Page 7 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

Six

Tamsin

“ H ow did it go?” Patty is white-faced with worry when I walk back to her across the park, over to where she’s been sprinkling fish flakes into the fish ponds. She clutches the tub close to her chest, crinkling her strappy blue summer dress. “What did he say?”

I hand her phone back, numb. The last few minutes keep crashing around in my head, my strained conversation with Jett playing over and over in my brain.

All the things I meant to say and didn’t; all the ways I failed.

The tortured sound of his deep voice—like he really does miss me as much as I miss him. Like a phantom limb.

“I didn’t tell him.”

Patty gapes at me just like one of the hungry fish mouthing at the surface of the water. “You didn’t… didn’t tell him? Jett Santana still doesn’t know you’re pregnant with his baby?”

I shrug weakly. “Nope.”

Patty’s eyes bug. “ Why not , Tams?”

“Because it’s hard!”

I throw my hands up in the air, then snatch for the tub of fish flakes. The lid screws off easily, and then I’m tossing big pinches of flakes onto the pond surface, watching the flashes of orange and white as the fish thrash.

“I mean, what am I even supposed to say?” My cheeks grow hot as I rant, tossing pinch after pinch of flakes onto the water.

The pond glugs and sloshes as the fish lunge over each other.

“‘Hey, Jett, we only met once, and then I lied to you the whole time then bailed in the morning before you woke up. But now I’m pregnant with your baby, and we’re tied together for life. Surprise!’”

Patty huffs, then punches me lightly on the shoulder.

“ Yes , Tams. Saying that would be better than nothing. If he’s going to be a dad, he deserves to know.

Besides, you know a rock star will be good for child support.

” She snatches her tub back. “Now quit wasting my flakes. You’re going to give those fish diabetes. ”

“Am not.”

Patty pokes her tongue out at me, and I choke out a miserable laugh then run my hands through my hair, tugging on the strands. As we watch the pond together, standing side by side in the morning breeze, the full disappointment from that phone call spreads through my insides, sickly and wrong.

I failed.

I meant to tell Jett about our baby, and I failed. Chickened out when I heard the rough, low sound of his voice.

And… who am I kidding? If I can’t have one difficult phone call, how am I gonna do any of this?

Being a mom is the hardest job in the world, and I’ve just proven myself to be a giant weenie.

My hands move automatically to my stomach, to where—now that I’ve noticed it—the tiniest bump has started to push against my clothes.

Ever since I peed on that fateful stick, I can’t stop touching my stomach, cradling the baby I’m already failing.

Blargh.

“You could call Jett back,” Patty suggests, screwing the tub lid back on carefully. The breeze toys with her hair, carrying the scent of fresh water and green algae. “I bet he’d answer.”

Yeah, maybe. But what would stop me from freaking out and hanging up on him again?

“Or you could write a letter,” Patty says. “I could deliver it to him. That way you can figure out your thoughts, you know? Say exactly what you want to say.”

It’s like one of those cartoons when a light bulb goes on above the character’s head. Ding. That’s it! That’s the answer.

Leaning over, I smack a big kiss on Patty’s cheek. “You’re a genius.”

“Pfft.” She waves me off, but she’s clearly pleased. “Don’t give me too much credit. I’m just the mailman. You’re gonna write that letter, missy.”

“I will, I swear. By tonight, Jett Santana will know that I’m knocked up and he’s the dad. Cross my heart.”

In sync, we both draw little crosses over our hearts, then link arms and start strolling back over the grass toward the distant crew bus. It winks in the sunshine, a big ol’ hunk of metal stranded in this green parkland.

“He’s been singing to you,” Patty says suddenly. “Dedicating his songs to you each night.”

My whole body flushes hot, all the way to the roots of my hair. “He has not.”

“He has. Look it up online.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. It’s like a movie or something. That man is gone for you, Tams, and this is all gonna work out. I’m calling it now.”

Lapsing into silence, I chew that over for a while, until the buzzy feelings inside me get too overwhelming and I need to change the subject or explode.

“Where did you even get those fish flakes?”

“From the pet store.”

“And you just had them in your luggage? Just in case we found ourselves near a fish pond?”

Patty laughs. “Pretty much. I’ve got a tub of bird seed too. Why?”

