8
1 week later
You Say - Lauren Daigle
I t’s been a week since I took the pregnancy tests with Isla.
A week of relentless nausea and fatigue kicking my ass. Dad’s been asking what’s up, but I can’t bring myself to tell him. Not yet. For the time being, I’d told him I caught a real bad stomach bug, and he believed me right away. Because why would he think otherwise? After a doctor’s appointment, a blood test, and an ultrasound, they confirmed what I already knew.
I’m definitely, without a doubt, pregnant.
I hold up the first ultrasound scan, confirming I’m six weeks along. My breathing picks up, and panic stirs inside me again. I sink down onto my bed, staring at the little blob on the sonogram. It’s so tiny, so unreal. Yet, it’s growing inside me. This little thing is gonna be a baby.
My baby.
What the fuck do I do now? I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster that I can’t get off. One minute, I’m feeling okay about it, like I can handle this shit, and the next, I’m spiralling into a pit of doubt and fear.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve got to tell Dad. I’ve got to tell Harrison. This isn’t something I can keep secret. But the thought of their reactions makes my stomach churn more than the morning sickness. He’s always been my rock, but I can’t even imagine the look on his face when I tell him. I sigh, dropping onto my bed and staring at the ceiling. I run a hand over my face, feeling the exhaustion creeping in again. A week of this, and it’s already wearing me down.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my body feels like it’s been through the wringer. My back’s killing me from standing all day doing clients’ hair, and my feet are throbbing with every step I take. I’ve already vomited twice this morning. And don’t even get me started on my aching tits—every time I brushed against something, it felt like I’d been hit with a brick.
It’s been one of those days.
The salon was packed from the moment I walked in. One of my regulars came in for her usual cut and colour, and she was sweet enough to bring me a croissant—which I couldn’t even look at without feeling queasy. Then there was a new client, a bloke in his early twenties, who wanted a drastic change—bleach and a buzz cut. He sat there texting the whole time, oblivious to the fact that I was battling nausea and trying to keep the scissors steady.
By the time Mrs. Morrison rolled in for her weekly trim, I was barely holding it together. She spent the whole time banging on about the latest scandal in town, while I tried not to hurl in the sink. I slapped on my best customer-service smile, nodding along as she prattled on, even though all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and crash.
As I climb out of the car, my eyes snag on it—Harrison’s black Subaru WRX parked down the road, its shiny paint gleaming like it’s showing off. My stomach flips. What is he doing here?
The driveway is empty—thank God Dad’s still at work—but my relief vanishes when I spot him. Harrison is slouched on my veranda chair, shoulders hunched, head down.
Something’s off.
As I step closer, his head snaps up, and he stands. No smirk. No cocky grin. Just a look that steals the air from my lungs. I cross my arms, trying to keep my cool.
“Care to explain why you’re on my front veranda?”
He stands tall, his voice low. “I know you said one night, but Imogen, I need you to understand. I’m being real fucking honest here... it’s been consuming me all fucking day. I don’t think I can just do ‘one night.’”
My stomach flips. What the? I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Oh God, I should tell him. I should say something. But my words get stuck in my throat, a thick knot of panic tightening with every second that passes. What am I supposed to say back to that? I take a breath, forcing the words out. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
His eyes narrow, and I can already see the confusion creeping in. “What?”
Fuck it.
I reach into my bag, pulling out the pregnancy test. I don’t even know why I have it with me—some weird, twisted souvenir? It’s been cleaned, that’s for sure, but why the hell is it still in my bag? I hold it out to him, watching his eyes widen. He takes a step back, like I’ve handed him a grenade.
“What is that?”
“What does it look like?”
“Is that... is that a pregnancy test?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
He frowns, shaking his head. “But... what?”
“I’m pregnant, Harrison.”
His frown deepens as he sinks into a chair. “Holy shit. This is not where I thought this conversation was going.”
“Yeah, well, you and me both.”
He leans forward, rubbing a hand over his face. “How?”
I glare at him. “Do I really need to explain? Let’s not relive the details.”
He huffs out a short laugh, but his eyes are darting around, the wheels turning. “Wait… what about that pill you mentioned? Oh shit, did it not work?”
“Apparently not.”
He looks at me, his mouth opening like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, he leans back in the chair, exhaling slowly.
“Okay. Okay,” he mutters, mostly to himself, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. I can’t tell if he’s freaking out or trying not to. Probably both. I sure as hell am. “When did you find out?”
“Last week. I had a scan over the weekend.”
His head snaps up. “A week? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I needed time, okay? To figure out how the hell to even process this.”
He stares at me, jaw tight. “But you were going to tell me?”
“Yes, Harrison, I was going to tell you,” I snap. “Congrats on the impeccable timing.”
God, how the tables have turned.
I’m torn, frustrated, and honestly, my back feels like it’s been run over by a truck, and all I want is for him to leave so I can lie down.
He straightens suddenly. “Wait—you had a scan? Is… everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I mutter, waving him off, but my stomach churns, and I know this conversation is far from over. “I did a blood test to confirm the pregnancy, and an ultrasound to date it.” His jaw tightens and his eyes dart nervously. Nervous, Harrison? That’s a first.
“Oh, okay,” he finally mutters.
“I’ve got the scan upstairs,” I mumble before I can stop myself. “Do you… wanna see it?” God, why am I even asking? I need him to leave.
“Y-yeah,” he says, way too fast, then tries to play it cool, clearing his throat. “Sure. If you’ve got it.”
I spin on my heel and head upstairs, cursing my brain the whole way. The ultrasound’s still on my bed, a tiny grey smudge on a sea of static. It’s small, barely anything—but it feels like it weighs a ton. By the time I’m back downstairs, I’m out of breath. Great.
