Chapter 2 #2
The cafe noise fades to white static between us.
"You remember that?"
"I remember everything." Too honest. Too revealing. Pull back, redirect. "The point is, this isn't just your situation to handle. It's mine too. That's my child you're carrying."
"Your unplanned child."
"Plans change."
"Not yours. Yours are carved in stone and organized by fiscal quarter."
She's not wrong. But she's also not right. Because the truth I haven't told anyone, barely admitted to myself, is that my plan has felt suffocating lately. Like scrubs that are too tight, restricting breathing and movement. The truth is, I've thought about that night more than I should.
"Let me help," I say instead of explaining any of that. "Please."
"I don't need—"
"Maybe I need it." The admission surprises me. "Maybe I need to be involved. Maybe I need to not be the guy who knocks someone up and disappears. Maybe I need to be better than that."
Quiet stretches between us. The late afternoon sun has shifted, painting gold streaks across our table. In this light, I can see the subtle changes pregnancy is already writing on her body—the slight fullness in her face, a different quality to her skin.
"I'm scared," she finally says. "I'm terrified, actually. I photograph other people's lives. I don't know how to live my own, and now I'm supposed to be responsible for someone else's? I can't even keep houseplants alive, Nathan. I buy them with good intentions and they're dead within a week."
"You kept that succulent alive. The one from the bridal shower."
She looks up, surprised. "How do you know about that?"
Because I've stalked your Instagram like a teenager with a crush. Because that stupid plant has appeared in at least twelve of your photos across multiple states. Because I've wondered if you kept it for the same reason I kept that Polaroid—as proof that night actually happened.
"Lucky guess," I say instead.
She almost smiles. "It's plastic. I replaced it with a fake one after I killed the real one in Nevada. Took a photo of the dead one first, though. For posterity."
I laugh. She does too, watery and complicated, but real.
"Okay," she says. "You can help. But I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"No trying to fix me. I'm not broken, just pregnant."
"Agreed."
"No checklists about the baby without my approval."
"Does a spreadsheet count?"
"Nathan."
"Fine. No unauthorized spreadsheets or checklists."
"And no moving in together just because you think it's the right thing to do. If I wanted a roommate, I'd get one who doesn't alphabetize the spice rack."
"It's more efficient—"
"I knew it. It's psychotic."
I want to argue, but there's color back in her face and she's stopped crying. Small victories.
"What about prenatal care?" I ask.
"I'll see your doctor friend. But I'm picking my own vitamins."
"Deal."
We sit there, two people who barely know each other, bound now by something neither of us planned. The sugar packets have scattered across the table, no longer in neat rows. I don't fix them.
"For what it's worth," I say, "you'll be a good mother."
"Based on what evidence?"
"You notice everything. You see beauty where others don't. You're brave enough to live unconventionally. You kept a fake plant because the real one mattered enough to replace. That's... that's something."
She stares at me for a long moment. "You'll be a good father too."
"Based on what evidence?"
"You remembered I'm allergic to milk." She pauses. "Wait, how do you know I'm allergic to milk?"
"You ordered the tiramisu at the reception anyway. Said life's too short to skip good food, then spent twenty minutes describing exactly how your throat would close up if you ate it."
"And you remembered that?"
"I'm a doctor. Allergies are important medical information."
"Right. Medical information." But she's smiling now, real and unguarded. "Very professional of you to catalog my medical history during foreplay."
"We weren't—that was during dinner—"
"I know, Nathan. I'm messing with you."
My phone buzzes. Surgery schedule for tomorrow. Normally I'd check it immediately, already mentally preparing. Instead, I flip it face down.
"I should go," Avery says, but doesn't move.
"Where are you staying?"
"My van. It's parked at Moosehead Park."
My hand twitches toward my phone to call her a hotel. "You can't—"
"Nathan."
Right. Not broken. Not mine to fix.
"At least let me buy you dinner," I offer. "Actual food. Not whatever you consider food."
"Granola bars are food."
"Granola bars are sadness held together with corn syrup."
"They're freedom from dishes and meal prep and—" She stops, goes green. "Actually, maybe don't mention food for a minute."
"Morning sickness?"
"All-day sickness. Your child is already high-maintenance."
My child. Our child. The words rearrange something fundamental in my chest, like bones setting into new alignment.
"Text me," I say. "When you schedule the appointment with Dr. Hoffman. I'd like to come. If that's okay."
She nods, stands carefully. "Nathan? What are we going to tell people? Dimitri and Mia already know but others will figure it out eventually."
I haven't thought that far ahead—a first for me. "The truth, I suppose."
"Which is?"
"We're having a baby." The words feel foreign in my mouth, like speaking a language I just learned. "Everything else... we'll figure it out."
She laughs, short and sharp. "You're really going off-plan here."
"Completely."
"It's a good look on you. Very un-doctory."
She leaves before I can respond, disappearing into the Anchorage evening like she was never here. Except the evidence remains: two water glasses, her signature on the air, and my entire life pivoted on its axis.
I sit there until the barista starts giving me pointed looks about closing time. The sugar packets are still scattered. I still don't organize them.
Instead, I call Dimitri.
"Hey," he answers on the second ring. "How was surgery?"
"I'm going to be a father."
Silence. Then: "What?"
"Avery's pregnant."
"Avery? Mia's Avery? When did you—the wedding. Oh my God, the wedding."
"Yeah."
"Nathan, what are you going to do?"
I look at the messy table, the disordered packets, my phone with its carefully planned calendar that's suddenly irrelevant.
"I have absolutely no idea."
The words should terrify me. They don't.