I stare at the screen, the realization suddenly hitting me. Reed. Dr. Reed Walker. The guy who examined Wren, who knew about my baby before I did. Who had her put her feet in those stirrups and checked out parts of her I've only seen in a very different context.
Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my gut. I know it's his job, completely professional, but still. Banks mentionedfeeling weirdly territorial when Reed became Clover's doctor during her pregnancy with Noble. I thought he was being an idiot at the time, but now I get it.
And Reed has no idea that I'm the father of Wren's baby. No idea that the woman he examined is technically my wife.
Me: I either need a beer or therapy after today. You're cheaper, so beer?
After he agrees, I set the phone down and turn back to my half-finished label. The design that had seemed so important a few hours ago now feels trivial compared to the seismic shift that just rocked my world.
A baby. A chance to know Wren beyond the girl I can’t stand. A chance to be the father mine never was.
I've always believed actions speak louder than words.
Now it's time to prove it.
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. Iwill notcry 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’mnotsharing 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?”
