shove the granola bar back at my bestie. “Sorry, I can’t. Oh, god.”

Patty stares, open mouthed, as I breathe slowly in through my nose and then blow it out through my mouth, trying not to gag.

Yeah, that’s another thing. My stomach has been really sensitive lately, with the scent of some foods making me want to vomit.

Others—like egg mayo—I’ve been craving like an alley cat.

Seriously, I’ve eaten more egg sandwiches in the last three months than in my whole life before.

“How are your boobs?” Patty blurts, poking the left one with an accusing finger.

“Ow!” I bat her away, one hand still clapped over my mouth. “That hurt!”

“Because they’re tender?”

“Because you poked me!”

“But are they more sensitive than usual?” She prods me again, snaking past my waving hand. “All swollen and painful?”

“Ow! Yes! So? My period is probably coming.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before I turn to stone, pressed back against the gnarled bark of the tree. It’s a warm, sunny morning in the park, but I’m suddenly deathly cold. Patty watches me, her mouth twisted in sympathy, because yeah, my best friend realized before I did.

But how did I not notice that I’ve missed my period for the last three months? Have I been so wrapped up in thoughts of Jett that I forgot something that huge?

In a word: yes. Yes, I have.

“Shit.”

I sag against the tree trunk, dizzy with dismay.

Pregnant. I can’t be pregnant after having a single night of sex in my whole life. I can’t be pregnant with a famous rock star’s baby. That sort of thing doesn’t happen to people like me.

Or maybe it does. Maybe that’s how we wind up in ancient, leaky trailers, bickering over the electric bill.

“We’ll get you a test.” Patty whips out her phone, typing something in her notes. She’s all business now, a commanding general, and I’ve never been more grateful for her. “I’ll run into town on our lunch break. Hell, I’ll get two tests. We need to double check in case you really are just sick.”

Would that be better? I don’t know.

“And I’ll pick up some prenatal vitamins and all that crap while I’m out there. Unless…” Patty bites her lip and looks up from her phone. “Do we need to make you an appointment somewhere? You don’t have to keep it, Tams. If you really are, you know, that … you have other options.”

I sway back against the tree, too hot and muddled to think straight. Is that what I should do? Is that what I’d want? It’s the smart option, no doubt about it, but… something in my chest cracks at the thought.

I’ve never had a family. Not really . Can I bring myself to end this one before it’s begun?

“I’ll think about it,” I whisper. I have time to think about it, right? How far along am I? Twelve weeks?

Oh, god. Maybe this isn’t really happening.

Maybe I ate a bad burrito or something and my body hasn’t recovered yet.

Or maybe these last few months have all been a vivid bad dream, and I’m about to roll over and wake up to find Jett Santana grinning at me and playing with my hair, pre-dawn light seeping through the hotel room curtains.

“On our lunch break,” Patty promises, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “Then you can be sure.”

* * *

A few hours later, I grimace as my wrist jams between my thighs, my elbow knocking against the crew bus bathroom wall. It’s a tiny enough space when you’re not trying to pee on a stick without making a giant mess, and the voices that keep drifting past the bus outside are throwing me off my game.

“How’s it going?” Patty calls through the door after thirty seconds have passed. I wrinkle my nose, trying to think of waterfalls and babbling brooks and gushing tides.

“Put the faucet on,” she suggests, like she can read my mind even through a locked door. Sighing, I do as she says and reach out to slap the water on with my free hand. Straight away, my bladder releases too, and I do my best to aim at the stick.

Hands washed and jeans rebuttoned, Patty and I huddle together behind the crew bus, waiting for those little lines to form. The sunshine is extra bright, and we have to shade the stick to see anything.

“So one line means not pregnant?” Patty murmurs, tilting her head to squint at the stick. “And a cross means pregnant. Or two lines. I forget which.”

Heart racing, I check the back of the box.

“Two pink lines means pregnant. One line is negative.”

“Okay, cool.” Patty shifts her weight from leg to leg as we wait, the sound of kids playing soccer in the distance drifting across the park. “And you definitely peed on it.”

“I definitely did. Plus my own hand, and a tiny drop on my boots.”

Patty laughs. “Gross.”

“Yup.”

We wait for what feels like a geological age, both holding our breath. Then, as two unmistakable pink lines form, we both breathe out and lean back against the hot metal of the crew bus, staring at the white stick clutched in my hand.

“What are you going to do?” Patty asks at last, her voice hushed.

“I don’t know. Drink a load of water and take the other test, I guess.”

“And after that?”

I shrug uneasily, my shoulders aching from today’s shift. “Pop some prenatal vitamins and then have a meltdown, probably.”

“Cool.” Patty catches my hand with her own and squeezes. “Can I join?”

“Sure.”

I’m so freaking glad I’m not alone right now.

But then, having Patty here for all this means I can no longer dodge the question: “So, Tams.” She squeezes my fingers. “Who’s the father?”