Page 117 of Falling Together

A wave of exhaustion rolls over me. I stayed far too late at the ranch tonight, finishing up my notes for my substitute while I’m out. I’ll be meeting with them after the holiday and want to make sure they’re up to speed on all the kids. It’ll be an adjustment for them, but I have a feeling they’ll like Gail.

Only seven more weeks to go. Not that I’m counting, but seven weeks.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been more uncomfortable in my life. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen my feet, and the way this baby is dancing on my bladder at all hours makes doing anything impossible.

I start my truck and head to Grant’s. Ever since moving in with him, I feel like I see him less and less. I think the stress of the baby coming is finally getting to him. The past few nights he’s locked himself in the nursery. I know he wants to make sure it’s perfect, but I don’t care about that anymore. I’d rather spend my nights with him.

I know he had a late meeting with his managers to discuss some offseason training, so I call the Emporium and place an order to grab on my way home. Thankfully, Amy picks up and offers to bring it out to me when I get there.

Getting in and out of the truck is the hardest. Nothing to make you feel bigger than you are than trying to squeeze in behind the steering wheel.

“I threw in some extra bacon for Grant, and an order of home fries for you,” Amy says, passing the bag through the window.

“You’re a saint.”

“You take care of that baby now. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Thanks, Amy.”

She hurries inside, and I quickly roll up my window as the cold nips at my face. I drive the short distance to Grant’s—well, our place now—and head inside.

Opening the door, I find Grant scrubbing at the countertop.

“Hey.”

His shoulders are bunched up near his ears. That can’t be good. “Hey.”

“Is everything okay?”

I toe off my boots before walking into the kitchen and setting the plastic bag down on the freshly cleaned counter.

“We need to talk.” A wrinkle creases his forehead.

“What’s wrong? Is Luke okay?”

“Luke is fine, but it’s about him.”

“Tell me,” I urge.

“He wants to go back to LA.”

The news settles between us as Grant stares at me. Luke was all set to leave next week for the holiday, but I have a feeling it’s going to be a longer trip than that.

One with no return ticket.

“What? Why? I thought everything was good.”

“I did too. But he said he talked to his mom and she won’t be traveling, so he wants to go back to his old school.”

“But the school year already started here,” I say, like it’s a done deal.

Why would he want to change schools in the middle of the year?

“He kept calling LA home.” The pained look on Grant’s face gives way to one of torture, like this is the worst possible scenario. “He wants to go back to his old school with his old friends.”

“Doesn’t he have friends here?” I ask. “He’s always going over to what’s-his-name’s house.”

Bad time to forget his name, but baby brain is real.