46. Wrens Letter
Hawk,
I guess you aren’t getting these. Makes sense, because you’re on tour, so I doubt your mail is getting forwarded.
Guess I should have thought of that. I’m pretty dumb these days; forgetting a lot of shit that I shouldn’t.
Didn’t stop me from calling the Castor Records office in California three times a day for the last two weeks, though. I think I left you, like, thirty messages. The reception lady probably wants to kick my ass. I thought that maybe if I was persistent, if I could just get one person at the office to believe me when I said it was urgent, they might get in touch with you so you could call me.
So I wouldn’t have to do it this way.
I tried to avoid it, but since my dad kicked me out, I’m really out of options now. Sabrina said I should fly to L.A., but that’s fucking stupid for two reasons. One, because you’re still on tour, and two, even if you were in L.A., I can’t afford a ticket.
So, as much as I tried to do the right thing, the mature and responsible thing, and tell you in person, or at least on the phone, it looks like that’s not going to happen.
I’m out of options.
So, on the off chance that you’re maybe going to read this letter when you get back from your tour, then at least you’ll know.
At least I’ll have told you the truth.
I’m pregnant.
It’s yours.
Wren