32. Ivy
Chapter 32
Ivy
T he ride back is awkward as hell. I wedge myself between Holt and Wyatt on the truck’s worn-out bench seat, arms tucked in tight like I’m afraid touching either of them will make this situation worse. Which, honestly, it might.
I’ve faced swarms of paparazzi and screaming fans more times than I can count. But this? This ambush hits a thousand times harder.
Wyatt blew up my whole plan. I wasn’t going to tell them. I mean, I was, just not yet. I needed time to process, to figure out how to even form the words I’m pregnant without hyperventilating. But, nope. Wyatt had to go ruin that.
Now, he’s sitting beside me, radiating nervous energy. I can feel him watching me, waiting for me to say something. Anything. I know he’s worried, but I’m too wound up to reassure him. If I open my mouth, I might start screaming and never stop. Instead, I give him a tight-lipped smile, which probably looks more like a grimace, and hope he’ll take the hint.
Holt shifts next to me, his knee brushing mine. He’s been doing that a lot—shifting and looking at me like he’s expecting me to sprout another head at any moment. I stare out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the passing trees, hoping he’ll stop trying to figure out what’s going on inside my head. If Wyatt told him, he’s doing a damn good job of keeping a straight face. But I don’t think he did. Yet, anyway.
My stomach churns—not just from nausea, though that’s still hanging around like an unwanted party guest, but from the sheer weight of what’s coming.
The truck feels smaller and smaller, like the walls are closing in on me. I need air. I need space. I need to figure out how the hell I’m going to handle this. Mostly, I need to know if they’ll even want me around once they find out.
I’m practically diving out of the truck when we pull in front of the cabin. I do not pass go, I do not collect two hundred dollars. I make a beeline straight for my room, eyes locked ahead like a racehorse with blinders, determined to escape before anyone can corner me.
I shut myself in my room, pressing my back against the door like that’ll somehow keep reality from barging in. Wyatt better not say anything. He didn’t tell Holt, so maybe he’s waiting for me to tell them myself. Maybe he actually understands that I need a second to process before the interrogation starts.
I want to scream into a pillow or maybe throw one at Wyatt’s head. I don’t even know if it’s his. Or Holt’s. I do know it’s not Hank’s. The thought makes me dizzy. I sink onto the bed, trying to breathe, trying to think. But I can’t focus. I can’t do anything except wait for the inevitable sound of?—
“ What? ” Hank’s voice booms through the cabin, and I flinch. Wyatt. That little shit.
It’s not even a blink later before Hank is banging on my door like he’s about to break it down. “Ivy!” he yells. “Open up.”
I hesitate, my hand on the knob. My stomach drops. I squeeze my eyes shut, take one last deep breath, and open it.
Hank is right there, practically vibrating with tension. Holt and Wyatt stand just behind him, broadcasting a different kind of nervous energy.
“You’re pregnant?” Hank’s voice is rough, almost accusing.
I nod, my throat tight. I blink at Hank, his expression somewhere between disbelief and fury. He’s practically radiating heat, nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge. I get that this was unexpected, but I’m not sure I understand his reaction.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he snaps, arms crossing over his chest.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’m too stunned by the accusation, by the anger in his voice.
“I can’t believe this.” Hank shakes his head, his hands running through his hair. “Was this your plan all along? Trap us? Make sure we couldn’t walk away?”
The words hit me like a slap, and I recoil. “No! I didn’t even know until?—”
His jaw ticks. “How do we even know?—”
Nope. Absolutely not.
Before he can finish whatever dumbass accusation he’s about to spit out, I slam the door in his face. Hard. The kind of slam that rattles the walls and leaves no room for argument.
My hands shake as I turn away, but I force myself to move. If they think I’m sticking around for this, they’re out of their damn minds. I grab my suitcases from the closet and start throwing my things inside.
Screw this. Screw them. Screw my life.
It’s fine. I’ll figure it out. I always do.
My hands are shaking, and I’m not even sure what I’m packing. I just know I have to leave. I can’t stay here, not with them thinking I’m some kind of manipulative bitch. I couldn’t take them hating me.
This feels like every other time I’ve been used, like another trap I didn’t set. I thought things were different with them, but clearly, I was wrong. I was obviously just fooling myself, thinking I could have something real.
I don’t get real.
There’s a knock on the door, softer this time. “Ivy, please,” Holt says. “Talk to us.”
“Go away,” I choke out, my voice breaking.
Wyatt chimes in, sounding desperate. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this.”
I close my eyes for a brief second, biting down on my lip until it hurts.
“CG, please baby. Please open the door.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. They don’t sound mad—not like Hank—but I don’t trust myself to face them. Not when I’m barely holding it together.
So, I do what any reasonable person in my position would do.
I crank up my music and keep packing.
My car is still in the shop, a useless piece of junk that’s no help at all. But that doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out. Hell, I’ll just hire a damn car to take me to the airport. I can fly somewhere else, somewhere that doesn’t have three mountain men banging on my door and expecting me to have all the answers. Nice, maybe. Or the Caymans. Or hell, Timbuktu. Anywhere but here.
I pause, looking around the room. It’s simple, cozy, nothing like the glamorous prison I left behind. My chest tightens at the thought of leaving it, leaving them. But what choice do I have?
I’ve never been this scared. The fear is deeper, sharper, cutting through me with every breath. I’m terrified of staying, of letting them in, of being vulnerable and getting hurt. But the thought of leaving is worse.
I don’t know what to do, where to go, how to fix this. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant, and I’m alone, and I’m scared out of my mind.
I try to picture a future without them. A future where I’m back in the city, back to my old life, back to pretending I don’t care. But the image is blurry, and I can’t see it clearly. All I see is the cabin, the mountains, the life I thought I was building here.