31. Wyatt
Chapter 31
Wyatt
I turn the corner to head back toward main street, when I see Ivy coming out of Doc Banner’s office. I know she’s been feeling off lately, so a trip to the doctor makes sense. Not sure why she didn’t mention it, though. One of us could have gone with her, kept her company.
My steps falter when I get a better look at her. Ivy looks like she just walked out of a horror movie. Not the kind where people are running from a masked psycho, but the kind where someone sees some messed-up supernatural shit and can’t even process it. She’s pale—like, about-to-pass-out pale—and there’s this wild look in her eyes that sets off every internal alarm I have.
My feet are faster than my brain, and I’m moving before I can even make the decision. I step in front of her, a hand on her elbow to slow her down.
“Hey, City Girl. You good?”
She doesn’t even slow down, just tries to breeze right past me like I’m not standing in her way.
“I’ll wait in the truck,” she mutters. “Or the coffee shop. Whatever. I just—” Her voice wobbles, and she shakes her head like she’s trying to physically fling whatever’s in her brain right out of her skull. “I’ll be fine. Just—just finish up here.”
Yeah, no. That’s not happening.
I fall into step beside her. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or, like, got diagnosed with something terminal, which—please tell me that’s not it.”
She keeps walking. Faster now, like she’s hoping I’ll take the hint.
I don’t.
“Hey!” I call again, but she doesn’t even turn around. “Ivy! Slow down!”
She keeps walking, her ponytail swinging like she’s on a mission to get as far away from me as possible. I’m losing ground, so I do the only thing that makes sense: I grab her arm.
“Ivy, just talk to me?—”
Something flutters to the ground between us. A piece of paper or a picture.
I bend down, scooping it up before the wind can carry it away, and holy shit.
It’s a small, glossy printout.
Not a picture. An ultrasound.
An ultrasound labeled with “Baby A” and “Baby B”.
I blink. My brain short-circuits.
“What—” My voice cuts off because I genuinely don’t know what the hell to say. My gaze jerks back up to Ivy, who’s staring at me like she’s just waiting for the inevitable meltdown.
Two.
Not one.
Two.
I sputter, scrambling for words. “Are you—? This is—?” I gesture between her and the ultrasound like that’s an actual sentence. “Twins?”
Ivy presses her lips together, nodding tightly.
I stare at the image again, at the two tiny blobs that are apparently human beings, and my brain does that thing where it tries to reboot but just shows the spinning wheel of death.
“Holy shit.”
She lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
I drag a hand down my face. “I mean—holy shit.”
“Yeah, Wyatt. I got that part.”
I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again. Nothing comes out. Because what the actual fuck?
Twins.
My knees feel weird. My whole body feels weird. It’s like someone tilted the world on its axis, and I’m still trying to find my balance.
She’s pregnant.
Ivy snatches the ultrasound out of my hand, her jaw tight and her eyes avoiding mine. She’s pissed. Really pissed. And she’s trying to walk away again, but I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, slack-jawed and speechless.
My mouth opens and closes like I’m trying to catch flies, but no words come out. I can’t even get my feet to work, and Ivy’s already halfway across the parking lot, leaving me in the dust.
I finally manage to unstick myself and start after her again, but I’m not even sure what I’m going to say. What do you say to something like this? I’m practically gasping by the time I catch up, and she’s still not looking at me.
“Is this for real?” I blurt out, my voice cracking like a teenager’s. “How far along are you? When did you find out?
“Yes,” she says, spinning around to face me. Her eyes are dark and stormy, and there’s a tremor in her voice that I can’t quite place. “Six weeks. Just now.”
“Six weeks?” I repeat, dumbly.
“Yes, Wyatt,” she says, and I can hear the irritation in her voice. “Six weeks.”
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a father. I never really pictured myself with kids. Sure, maybe one day, but I’m already thirty, and one day is now, and I still don’t feel ready. My mouth opens and closes again.
“Are they...” I start, then stop.
Ivy’s eyes narrow. “Are they what?”
I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Are they...”
She cuts me off, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Well, it’s one of yours, seeing as I’ve been stuck with you guys for eight weeks.”
And then she’s storming off again, leaving me stunned and speechless for the second time in five minutes.
Twins.
One of ours.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but it feels like forever. My hands are numb, but I feel a warmth, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. I’m still trying to process, to understand, to make sense of any of this.
Ivy’s already disappeared around the corner, and I’m left alone in the parking lot, staring at the spot where she just was.
Holy shit.