67. Renee

I’m trying not to be hurt about Weston’s attitude. I’m sure after what he went through with Eva, being robbed again is emotional and traumatic. I don’t know how to fix that for him.

But I don’t know how to fix it for me, either—because trying not to be hurt and not hurting are two very different things.

Since I have the day off, I don’t want to spend it here so close to him and, at the same time, so far away. Therefore, some retail therapy is in order.

Even though I should be saving money, I can still window shop. Try on clothes. Pretend like I’m not halfway to devastated under the fluorescent lights at the mall. I don’t have Rodeo Drive cash on hand, but I can afford peeking around at the Grove. The most important thing is getting away from The Palais.

As I’m about to walk out the door of Sutton’s apartment, though, my cell rings. I stop to look at the screen. It’s my gynecologist’s office. I’m not one to panic, but when a doctor’s office calls a couple days after an appointment when they ran about a thousand different kinds of tests, a girl gets nervous.

“Renee, this is Jesse from Dr. Hayes’s office.” She sounds very professional and somber. “We have your test results back. Blood work came back all normal.” She clears her throat. “And your pregnancy test came back positive.”

I freeze in the hallway and blink. “What now? What came back positive?”

“You are, uh… pregnant, it seems.”

My jaw falls open. The world sort of slows and smears into this pastely, watercolory mish-mash. Sounds are garbled. Sensations are muted. It’s like everything just glitched. All of reality.

You.

Are.

Pregnant.

Holyfuckingshit.

“Dr. Hayes wants you to come in at your earliest convenience. We’ll figure out the due date, do an ultrasound, begin our normal pregnancy process. We have a lot of information we love to pass out.”

She says some more stuff I don’t hear. When she’s finished and I mumble something approximating a goodbye, I walk out of the apartment like a zombie.

Time keeps passing by in fits and starts. One moment, I’m getting in my car; the next, I’m wandering around the Grove in a daze. My feet are in charge, not my brain. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that when I blink back to reality, I’m standing in front of a baby clothing store.

A baby.

A baby.

Oh, fuck, I’m having a baby.

It occurs to me that I should tell Weston. He might want a heads up sometime before the little one arrives. On the other hand, telling him means suffering through whatever accusations he’s got locked and loaded.

Baby trapper. Gold digger. Groupie. Skank. Whore.

How did this even happen? I’ve been on the pill, haven’t I? Yeah, it’s been a bit of a mess, and I’ve changed dosages and prescriptions like I change underwear. But still…

I set my jaw and force myself to walk away from the baby store. The next place over is one of those novelty gift places that sells goofy keychains and fishnet stockings for high schoolers in their goth phase. Obviously, the first thing I see is a hat embroidered with SPERM DONOR on the cap.

Poignant.

On another shelf are His and Hers shirts. Hers says, “Does this shirt make me look pregnant?” and his says, “Does this shirt make me look like a dad?”

Somehow, I can’t see Weston appreciating the humor.

When my phone rings again, I look at the screen, hoping Dr. Hayes is calling me back and saying there was a mistake made in the office and my positive result belongs to someone else.

But it’s Sutton. The moment of letdown is fleeting. “I need to tell someone,” I blurt when I answer.

“Tell someone what?” she asks in confusion. I get it; I’m not thinking so clearly myself right now.

“I’m pregnant.”

Wow. I just vomit it out. Ripped the proverbial Band-Aid right off. Maybe I can do that with Weston. No preamble; just the facts, the cold hard truth. If he was here right now, I probably could find the requisite courage. But there are a few too many miles between here and the penthouses for me to overthink it.

Sutton lets out a stunned exhale. “Holy shit, Renee.”

“Yeah. I’m ass-deep in a ‘holy shit’ moment.”

“Weston’s?”

“Yup.”

“Fuck.” She pauses. “Did you tell him?”

“No. I’m thinking I’m going to wait until the kid graduates college before I drop the bomb.” I sigh. I can’t afford myself as it is, and now, I’m going to have a kid.

Not a good day to be Renee DuBois.

“If his head blows off his body, we’ll just call it an aneurysm.”

I pretend to laugh along with her. I’m not laughing inside, though. There is a very real possibility that it could happen exactly like that. Congratulations, you’re the fath—boom, coronary.

“Nay, you know he’ll take care of you.”

I do know that. I know he’ll do it in his overbearing, bossy Weston way. But he’ll do it. This kid won’t want for anything.

“How is everything going between you two? Is this a good time to tell him that his bun is in your oven?” She might sound like she’s joking, making light of it, but if there’s anyone in the world who genuinely cares about me and everything I go through, it’s Sutton.

I tell her about the break-in and his reaction, kicking me out, and the graveyard of communication between us these last few days. “But I get it. He was hurting. His house was violated again.”

“Not by you, though!”

“No, but I’m sure that’s the first place his mind went after everything the other woman put him through.”

“You are a very kind soul, Renee. Too kind. Kinder than me, if nothing else. I don’t know that I could be okay with him lumping me into a category with some witchy ex.” I can picture Sutton, angry-eyed, always ready to back me up no matter what.

“I’m not always kind.”

For example, if I saw that bitch who stole from him now, I wouldn’t be kind. I dare say, if I wasn’t pregnant, there might even be violence.

“Yes, you are.” Then she sighs. “I just don’t want you to be his doormat.”

“I don’t want that, either. I won’t be.”

To this point, I’ve spent my entire life wrapped up in the mistakes and tragedies of others. I’ve been a pawn on my father’s chessboard. Used and moved around according to his whims. I swore when I ran from the DuBois family mansion and the marriage I never asked for that I was finished with all of that. It’s why I’m squatting at Sutton’s right now instead of at home in the family mansion with a staff of servants and fleet of cars at my disposal.

“Can I have your word on that?”

“Pinky swear.” Right then, I look up from our call and see something hanging on the rack: a Weston Scott L.A. Firebirds jersey… in baby size.

There it is. A gift. A sign from the universe.

Seeing it makes all of this so real. I pull it down and run my fingers over the name stitched on the back.

Scott. There’s about to be another one of those in the world.

I pay for the jersey with shaking hands. It’s heartbreakingly adorable. Almost cute enough to make me excited to tell him.

But as I carry my bag out of the store, I repeat to myself three little words like a mantra: I’m not worried.

I’m not worried about his reaction, whether it’s good or bad, hot or cold, loving or hateful. I’m not worried about anything. With or without him, I can do this.

I’m not worried.

I’m not worried.

I’m not worried.

Mostly because I’m too busy being terrified.