"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 ofgoing 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."
