Page 11 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

Homeless and pregnant.

It has a ring to it, right?

They could totally make reality TV out of the shitshow my life has become.

I stare at the notice in my hands, reading it for the fourth time as if the words might magically rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. The pristine letterhead of Triton Development mocks me with its understated elegance as it announces the complete demolition of my life.

"Thirty days," I mutter, dropping the notice onto my kitchen counter. "Thirty fucking days to vacate."

My apartment—the one with exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows that I practically sold a kidney for—is being converted into luxury condos next month. Why would it not be? I must have some shitty karma coming due or something.

God forbid Portland have one affordable living space that doesn't eventually get flipped into a yoga studio or an overpriced condo with a name like "The Arbor at Eastwick" or some equally pretentious bullshit.

I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. I will not cry over this. I'm Wren Callan, for fuck's sake. I built Cascade Distribution from nothing. I was the valedictorian of my university. I can handle a housing crisis.

Even if I'm ten weeks pregnant. Even if the rental market in Portland is a nightmare. Even if my body has decided that staying awake past eight is now physically impossible.

My phone buzzes with a text from Kieran.

Kieran: Did you call that place on Burnside?

Me: Waiting list. 3 months minimum.

Kieran: My couch offer still stands.

Kieran's studio apartment is basically the size of a filing cabinet. It’s a studio with half a kitchen and a bathroom where you have to sit sideways on the toilet. His pullout couch doubles as his bed, and I’m not sharing a bed with a guy who’s like my brother.

Not happening.

Me: Your bathroom can barely fit your seventeen-step Korean skincare routine. Where would I put all my stuff?

Kieran: Storage unit? Also it's only 12 steps now. I've streamlined.

Me: Impressed and horrified simultaneously.

The thought of cramming my life into boxes makes me want to cry.

Again. I've spent years curating this space, making it reflect exactly who I am—independent, successful, and a lover of pretty things. Now I have to dismantle it all in less than a month and even if I move everything to a new place, it won’t be the same.

My phone rings, and my mother's name flashes on the screen. She has an uncanny ability to sense when my life is imploding. It's like her "my daughter is in crisis" radar goes off and she drops whatever she's doing.

"Hi, Mom," I answer, trying to sound less devastated than I feel.

"You haven't returned my calls," she says without a hello. "It’s been two days. Are you avoiding me for some reason, daughter of mine?”

"I've been busy." Busy panicking, busy sleeping when I have way too much to do, busy crying over stupid laundry commercials, busy trying to figure out how to tell her she's going to be a grandmother. If I keep the baby. Which I still have decided I’m going to do.

"There’s a lot happening at work right now. "

"Mmm." It's amazing how my mother can pack so much into a single sound. "Well, Janine's daughter works for Portland Living, and she mentioned that your building was sold to developers. I assume that's why you're avoiding me?"

Of course she already knows. This is what I get for living in a city where everyone is connected by two degrees of separation. And having a mother who keeps tabs on me like it’s her favorite hobby.

"I'm not avoiding you," I lie. "And yes, my building was sold. I have thirty days to find a new place."

"In this market?" She makes a tsking sound. "You know, my guest room is always available. I have that nice desk where you could work remotely?—"

"Mom." I cut her off before she can suck me in and somehow convince me moving home is a good idea. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not moving in with you."

"There's nothing wrong with accepting help, Wren."

"I know that." I don't know that. I've spent my entire adult life proving I don't need help from anyone. The way she taught me. "But I'm twenty-seven years old. I'm not moving back in with my mother."

"Pride goeth before a fall," she quotes. My mother has a literary reference for every occasion.

"I'll figure it out," I say firmly. "I always do."

I’ll say one good thing about getting kicked out of my apartment—it’s given my mother something to focus on as a reason for my sketchiness.

After getting off the phone, I pull up the real estate apps I've been obsessively checking since I got the notice this morning.

Every decent rental in my price range has a waiting list longer than the line at Voodoo Doughnut on a Saturday morning.

Everything else is either a converted garden shed asking two thousand dollars a month or so far from the city I'd need to commute by helicopter.

I check the time. It’s almost eight. I have an ultrasound with Dr. Walker in an hour.

