She did make it clear it was a one-night thing, but people change their minds, and I know I showed her a good time.
I wonder what she's doing right now. Probably sleeping if she's smart. But wondering leads to a little idle internet searching. I type in the name Tessa and Loveland Ranch, hoping one of those data scraping sites has some contact information for her or someone in her family.
But the search comes up dry, only showing a trust as the owner of the ranch and no connection to her name. Instead, I get lots of images that correspond to the name Tessa, as though that’s remotely helpful.
Fuck you, internet. She's the best distraction I've had in a long time, and lately, I need that kind of distraction.
Except who am I kidding? That woman felt like she could be much more than a distraction. A whole hell of a lot more.
CHAPTER 11
Tessa
One WeekLater
The drivefrom my office in LA to the ranch seems shorter than the last time I came here. I have high hopes that a hundred miles on the highway will be a good way to clear my head since all I’ve done is mull over the news that I am indeed seven weeks pregnant.
The open road helps a little, but I’m still slightly dreading what I’ll find at the ranch when I arrive. We sent a cleaning crew in to give the place a once-over, and Mel promised to put sheets on the beds, but none of that changes the property's overall state of disrepair. The house is practically falling down, and I need to take some photos before meeting with Dylan’s architect friend to talk about options.
Without my sisters griping about what’s wrong with the ranch house, I’m sure I can come up with a plan. I also want to knock on the neighbor’s door and talk about the lawsuit now that I’ve learned about groundwater laws, unregulated use, and theinvisible private property in California. Under a groundwater management act, local farmers are supposed to reduce their water use by 60 percent, but the act excludes big corporations. It doesn’t seem fair.
No wonder all the farmers in Willow Springs are suing each other for water rights. Their water is essentially handed over to corporations that can afford to hire lawyers and go to court. The individual farmer has no chance.
If I can explain to the neighbor that he’s wasting his time suing me, maybe I can make the whole issue go away.
As soon as I get out of the San Fernando Valley and start heading north, I turn on my old reliable playlist, the one I listen to on weekends when I’m consciously letting my work frustrations filter from my brain. It doesn’t take long before I’ve run through the available options in my head. I’m pro-choice, and I always imagined I’d have no trouble terminating an unplanned pregnancy. But that was before I found myself pregnant at thirty-five with a biological clock thumping like a rabbit’s foot.
I think about what I want at this stage of my life, given that I haven’t put motherhood on my bingo card for this year. Or maybe ever.
Middle of the night feedings, putting another tiny person’s needs before my own…it seems like a lot.
I have plenty of friends with kids, and I watched how Hannah’s free time vanished after she had Dexter. I can only take on parenthood if I’m all in. One hundred percent. Total life change.
Unexpectedly, I feel protective of the tiny dividing cells in my body, a mothering instinct I didn’t know I possessed. Maybe life is offering me a last-ditch chance at something I’ve thought about in the abstract but didn’t know I wanted until now.
The longer I drive, the more my scattered thoughts began to congeal into something like acceptance. No, more than that. Excitement?
No. Outright panic. With a side of excitement.
I feel the familiar pangs of tension and stress wrap around me just as I pull up to Loveland Ranch and inhale my first breath of fresh air out here.
As I park my Jeep in the driveway, I notice the tall shade tree whose branches are in dire need of trimming. But that’s not what strikes me. A tiny yellow bird sits up on a high branch, fanning out its feathers and poking around with its beak.
Getting out of the car, I stay focused on the bird, which doesn’t fly away even though I’m close enough for it to feel threatened. “Hi, little guy.”
That earns me a tiny chirp, which warms my soul. Is it my imagination, or are the birds at home too skittish or busy to stay on a branch and look right back at me while I observe them? Things are looking better already here at the ranch. Maybe this city girl needs a little time away to think about her life.
“You’re six weeks along,” Dr. Robbins said last week, her cheerful tone telling me this is a good thing. Is it a good thing when the father is a guy I may never see again? A guy I don’t even know how to find?
Not to mention that I’m still working hard to make partner, and I won’t be able to take a long maternity leave, not if I want to keep up with my fellow associates who are men.And when do I tell my bosses?
“Will I need to scale back at work?” I asked, as though Dr. Robbins knows about my caseload, much less my ambitions.
“That’s your call. I want to do everything we can to have a healthy outcome, and that will help you make the rest of your plans.”
Plans? What plans? Other than racking up billable hours, I sure don’t have any. Except that I need to get this renovation moving because driving back and forth to some small town is not a long-term proposition.
I don’t even know where Fitz lives, well, unless his home is the tiny room where we had sex. If so, it’s certainly not big enough to share with a baby, if he even wants one.