“Here.” I hand it to him, and he takes it like it might shatter in his hands.
“What… what am I looking at?” His brow furrows, pure confusion written all over his face.
I sigh and point. “There. That tiny grey blob. Six weeks old. About the size of a ladybug.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yep.”
He looks up at me, and for once, the cocky glint is gone. His eyes—hazel? No, they’re green. When the hell did they turn green? The fading sunlight catches them, making them almost golden. My chest tightens, a flutter messing with my pulse. Nope. Not happening.
“Right. Well, you can keep that,” I say, rushing the words.
“No, it’s yours.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got another one.” I step toward the door, but the breeze carries his scent—woodsy, warm, stupidly unfair.
“So, do you have more appointments coming up?” His voice is softer now.
I glance at him, my gaze flickering over his face, then his tattooed neck. “Uh, yeah,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. He crosses his arms, waiting. I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
“I need to book my first antenatal appointment at the hospital—probably the one in town. And an ultrasound at thirteen weeks to check the baby’s growth, make sure everything’s okay.”
I’d go to Clifftop Haven, but stuff that. It’s too far to commute to. I’ll suck it up and go to our local hospital. I trail off, realising I’m rambling. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I hate how steady he looks. “I’ve got it under control,” I add quickly, folding my arms.
Harrison shifts. “Okay, look. Assuming I’m the father, I’m in. I know I’m not your favourite person, but I’m not half-assing this. You can hate me all you want, but this baby? They’ve got me, one hundred percent.”
“You are the father.” Like the test wasn’t proof enough. How could he even question it? “You’re the last person I slept with, Harrison. And for the record, I don’t just sleep with anyone, so no, I haven’t been with someone else.” I narrow my eyes. “Why am I even explaining this to you?”
“Should I feel special, then?” he says with a smug grin.
“Absolutely not,” I huff.
His face softens, and he drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to assume or offend you. That’s not what I was trying to say. This is just...”
“Doesn’t matter,” I cut him off. “I don’t need your help, Harrison.”
“I’m not asking if you do. I’m telling you. You’re not doing this alone, and you’re not shutting me out. Like it or not, I’m here.” The words hit harder than I want them to.
“I am fine on my own, though.” I’m trying to sound like I’ve got it all sorted, but the ache in my words betrays me. Who am I trying to convince?
He smirks—just a flicker—but his eyes are steady. “Oh, I know you’re fine. Doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”
There’s something in his tone, in the way he looks at me, that makes me pause. It’s familiar—too familiar. Like maybe he gets it in a way I don’t want him to. But I can’t care. Caring is messy, and I’ve already got enough on my plate.
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
He steps past me, and I watch him head toward the door, his boots heavy on the floorboards. When he reaches the steps, he pauses, turning back to face me. “I meant what I said, Imogen, about wanting more than just one night.” A beat passes. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise. And with that, he heads down the steps, leaving me standing there, heart racing, thoughts spinning. What does that mean for me? For us?
His car roars to life—loud, unapologetic, just like him—and fades down the road, leaving behind a tension I can’t shake. Before I can exhale properly, another engine rumbles in. Dad’s ute. He hops out, his grin faltering as he takes me in.
“What’s going on, pumpkin?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I step into his open arms, breathing in the familiar scent of oil and sawdust, letting the steadiness of his hug ground me. My chest tightens in a way I can’t ignore.
“Come inside,” I say, pulling back. “We need to talk.”
The teaspoon clinks against my mug, breaking the silence at the table. Dad made us black tea—mine with one sugar and a touch of honey, just how I like it—but I haven’t touched it. My hands curl around the warm mug, but it’s not doing its usual trick of making everything seem manageable. He sits there, quiet, watching, waiting. Too quiet. When Dad’s this silent, you know he’s gearing up for something serious. His steady presence has always been a comfort, but now it feels like I’m holding my breath, waiting for the hammer to drop.
Finally, he looks up, eyes sharp, voice low. “So... what’s your plan?”
The question lands heavy between us. I open my mouth, but the words stick. Plans always sound solid in your head until someone asks you to say them out loud. I draw in a breath, steadying my voice. “I’m keeping it. I’ll figure out the rest as I go.”
He nods, his gaze steady. “That boy who was here earlier... He the father?”
My stomach twists. That boy. Harrison’s about as far from a boy as you can get. All man, in every sense of the word. Still, I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady. Dad leans back, arms crossed, his sigh filled with years of wisdom I both appreciate and sometimes resent. “Imogen, this won’t be easy. You’re strong—you’ve always been strong—but you don’t have to do this alone. You’ve got me. Always.”
There’s a pause, his gaze softening but no less serious. “If he wants to step up, you let him. It’s his responsibility, too. I don’t want your child growing up with the kind of gaps you had. If I’ve learned one thing from my own mistakes, it’s that I can’t change the past. But I can teach you to learn from it.”
His words hit like a punch to the chest. I don’t need to look hard to see the regret behind them. He doesn’t say it often, but it’s always there, a shadow of everything he wishes he could’ve done differently.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m always right, pumpkin.”
The corners of my mouth twitch into a reluctant smile as he squeezes my hand. But then he leans in, his expression turning serious again. “I want him over for dinner. Formal. I need to meet him properly.”
My head snaps up. “Harrison? No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes. It’s necessary.” His tone brooks no argument. “Get him over here. I’ll even cook.”
I grit my teeth. The idea of Harrison and Dad in the same room? Awful. The reality of asking Harrison to show up for a formal family dinner? Worse.
“Fine.” I mutter. “I’ll let you know when.”
He nods, satisfied, while I stew silently. This is exactly why I wanted to keep everything on my terms. Now everyone’s involved, making decisions I haven’t even had time to process.
One problem at a time, Imogen.