Page 109

“Well, if you didn’t just chuck them off all over the house and actually put them away where they belong, you’d be able to find them,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Go look in your room. And don’t bother your mama while she’s getting ready—she’s already stressed enough.”

He takes off down the hall, and the second he’s gone I pull my phone out.

Veronica Wheelman

It’s an emergency!

Answer!

My gut sinks. If it’s real—if something is actually wrong—then I can’t just ignore her.

“Hey, baby!” I call, heading toward the bathroom.

Blaire’s standing at the vanity in her robe, one side of her hair still in loose waves while the other is wrapped around the curling iron. The smell of heat and hairspray fills the small space. Her sweater is so white it makes her skin look bronze, and the leggings she wears are working some kind of magic on her ass.

She looks up, smiling until she sees my face.

“What’s up? Did Theo find his-?”

“She’s blowing me up,” I cut in, keeping my voice low. “I gotta call her back.”

Blaire’s face falls. She lowers the curling iron, the soft click of it against the counter loud in the sudden quiet. “Everything alright?”

“I don’t know. Her texts say it’s an emergency.”

For a moment, she just looks at me, and I can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. The reality of me having to drop everything for another woman if this kid is mine seems to hit her all at once.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “If it’s serious, you should go. I’ll handle everything here and meet you at my parents’ when you’re done. We’ll figure it out.”

“I wanted to call her in front of you. I don’t like feeling like I’m sneaking around and keeping it from you. You’re my girl.”

Her eyes soften, and she gives me a small, grateful smile. “Okay, you can call her in here if you want.”

I hit Veronica’s number and put the phone on speaker.

Veronica picks up on the first ring. “Simon! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning. Why weren’t you picking up?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, I’m with Theo,” I say, keeping my voice low and controlled. “What’s going on?”

“I need you to come over.” Her voice is tight, breathy. “There’s… cramping. And spotting.”

My stomach clenches. Images slam into me—Blaire at sixteen weeks, the night I got the call from her dad, his voice tight with fear. The hospital room, too bright, Blaire pale and shaking while nurses explained preterm dilation three different ways. The realization that I could lose my child, the way something inside me tore open that night. That was the moment I stopped being a stupid kid and became a father.

I should feel that same terror now. I know I should.

But instead there’s nothing. Just a cold, heavy irritation settling in my chest because she’s pulling at my plans again.

I exchange a look with Blaire. She’s thinking the same thing—I can see it in her eyes. She shoots me a pointed glance, full of worry, and I shake my head, mouthing, "Not the same."

She puts a hand on her hip and points at the phone, mouthing back, "You need to go if it’s that serious."

I make an exasperated face. She rolls her eyes and gives me the look—the one that says I know, but it’s the right thing to do.

“Alright,” I say into the phone, the words tasting like chalk. “Are you headed to the hospital?”

“Not yet. I’m at my parents’. Can you come pick me up?”

I exhale slowly, giving Blaire one last pleading look like a kid hoping his parent will get him out of something. She just nods firmly.