Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“What do you mean, for ‘some’ reason? Of course I’m stalling and I know exactly why.” Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. “I mean, gee, it’s not like this is going to completely change our lives forever or anything. Why would that be scary?”
Garrett and I haven’t even discussed kids in any serious way. Getting pregnant and springing it on him seems like a hell of a way to broach the subject. How could it not feel like a trap?
“Can I ask?” she says hesitantly. “Do you want to keep it?”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip. That’s the thing. The big question. The one that keeps me up at night staring at Garrett while he sleeps and trying to imagine what our life would look like a year from now.
“In a perfect world, at the right time? Sure,” I admit, a slight trembling to my voice. “I always thought having a couple of kids would be nice. A boy and a girl.” Growing up as an only child, I envied my friends who had siblings. It seemed like so much fun having another kid around.
“But?” Allie prompts when I don’t go on.
“But the realities of being a hockey family don’t make it easy. He’s on the road for months out of the year, which basically means I’d be taking care of a baby by myself. That’s not exactly ideal.”
Even without a kid, it’s a tough lifestyle. Between pre- and post-season, the hockey life is travel, long hours, and exhaustion. By the time Garrett walks through the door, he barely has the energy to put down a meal before he collapses into bed. There’s hardly enough time for us, much less a child. A crying newborn on top of that?
Panic starts crawling up my throat. I swallow hard, and my voice shakes when I speak again. “I can’t do this by myself, Allie.”
“Aw, babe.” Her sigh echoes over the line. “It sucks your family doesn’t live closer. Give you some help, at least.”
“That’d be great, but there’s no way.”
My parents are stuck in a second mortgage in the crappy small town in Indiana where I grew up. Buried under a mountain of debt that’ll probably keep them in that miserable place for the rest of their lives.
“Look. Whatever happens,” Allie tells me, “I’m here for you. Anything you need. All you have to do is call, and I’ll be on the next flight or train to Boston. I’ll hitchhike if I need to.”
“I know and I love you for it. Thank you.” I blink through my stinging eyes. “I have to go back to work now.”
After I end the call, I walk back to the mirror to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been crying. In my reflection I see tired green eyes and pale cheeks and a look of pure terror.
When it comes down to it, I’m scared. Of raising this kid by myself. Of the overwhelming responsibility. Of what Garrett will say when I finally find the right way to tell him. Because I am going to tell him. I just have to find the words.
For the time being, though, there are more pressing issues. Like the exorbitant rate Nice is paying for studio time that is like setting money on fire every minute I’m having an existential meltdown in the bathroom.
We spend the next several hours in the studio banging out a few more songs. When Nice and I get into a rhythm, we work quick. The flow is there, that free creative energy that makes the time pass in a blink. Until suddenly we do blink, and discover that his friends are all passed out on the couch and the night janitor is wandering in to empty the trash cans.
We finally call it quits for the night. I gather up my things and accept Patch’s offer to walk me to my car. Can’t be too safe these days.
“G’nite, Hannah baby. Lock your door.” Patch taps the window frame of my SUV before lumbering back to the building.
I’m just pulling out of the lot when I get a call from my agent. Elise usually calls about this time every evening to check on our progress. She’s got the record label calling her every ten minutes wanting to make sure their money isn’t being wasted in the studio.
“Are you holding anything hot?” she asks instead of a hello.
“Huh? Like did we write anything good tonight?”
“No, are you literally holding something hot in your hands right now? Coffee? Tea? If so, put it down,” she orders.
I experience a jolt of alarm. “I’m driving home. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, if you like money.” Elise sounds too pleased with herself, which makes me nervous.
“I like money,” I say, albeit warily.
“Good. Because the song you wrote for Delilah took a sledgehammer to the charts last quarter and I’ve just sent you an obscene check. You’re welcome.”