Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“I know. You’re right. But beyond the confusing family circumstances, I’m scared that I’m going to tell my mom, and then she’ll finally come around, but it will be just like last time.” Only I already know what I stand to lose. The tightness in my throat eases with that admission.
“Oh, Han. I wish this were easier for you.” She nabs a tissue from the side table and passes it to me.
I dab my eyes, not realizing they’d started leaking. “I wish I were a decade younger.”
“I know there are a lot of things you’re worried about, Hanna, and that focusing on all the other stuff is probably a distraction you need, but at some point, you’re going to have to stop being so concerned about how everyone else is going to handle things and bring the focus back where it needs to be, on you.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I can’t pretend to know what this must feel like for you, but you deserve to be happy. And you deserve to have this baby. Give yourself permission to do both of those things, however unconventional that family is going to look.”
“Thank you for always being here for me.”
“That’s what best friends are for. I’m always beside you, no matter what happens.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
How It All Fits Together
Hanna
THE WEEK THAT follows finding out I have a bun in the oven passes in a blur of saltines, plain chips, work, accidental naps, and a lot of phone calls. Between conversations with Jake making sure I’m okay, Ryan checking up on me—he’s still off, but swears everything is fine and that he’s just worried—the group chat with all the girls, and Paxton showing up almost every night of the week with dinner, I’m feeling both overly pampered and exhausted.
I’ve also made Ryan promise not to say anything to Mom until after I’ve gone for the first ultrasound and I’ve heard the heartbeat. There’s no real logic to my not telling our parents, other than being nervous.
By Sunday, I’m a ball of anxious energy. I do an hour of yoga, followed by two hours of cleaning, even though my cleaner was here in the middle of the week. By the time I’m done, I’m sweaty and exhausted all over again.
Which means I fall asleep the second I sit on the couch.
And that’s the position I find myself in when Jake shows up on my doorstep.
I have a slew of missed messages and six missed calls—not all of them are from Jake. It looks like my Seattle Girls, as I’ve named the group, were chatty this morning. I have no idea how long he’s been ringing the doorbell, but considering that five of the last six calls came in the last eight minutes, I can guess.
I don’t have time to do anything but stumble to the door and throw it open.
His expression shifts from frantic, to relieved, to concerned in the span of three blinks. One of his hands settles on my waist and the other lifts, sweeping wayward strands of hair off my cheek. “Hanna? Are you okay?”
I can feel my face warming with embarrassment. “I’m fine. I fell asleep on the couch.”
“Oh. Okay.” His shoulders come down from his ears and his smile turns wry. “You must have been out cold. I’ve been ringing the doorbell for ten minutes.”
“It would definitely explain the dream about an alarm going off that I couldn’t find.” I take a step back, noticing that my neighbor to the right, who’s always in everyone’s business, is pretending to trim her hedge. “You should come in. I’m sorry I’m such a hot mess.”
“You’re hot, but you’re not a mess.” He picks up his suitcase and a second bag—it seems like a lot for an overnight visit—and steps over the threshold.
“And you’re a liar, but I still like you anyway.” I give my neighbor a wave, so she knows I’m on to her, and close the door before she gets the idea to come over and ask a million questions.
Jake stands in the middle of my foyer, looking ridiculously delicious for someone who spent five hours on a plane. I glance beyond him, to the mirrored front hall closet door. My hair is pulled into a messy ponytail. I’m wearing a baggy shirt and a pair of sweats that are better suited for a twenty-five-year-old, not someone in their mid-forties. But Queenie gave them to me for Christmas and they’re comfortable, so I can’t resist wearing them.
“Oh wow, I need five minutes to freshen up.” I cringe at my reflection. “It’s a wonder you didn’t turn around and head right back to the airport. I look like yesterday’s garbage that’s been baking in the sun all day.”
One of Jake’s eyebrows pops.
I spin around and take a step toward the hall leading to my bedroom, where there’s a shower, a brush, and clothes that are presentable.