“No reason.” Squeezing her arm gently, I hop over a small ant hill in the grass. “But I love you, you weirdo.”

It’s so easy to say it to Patty. So natural to tell my best friend how I feel.

So why can’t I tell Jett Santana?

* * *

Here’s a weird realization: I haven’t written a letter since I was six years old, when I last wrote to Santa Claus for Christmas.

That was the year that I carefully wrote a super polite letter, signed it with wobbly kisses and sealed it in an envelope with a pinch of red and silver glitter to give it some festive pizzaz.

That was also the year when my mom’s boyfriend opened that letter in the middle of the trailer and got glitter everywhere, stomping it into the carpet and yelling at me for making a mess.

Yeah, I figured out pretty young that Santa was a con. That glitter wouldn’t vacuum up for years , too deeply ingrained in the carpet, serving as a constant reminder that there’s no such thing as magic. And beyond Santa, who was there for me to write a letter to? No one.

Now, I agonize over my letter to Jett all-freaking-day, slumped over the crew bus kitchen table and sweating with the effort of writing a few simple paragraphs.

Patty swings by every hour or so, bringing me cold drinks and snacks like I’m some kind of endurance athlete, and the other crew members slump down beside me now and then to chat and scarf down a quick sandwich.

I hide my letter whenever I have company. If I’m not ready to tell Jett about the new life blooming in my stomach yet, I’m definitely not ready to tell the grizzled, grunting guys that make up the rest of the tour crew.

Eventually, though, as the sun sinks toward the horizon and I have to switch on an overhead light to keep going, I finish up my letter and sign it with my name.

A weird urge seizes me—to scrawl a few wobbly kisses and seal my letter away in an envelope with a pinch of glitter—but luckily, I don’t have those craft supplies.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Patty promises outside the crew bus, tucking my folded letter into the back pocket of her jeans.

She’s dolled up for the gig, with her camera slung around her neck and her eyeliner sharp enough to slit a man’s throat.

“And I’ll see you after the show for the load, okay? ”

Yup. Wishbone are moving on to a different city tonight, which means the second we get clearance, we’ll be tearing the stage apart and packing the mounds and mounds of equipment back onto the trucks, then piling onto the bus and driving until dawn.

It’s gonna be a long, sweaty, exhausting night, and for once I’m looking forward to it.

Knowing that Jett will have my letter… knowing that there are no more secrets between us…

Yeah, I could use the distraction. Even if I’m still dog-tired and dragging ass.

Still, once the gig starts and Wishbone’s music fills the city park, I can’t resist tiptoeing round the back of the stage, nodding at the security guards who know us all at first glance by now.

Empty flight cases are stacked in huge piles back here, forming a dark man-made labyrinth, and the roar of the crowd is so loud that my teeth buzz as I weave my way through the darkness.

There are supplies scattered right at the back of the stage. Crates of water bottles; a whole pallet of granola bars; a big bowl of candy bars. Is this the band’s private area? A makeshift dressing room in this open city park? Where did they sleep last night?

Do any of these discarded t-shirts or hand towels belong to Jett? If I picked one up and sniffed one, after all these months, would I recognize his spice and leather scent?

Yeah, that would be a crazy thing to do. Glancing around guiltily, I snatch up the nearest gray t-shirt and hold it briefly to my nose, then fling it away with a sigh.

Not Jett.

But the voice ringing out into the night, the raspy, low voice singing to the stars…

that is all Jett Santana. And tucked away down here, right at the back of the stage, this is the closest the two of us have been since the night we met.

My nerves endings all tingle at the thought, and my heart thumps extra hard with longing.

He’s here.

He’s close. So close.

Sitting back against a flight case, my eyes drift closed and I focus all my attention on that voice. On the memories of his hands on my body and his lips on my neck. As I listen, my hands creep automatically to my stomach, cradling my tiny bump.

Maybe Jett will want this baby. Maybe he’ll want me … or maybe he won’t.

But either way, after writing that letter, I’m finally sure: I’m keeping our child.

Peace suffuses my chest, my stomach, my harried mind, even my sore lower back, and as I listen to Wishbone play for a roaring crowd, for the first time in months… I feel hope.

It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be brave.

And no matter what happens after tonight, I’ll handle it.