Page 50 of The Coach

IVY

The train rocks gently beneath me as I stare out the window, watching the Iowa—and then Illinois—countryside blur past in streaks of gold and green.

It’s September, so the fields are thick with corn, tall and golden, waiting for harvest. Every so often, we pass a farmhouse, a rusted-out old barn, or a lone grain silo standing against the bright blue sky.

My home.

My entire world for the last twenty-seven years.

And yet, with every mile, with every town we speed through, every stretch of endless, open, flatland, I feel the distance between me and the life I’ve always known growing wider.

The closer we get to Chicago, the tighter my chest feels.

I shift in my seat, trying to breathe through it, but the nerves are relentless.

Beside me, Lauren is perfectly unbothered, scrolling on her phone.

"Relax, babe,” she says, not even looking up. “It’s just yourbaby daddywho has no idea you exist.”

I glare at her. “Lauren.”

She smirks. “I’m kidding. Kind of.”

I exhale sharply, pressing a hand to my stomach, where a small but noticeable bump is forming. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Lauren finally looks up. “Ivy. Youhaveto do this.”

I chew my lip, glancing at my phone. I haven’t texted my mom since leaving, and I haven’t even told her why I’m really taking this trip.

I type out a message.

Me: Made it on the train. Should be in Chicago by noon.

She responds immediately.

Mom: Okay, sweetie! Be careful in the city. Call me when you get there.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My mom has no clue that in less than 24 hours, I could be telling a man I haven’t seen in four months that I’m carrying his baby.

Jesus. What am I even doing?

The train slows slightly, passing through another tiny rural town—a place even smaller than Riverbend, if that’s possible. I watch the neat rows of houses, the white steeple of a church, the single gas station on the corner.

And then, instinctively, I reach for my camera.

Lauren notices immediately. “Oh, we’re inphoto modenow?”

I ignore her, lifting my little vintage Canon and snapping a shot of the landscape as it rushes by.

I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because I want to capture this moment. This in-between. This feeling of transition.

Or maybe because photography makes me feel grounded.

Lauren sighs, watching me adjust the settings. “You know you’re gonna have, like, three seconds of clarity before the next batch of cornfields blur into the void, right?”

I snap another shot of the golden rows stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

"Shhh. I'm in thezone.”

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