13. The Reveal

Tucker texts daily, and I'm not upset by it. Usually, he just sends me funny GIFs about being a mom and needing coffee to survive. Yesterday, he texted just to see how my day was going and how Remy was doing. He doesn't push for anything more, maybe waiting until the paternity results are in.

I'm grateful for that, since I'm still wrapping my head around how to tell my brother about him. All the while, my body wouldn't mind taking things further with Tucker.

I've sent him a couple of photos of Remy doing cute things, and we text about this or that, nothing serious, but I learn a few things about him. Hockey is his life and he takes care of his body, but he lives for pizza on his cheat days. After hockey, someday, he wants to dive into real estate.

He's a man with a plan for his life and passion to live it. Our texts have been sweet, but amid everything else going on, I try not to expect anything, just to protect my heart a little.

But his last words to me in the apartment—I'd like to be in your life, even if I'm not the father—weigh on my mind.

I admit it. I'm a little smitten by him reappearing in my life. Our life. And thoughts of him consume more of my time. But will I be able to get Brad to understand about us?

I force these thoughts out of my head, especially since I'm staring between two tall stacks. One stack of my law books on the breakfast nook table with my laptop open to a final case study I need to complete in a few days. While in the sink, dishes are stacked with sippy cups and bottles as well.

Mom life never ends. At least in a couple of weeks when I graduate, student life, for me, will be finished. Then I can breathe again without the heavy course load I've taken over the past several years.

When a call comes in, ending my debate between dishes or studying, I click through. "Hello?"

"We got the results," Tucker says in a rush. "I want to open them with you. Can I come over?"

"Right now?" I ask. Brad left for Vegas for the football draft Wednesday through Sunday, so the timing would be okay in that regard at least.

"Yep. As soon as possible. Don't you want to know, too?"

"Of course." I sigh with reality hitting me. "Sorry, it's been a rough day. I have a huge final case study due next week, and my neighbor is sick and can't watch Remy, so I had to cancel the case study group tonight. I'm swamped and juggling between being a mom and a student right now. It's not great timing."

"I can watch him."

Those four words tug at my heart. "Oh, it's okay. I'll manage."

"Seriously, Whitney. How long will you be studying—a few hours? I'd love to help you and watch Remy. Besides, we can open up the paternity results before you go. I can't wait to see if he's mine."

Mine… Another tug at my heartstrings. He sounds so excited, and I hope he keeps it up once the realities of fatherhood set in.

"Even if he's not mine, I'll watch him for you tonight." With those words, I give in and agree he can come over. I hang up, then race to the bathroom to do something with my hair. It's a bird's nest in a messy bun after taking care of Remy and stealing study time here and there all day, guilty of letting him have more television time than normal.

Not less than five minutes later, someone buzzes in from the lobby. I see Tucker on the screen and push the button for him to enter. Was he already in the parking lot when he called? "Wow, that was fast."

My heart races, dances, actually. I carry Remy into my room and change my clothes. In the mirror, I check out my ass in a pair of jeans I've been struggling to fit back into, now perfect. "Not bad."

A pale blue top, off one shoulder with a tank top strap showing, and a pair of black strappy sandals with a chunky heel finishes my look. At least more presentable than the leggings and t-shirt I'd been in all day, although I'm positive Tucker would love us no matter what we looked like.

Love?

"I'm getting way ahead of myself, huh, my little Remy?" As a final touch, I dab a little perfume on my wrists and behind my ears, one in my cleavage for good measure. I pick him up. He drools, pointing at my breasts. "Not right now, sweetie."

Then the doorbell rings. "Guess who's here." I whisk him away through the apartment to the front door.

We open it and Tucker's standing there with wet hair, wearing gray sweats and a black muscle t-shirt. His palm rests against the door frame, a bag and his phone in the other hand. Hot would be the word for him, except an awful smell wafts into my nasal passages. That's not shower fresh wet hair. My smile drops and I hold a hand to my nose without saying a word.

"Yeah, I know. Hockey stench is terrible after practice." He steps inside. "When I got off the ice and checked my phone and saw the results were in, I didn't shower and drove right here. I'm too nervous about the results. You look gorgeous, by the way. So would you mind if I take a shower quickly after we open up the email together?"

"Uh, sure." My mind races, hoping I can remove his stench with room deodorizer before Brad returns in a few days. I usher him quickly into the family room and set Remy down to play. "Okay. Let's see what they are."

But for all his rushing to get here, he hesitates. "What if he's not mine? I'm serious when I say I'd like to be in your life, Whitney. I can have a talk with Brad?—"

"Tucker, let's just get this open and get you into the shower." My hand still covers my nose and I take shallow breaths, no matter how much his words mean.

"Right. Rip off the bandaid. Here we go." He taps on his phone and reads the email. "Based on the analysis, the probability of paternity is 99.99%." He gasps, locking eyes with me. "Remy's mine. I'm his father."

With an enormous grin, he sweeps the baby off his chunky legs and flies him around the room in the air, making all kinds of airplane noises. "Yeah, buddy. I'm your dad."

Forgetting his smell, my hand is now on my heart, watching the two of them. Remy squeals with delight, so happy, and he doesn't really have a clue about anything. I'm grateful he's young enough to only know Tucker as his dad, and hopefully he'll be a good one.

"It's official. You're Dada's little pucker." He sets Remy down on the kitchen counter, blocking him in safely with his body, and pulls something out of the bag he brought. It's a small navy blue t-shirt with My Little Pucker printed in white on the front with a hockey puck logo below it. "Let's get this on you and take a family photo."

Brad hates Remy wearing any sports-themed clothing, but watching this all play out, I don't stop him. I have no words. On the one hand, this is everything I dream of. Tucker and Remy. Father and son.

On the other, Brad's words come to the forefront of my mind from somewhere in the back, vying for attention. "Players don't stick around…"

"Yippee," Tucker continues his celebration, tossing Remy in his new shirt up into the air and catching him. My son giggles like he's so happy for the male attention. At least until the third time, when he projectile vomits all over his new father.

Tucker freezes, aghast, holding Remy straight out in front of him. "I think some went in my mouth," he mutters, his tongue and lips working to remove the foreign substance. "Squash?"

"Yeah. Lesson number one. When babies are jostled about too much, that happens." I cringe, and like he's just been christened, I cheer with jazz hands waving in the air. "But welcome to fatherhood. Yay!"