Prologue #2
When I wake up, it's barely dawn. Gray light filters through the curtains, and Trace is still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his face, looking peaceful and unfairly handsome.
I should stay. I should wake him up, get his number, suggest breakfast. Make this more than just one perfect night.
But panic claws at my chest. What if he regrets this? What if I'm just another hookup, another tourist passing through? What if I stay and he gently but firmly shows me the door?
So I do what any rational, mature adult would do.
I grab my clothes, tiptoe out like a burglar, and leave without so much as a note.
Back in the office bathroom, I press my forehead against the cool mirror and groan. "Stupid, Patrice. So incredibly stupid."
Because now I'm pregnant with the baby of a man I don't know how to contact. A man whose last name I never learned. A man who lives in the middle of nowhere Alaska and probably thinks I'm a flighty coward who uses people for sex and disappears into the night.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what I did.
My phone buzzes again. This time I look.
Tessa: OMG OMG OMG GUESS WHAT
Tessa: Gage proposed!!!
Tessa: We're getting married!!!!
Tessa: In Alaska! You HAVE to come!!!
My stomach drops. A wedding. In Alaska. Where Trace lives. Where I'll inevitably run into him.
While pregnant.
With his baby.
That he doesn't know about.
"Perfect," I mutter, typing back a series of congratulatory emojis that feel deeply insincere given my current crisis. "This is just perfect."
Another text pops up.
Tessa: Also I have HUGE news for you but I'm saving it for when you visit. You're going to DIE.
I stare at my phone, then at the pregnancy test, then back at my phone.
"I'm already dying," I whisper to no one.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I shove the test into my blazer pocket so fast I nearly drop my phone in the toilet. My coworker Janet breezes in, talking on her cell about her kid's soccer practice, and I paste on my most professional smile.
"Morning, Janet," I say, voice only slightly strangled.
"Morning, Patrice!" she chirps, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire world just tilted sideways.
I wash my hands, check my reflection one more time—still pale, still panicked, but passably professional—and head back to my desk.
My computer screen glows with spreadsheets and emails and all the normal trappings of my very normal, very organized life. Except nothing feels normal anymore. Everything feels tilted, off-balance, like I'm standing on a boat in rough water.
I pull up a new browser tab and type: What to do when you're pregnant and don't know how to contact the father.
The results are… less than helpful.
I close the tab and open another: How to survive pregnancy without telling anyone.
Also unhelpful.
Finally, I type: Can you ignore a pregnancy and hope it goes away?
The universe responds with a firm, resounding: Absolutely not, you walnut.
I slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling tiles, counting them like they hold answers. They don't. They're just tiles. Boring, beige, judgmental tiles.
A notification pops up: Calendar reminder – Job interview in Anchorage, Alaska – January.
Oh.
Oh.
The job. The promotion. The opportunity I applied for months ago and completely forgot about. Director of Finance for a logging company in Anchorage—better pay, better title, better everything.
In Alaska.
Where Trace lives.
The irony is so thick I could choke on it.
I touch my stomach again, this time with something that might be resolve or might just be indigestion.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay. New plan."
Plan A: Get the job. Move to Alaska. Casually run into Trace at some point and just… handle it. Like an adult. A calm, rational adult who definitely didn't flee his cabin like a thief in the night.
Plan B: Don't get the job. Stay in Florida. Raise this baby alone. Never see Trace again. Pretend that night never happened.
Plan C: Panic. Continuously. Forever.
I'm currently on Plan C, but I'm aspiring to Plan A.
My desk phone rings—my boss, probably wondering why I've been in the bathroom for twenty minutes—and I answer with my best professional voice.
"Patrice Henley speaking."
"Patrice, do you have those Q3 reports ready?"
"Absolutely," I say smoothly, pulling up the file I finished two days ago because I'm nothing if not prepared. "Sending them now."
I hang up, forward the email, and take a long, shaky breath.
Two pink lines.
One impossible situation.
And approximately seven months to figure out what the hell I'm going to do.
I pull the pregnancy test out of my pocket and stare at it one more time, as if maybe the lines will have changed their minds. They haven't. They're still there, still pink, still certain.
"Alright, raspberry," I murmur to my stomach. "Looks like it's you and me against the world. Let's try not to screw this up too badly."
The test goes into my purse, buried under receipts and lip gloss and the wreckage of my five-year plan.
I pull up my calendar and stare at the January interview date. Four months away. Four months to figure out how to tell a man I don't know how to contact, without involving Tessa who I also haven’t told, that he's going to be a father.
Four months to decide if I'm brave enough—or stupid enough—to walk back into his life.
My hand drifts to my stomach one last time. "Looks like we're going to Alaska, raspberry. Try not to judge me too hard for what happens next.”