Chapter 1 #2
"I could learn to love sheep. They're quiet except for the ‘baaaa-ing’. They don't ask questions. They don't have five-year plans."
"Honey." Mia's voice goes gentle, which is somehow worse than if she'd yelled. "Nathan's a good guy. He'll—"
"He'll what? Propose? Try to fix everything with a color-coded spreadsheet? The man has his socks organized by gradient, Mia. I saw his closet. He has a label maker. Multiple label makers. He doesn't do surprises."
"How do you know about his closet?"
"Not the point."
"Kind of feels like the point."
"The point is, I'm sitting in a gas station bathroom in Alaska, three positive pregnancy tests in my bag, about to derail not just my life but his perfectly planned one too."
"You don't know that. Maybe he'll—"
"What? Be thrilled that his casual hookup from a wedding is pregnant? Abandon his whole life plan to play daddy with someone who can't even commit to a phone plan?"
"You have a phone plan."
"Prepaid doesn't count."
Mia sighs. "Where are you staying tonight?"
"My van. There's a campground about twenty miles from here that has decent Wi-Fi."
"Avery, you can't—"
"I can't what? Live in a van while pregnant? Pretty sure women have been having babies in worse conditions for thousands of years."
"That's not what I meant."
Except I know exactly what she meant. Because the truth is, I can barely take care of myself. My diet consists of whatever's on sale and doesn't require refrigeration. My health insurance is basically hoping nothing bad happens. My idea of stability is staying in one place for more than a week.
"I have to go," I tell Mia. "The bathroom's starting to smell like existential dread and gas station hot dogs."
"Avery—"
"I'll call you later."
"Promise?"
"Yeah."
"I love you. You know that, right? No matter what you decide."
"I know." My voice goes thick. "Love you too."
I hang up and shove the tests in my bag, because apparently I'm the kind of person who now keeps pregnancy tests as souvenirs. Like some twisted scrapbook material. Here's where Mommy found out about you in a Chevron bathroom! Here's the panic attack she had next to the beef jerky display!
The retreat can manage without me. My whole career is built on capturing moments as they happen, not forcing them into existence with conscious breathing and intention-setting. Though right now, some conscious breathing might actually help.
Back in my van, I sit in the driver's seat and stare at my phone. The contact Dimitri gave me at the wedding stares back: Nathan Kingsley, MD. Even his contact entry is formal. Mine probably says Avery - Photographer (Mia's friend) with proper capitalization and everything.
I pull up his Instagram, which is exactly what I expected: photos from medical conferences where everyone looks important and no one looks fun.
Sunrise runs with times and distances noted.
The occasional group shot where he's the only one not making a silly face, like smiling might compromise his structural integrity.
His last post is from a week ago—him in scrubs after some twelve-hour surgery, looking exhausted but satisfied.
The caption reads: "Successful spinal fusion. Sometimes the best things take time and precision."
Time and precision. Two things notably absent from the wine cave conception with a virtual stranger.
Well, not a stranger exactly. We talked for three hours that night.
About everything and nothing. About his father who wanted him to be a lawyer.
About my parents who wanted me to be anything but what I am.
About the way surgery makes him feel like he's fixing something essential.
About the way photography makes me feel like I'm stopping time.
We were careful not to exchange numbers. Careful to agree this was just one night, just the wedding magic that Mia warned me about in her bridesmaid speech. "Weddings make people do crazy things," she'd said, winking at the crowd. "Just remember, what happens at the vineyard stays at the vineyard."
Except now part of the vineyard is literally growing inside me.
My finger hovers over the message button. What do you even say? Hey, remember me? The photographer you bent over a wine barrel? Surprise, your swimmers are overachievers.
Or maybe: Quick question—was your five-year plan flexible on the timeline? Asking for a friend. The friend is your unborn child.
Or just: We need to talk.
Before I can lose my nerve, I type: "We need to talk. It's important."
Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again. He's probably crafting the perfect response, checking it for typos, making sure the punctuation is correct.
"Are you okay? Where are you?"
Direct. Concerned. So very Nathan.
And because I'm apparently determined to make this as dramatic as possible: "Not really. Can we meet? I can be in Anchorage by tomorrow."
"When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon?"
"I have surgery until three. Four-thirty at Snow City Cafe?"
Naturally he suggests a specific time and location immediately. Probably already adding it to his color-coded calendar with a fifteen-minute buffer for traffic.
"Okay."
"Avery, are you sure you're alright?"
No. I'm terrified. My life is built on freedom, on leaving when things get complicated, on capturing other people's moments instead of living my own. And now there's a tiny collection of cells inside me that's about to tie me to a man who owns label makers for his label makers.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I type.
"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."
The certainty in his response makes my chest tight. He doesn't even know what 'it' is, but he's already ready to solve it. That's Nathan Kingsley—he sees a problem, he fixes it. Except I've never let anyone fix anything for me, and I'm not about to start now.
Even when my van broke down in Colorado last year, I YouTube'd engine repair videos until my fingers were black with grease rather than call for help.
Even when I had the flu in Portland and could barely stand, I refused to let Mia fly down to take care of me.
Independence isn't just my preference—it's my entire identity.
I place my hand on my still-flat stomach, where something the size of a raspberry is apparently wreaking havoc on my entire existence.
According to the pregnancy app I panic-downloaded ten minutes ago, it already has a heartbeat.
Tiny arm buds. The beginning of eyes. How is that even possible?
How can something so small already be so complete?
"Well, kid," I whisper. "Hope you're ready for chaos. Because your dad's about to have his whole world turned upside down, and your mom has no idea what she's doing."
The sunset paints the mountains in shades of pink and gold—perfect photography light I'm too nauseated to capture. Instead, I sit in my van, staring at Nathan's message.
Whatever it is, we'll figure it out.
But I don't want anyone figuring out my life for me. I've spent twenty-eight years making sure I never needed anyone to. And now, thanks to champagne and questionable decisions in wine storage facilities, I'm about to need Nathan Kingsley whether I want to or not.
Tomorrow, I'll drive to Anchorage and blow up his perfectly scheduled life with two words that don't appear anywhere in his five-year plan.
Two words that will change everything. Two words that terrify me more than any vista I've photographed from dangerous heights, any storm I've chased for the perfect shot, any risk I've ever taken with my cameras and my van and my deliberately untethered life.
I'm pregnant.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.
God, I hope he's sitting down when I tell him.