Page 8 of Reluctantly Ever After (The Oops Baby Club #2)

There’s a part of him inside me right now. How did I let this happen?

I'm so distracted that I nearly collide with someone in the parking garage as I walk toward my car.

"Sorry, I wasn't—Mom?" I blink in surprise, finding myself face to face with Margot Callan, her sleek gray pixie and designer glasses unmistakable even in the gloomy light in here.

"Wren?" My mother's sharp eyes scan me from head to toe, stopping on the folder in my arms, then glancing up at the sign for the medical building. "What are you doing here?"

Of all the people to run into on this day outside an OB/GYN's office, it had to be my mother, the woman who raised me on equal parts feminist theory and warnings about men who'll suck you dry and throw you away with nothing left.

Yeah, she’s going to love the news that I went and got myself knocked up.

"I was just—it's nothing." I tuck the folder into my bag. "What are you doing here?"

"Book club meets in the coffee shop across the street. This is the closest parking garage." Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "You look pale. Are you sick?"

"No, it was just a checkup," I say, hating having to lie to her. She may be intense, but we’ve always been pretty close. I know she only wants the best for me.

My mother's mouth presses into a line as she watches me. She's always been able to see right through me and I try to keep any trace of my current drama off my face. "You're not taking care of yourself again.” Her frown kicks up into a half-smile. “Working too many hours, I assume?"

"Guilty." I shift uncomfortably. "I learned from the best. Look, I need to go. I have a presentation to prepare for tomorrow."

"Nonsense. You look like you need a decent meal and some quality time with your mother." She links her arm through mine, leaving no room for argument. "I was headed to Verdigris for lunch. You'll join me."

It's not a question. My mother doesn't ask; she bulldozes.

Twenty minutes later, we're seated at a small table by the window, my mother sipping sparkling water while I pick at a salad I have no appetite for. She's spent the last fifteen minutes updating me on what’s been going on with her. She’s this badass professor and I’m so proud of everything she’s built, but sometimes it’s a lot.

The Margot Callan excellence that has always been an inspiration is also an impossible standard for me to live up to, and sometimes I feel like a disappointment, even though she’s never said anything like that to me.

"Enough about my department politics," she says finally, setting down her glass. "Tell me what's really going on with you."

I set down my fork, abandoning the pretense of eating. "I told you, it's just work stress." No way am I about to confess anything to her before I’ve even had a chance to make a decision or, you know, curl up in a ball and ugly cry.

"Wren Elizabeth Callan." She fixes me with the same look that mostly kept me in line as a teenager. "I didn't raise you to lie to me."

Something about her concerned tone hits me right in the feels. It's the same mix of authority and warmth she always uses when she knows I'm bullshitting her because it always works to get me to spill everything. Before I can stop myself, tears fill my eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart." My mother's hand covers mine on the table, her voice softening. "What is it?"

I swallow hard, fighting for control. "I made a mistake, Mom."

"We all make mistakes. That's how we learn." She squeezes my hand. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it."

I almost tell her. The words are right there, just dying to be set free.

I got drunk-married in Vegas to a man I’ve spent the last two years hating.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I'm pregnant.

Single motherhood, here I come.

I know she’ll be disappointed I’m repeating her mistakes, and honestly I am a little bit, too.

The words, though, they stick in my throat when I see the Pride pin on her lapel, the one she's worn since I came out as bisexual in college.

The one that represents her unwavering support of my choices, even when they weren't the ones she would have made.

How can I tell her I've done exactly what she warned me against—let a man derail the future I've worked so hard to build?

Not that it's his fault. I made my choices. But I don’t think she’ll see it that way.

"It's just business stuff," I say instead, pulling my hand away to wipe at my eyes. "A contract dispute that might get messy and it’s got me really stressed."

My mother studies me for a long moment, clearly not buying it, but thankfully doesn't push. "All right. But remember what I've always told you?—"

"No man is worth sacrificing your ambitions for," I recite, the mantra she's repeated since I was old enough to understand what ambition even was.

"Exactly." She nods approvingly. "Men come and go, but what you build for yourself lasts."

If only she knew how catastrophically those two things were colliding in my life right now.

"I know, Mom," I mumble. "I remember."

“And if worse comes to worst, you can always get Kieran to help out.”

The rest of lunch passes with safer topics and I manage to get down enough to my salad to be convincing. By the time we part outside the restaurant, I've almost convinced myself I can handle this. Almost.

"Call me if you need anything," she says, kissing my cheek. "And for god's sake, get some rest. You look like the walking dead."

"I will," I say with a weak smile.

Two hours later, alone in my apartment, I sit cross-legged on my bed, staring at the folder from Dr. Walker. I've read through every pamphlet, every option, but I'm no closer to a decision than I was this afternoon.

Could I really not keep this baby?

I let my hand slowly drift down to rest on my stomach. There’s a person in there right now growing and I wonder what they’ll look like. Who they’ll look like.

All I know is that before I decide anything, I need to tell Kasen. He deserves to know, even if the thought of telling him makes me want to throw up again.

Or maybe that's just the morning-slash-all day sickness. Hard to tell at this point.

I pull out my phone and open his text from earlier.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I type a response:

Me: Tomorrow. 7pm. Your brewery.

His reply comes almost immediately:

Kasen: I'll be there.

I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, wishing it held all the answers. Hell, I’d even settle for just one answer at this point.

"It's gonna be fine," I whisper to myself.

But for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I believe it.