He shakes his head, man-bun whipping side to side. “No, Reed. Don’t think I would have. Bet she’s got a pretty-as-hell voice, too. All sweet and sunshine.” His brows hit his hairline. “Memorable.”
“Jesus.” I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “You guys are fucking assholes.”
“Assholes who flew halfway across the country to meet our—”
“Okay,” I snap, cutting Wilder off with a sharp look. “I get it. You want to meet your—” There goes my dry mouth again. “Your—”
They lean in, eyes wide, faces reassuring.
“Come on, Lassie,” Griff coaxes, slapping my cheek.
“You can say it, boy,” Wilder coos, ruffling my hair like I’m a fucking golden retriever.
I swat them both away and take a step back, needing air and space, and a temporary best friend transplant. My fists land on my hips, and I start pacing. Tiny, anxious stomps across my two-by-two kitchen.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Ten laps in, my pulse finally slows. Fifteen, and I can swallow again without gagging. Somewhere around lap twenty, I finally start to talk—still pacing, still avoiding their eyes, because if I stop, I won’t get a damn word out.
I tell them everything.
Georgia showing up on my doorstep out of nowhere. The mediation. The probationary thirty-day period I’ve got to prove I can be a dad. The part where I need a new job. A safer house. A whole fucking lifestyle reset. And how it all ended with me at the hospital, holding a baby that isn’t mine by blood—but is somehow already mine in every way that matters because sheneeds me.
I don’t get into how it felt. I leave out the part about the way she looked up at me. The weight of her. The way everything in me cracked wide open the second she smiled.
I’m not there yet.
For some reason, I also leave out every fucking detail about Georgia and her addicting freckles and wildfire attitude. The idea of telling them any singular snippet about her twists my gut and makes me irrationally angry.
“Holy shit,” Wilder breathes, throat bobbing. “That’s... not what I thought you were gonna say. I figured a condom broke at some point, and a chick accused you of being Daddy. But your bitch ex writing you into her will?” He whistles low and tips his head back. “A baby instead of money is a wild thing to inherit. You win, man. That’s a whole new tier of fuckery.”
Swallowing hard, I shoot him a look. “You can’t call her that anymore.”
“Why?” he whines. “It’s true.”
“Because we don’t speak ill of the dead. It’s disrespectful.” Griff smacks him on the back of the head and turns to stare at me for a long, tense moment. Finally, he exhales and runs a hand down his beard. “So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?”
“Whatever it is, we’ve got you,” Wilder adds, winking at me. “Don’t think we can stay here though, bud. You don’t even have a couch.”
“I burned it.”
He bobs his head. “Nice. Well, your bed’s too small, so—”
“We’ll find a hotel.” Griffin sighs. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, we’re here, and you’re stuck with us. So, tell us what you need, and it’ll get done.” His expression is somber, steady, and so damn honest it almost hurts. “You’re not alone, Archer.”
My eyes blur, and I have to look away before I embarrass myself by sobbing in front of my friends. I drop my face into my hands, breathing through the sudden rush of relief. I feel a hand squeeze my good shoulder, and know it’s Griff. He offers me silent support to work through my shit, like always.
Even thousands of miles away, my team’s never stopped being there for me.
Makes me realize how shitty of a friend I’ve been, and I make a silent vow to do better.
“Not to interrupt what I’m sure is a much deserved menty-B,” Wilder says, “but when’s the last time you slept?”
I look up just as Griff sniffs the air, nose wrinkling. “Or showered?”
