Unforgettable (Cloverleigh Farms #5)(71)

“I’m fine,” I lied.

But I wasn’t. The knowledge was burning a hole in my brain, and it was growing bigger with every passing hour. The reception began, but I was distracted and withdrawn all night. People would come to me with easy questions or requests, and I’d stare at them blankly like they’d spoken a foreign language. Coco had to pick up a lot of the slack.

Eventually, she just sent me home.

“Look, I can handle this,” she assured me. “You’re not yourself tonight. Go home and get some rest.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. Go.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” But as I packed up to go, part of me dreaded the conversation ahead. As I drove home, the knots in my stomach pulled tighter. As I walked up to my own front door, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so nervous. Actually, maybe I could—it felt a lot like going over to Tyler’s house the night I told him I was pregnant.

That night had ended with me crying alone in my bed.

Please, God, let this one be different.

I let myself in, and the first thing I noticed was the silence. “Tyler?” I called, heading for the kitchen.

That’s when I saw him sitting alone at the table, staring morosely at the surface.

No, not at the surface—at the photograph of Chip.

My stomach dropped, and I sucked in my breath, grabbing the wall for support. I’d thought the picture was in my bag with the letter. It must have slipped out when I’d tucked the envelope in my bag. I closed my eyes and swallowed.

“How long have you known?” he asked angrily.

I looked at him and took a breath. “Just today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to.” I moved closer and set my bag on the table. “But I didn’t want to do it over the phone, and I had to go to work.”

“I feel like I’ve been hit head-on by a fucking freight train.” He shook his head. “You realize this is the lefty? The one I’ve been working with?”

“Oh, God.” My stomach turned over again. “No, I didn’t realize that. You never mentioned him by name, Tyler.”

“Well, it’s him.”

I took the letter from my purse, telling myself to be patient. Of course he was going to be upset. “I opened this right before I left for work,” I said, sliding the handwritten pages across the table. “The photo was inside.”

He started to read, but then pushed them aside and stood up. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to know any of it. I don’t want to know him, and I sure as hell don’t want him to know me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly, my throat growing tight. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way, but Tyler—I didn’t know! I had no idea he lived so close, or attended Central, or played baseball!”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault.”

“What are you saying?”

Agitated, he began to pace, one hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know I don’t want to be Chip’s father. He doesn’t need me fucking up his life.”

“Tyler, what are you talking about? You don’t have to be his father!”

“Are you planning to keep it a secret, who you are to him?”

“No. That’s kind of the point—I don’t want to keep it buried anymore. But your name never has to come up.”

He stopped moving and turned to face me, his expression incredulous. “And you think people won’t figure it out? You think the media won’t have a fucking field day with this? You think they’ll respect our privacy?”

“How would anyone find out? The only people who know you’re the biological father are my family, and I trust them.”

“April, use your head! This is a small town. You’re already the subject of speculation because of me. As soon as people realize you’re his birth mother, they’ll immediately start doing the math and guessing at who the father was. The timeline works. They know we were friends.” He pointed at the picture of Chip. “The kid looks exactly fucking like me. He’s a lefty pitcher. It’s not rocket science. It’s third grade shit.”

“What do you want me to do?” I cried, tears starting to fall. “I’ve worked so hard to get to this point, where I don’t feel ashamed of this. Knowing him is important to me, I don’t want to go backward!”

“I’m not saying you have to go backward,” he said defensively. “I’m saying that I can’t stay here. It’s for his own good—and for yours. I’ve already booked a flight out.”

“What? No! Tyler, don’t go.” Fighting tears, I went to him and placed my hands on his chest. “Let’s talk about this. I know you’re upset—I am too. But we can figure it out together.”

“There’s nothing to figure out. I’m leaving.”

“But . . . but what about your coaching job?”

His expression was grim. “I already blew it.”

“How?”

“I got into a fight with the asshole dad. I’m sure I’m already fired.”