For two weeks, I've been avoiding making any permanent decisions about the pregnancy, but I've followed every one of his instructions.

Prenatal vitamins, reduced caffeine, no alcohol.

Acting as if I'm keeping this baby even though I haven't officially decided.

Though the fact that I'm going to this ultrasound probably says more than I'm ready to admit.

I text Kasen as I grab my purse:

Me: Ultrasound today at 9:15.

Me: You wanted to be involved, here's your chance.

I'm not sure why I'm inviting him. Maybe because, despite everything, he deserves to be there. Maybe because I'm tired of going through this alone. Maybe because in the two weeks since I told him about the pregnancy, he's been surprisingly... decent.

His response is immediate:

Kasen: I’ll be there.

Kasen: Want me to pick you up?

Me: I can drive myself. See you there.

Forty minutes later, I'm sitting in Dr. Walker's waiting room, flipping through a parenting magazine without actually reading any of it, when Kasen walks in. Honestly, the pictures freak me out a little and don’t get me started on the article titles.

Kasen’s traded his usual flannel for a clean black t-shirt that shows off the colorful tattoos running down both arms. The ones on his muscular, veiny forearms…

I blink a couple of times and snap my mouth shut because, for some reason, it’d fallen open. His dark hair is tucked under that stupid beanie he always wears, but he's freshly shaven, like he made an effort.

For me? For the baby? I'm not sure which possibility unnerves me more.

And okay, I kind of like it.

He spots me immediately and crosses the room, taking the seat beside me. "Hey."

"Hey." I set down the magazine. "Thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." His blue eyes scan my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "You look tired."

"Thanks. Every woman loves hearing that."

"That's not what I—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair, dislodging the beanie slightly like he forgot it was there. "Sorry. I meant... are you feeling okay?"

The genuine concern in his voice catches me off guard. "I'm fine. Just exhausted all the time. Apparently, growing a human sucks the energy out of you."

"Is that normal? The exhaustion?"

"According to the internet and Dr. Walker, yes." I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Morning sickness is tapering off, but I can barely keep my eyes open past dinner time. And yesterday I cried because Kieran brought me a decaf instead of regular coffee—which I'm not supposed to have anyway."

Kasen's lips quirk up at the corners. "You cried over coffee?"

"I also cried during a truck commercial about a father and son fixing up an old Chevy." Even talking about it now makes my eyes prickle. I glare at the smirk on his face. "If you laugh, I will end you."

"Not laughing," he says, but his eyes are definitely laughing. "Hormones, huh?"

"Among other things."

"Like what?"

I hadn't meant to bring it up here, but the genuine interest in his expression breaks down a barrier I didn't realize I'd constructed. "My apartment building was sold to developers. I have thirty days to find a new place."

Kasen's expression shifts to concern. "Shit. Really?"

"Really." I stare down at my hands. "And the rental market is a nightmare right now. Everything decent has a waiting list, and everything available is either outrageously expensive or practically uninhabitable."

"That's—"

"Wren Callan?" a nurse calls, interrupting whatever Kasen was about to say.

We follow her back to an exam room, and I hop up on the table while Kasen sits in the single chair.

He’s stiff and has a look on his face I can’t read, but whatever he’s feeling, he’s radiating tension and I’m not sure why.

Maybe it’s the whole baby thing, but maybe it’s the fact that one of his best friends is my doctor and doesn’t know about the baby.

Yeah, it’s probably that.

Dr. Walker—Reed—walks in a few minutes later, looking down at the tablet in his hand. "Alright Wren, let's just review these initial—" He looks up, stops dead, and then a slow grin spreads across his face, replacing the absolute shock. "Kase? What the hell are you doing here?"

I can’t help it. I get all sorts of enjoyment out of watching my doctor try to compute one of his best friends sitting awkwardly in his OB-GYN exam room. With me .

"Hey, Reed." Kasen shifts, looking so uncomfortable.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

He tugs the edge of his beanie looking like he wishes he was anywhere but here.

He gestures vaguely towards me. "Uh, yeah.

I'm here with Wren." He sounds like he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t.

This time I can’t hold in the snort, but I catch myself and try to turn it into a cough instead of cracking up like I want to.