Chapter 2
Patrice
The plane touches down in Anchorage, and I'm approximately ninety-seven percent sure I'm going to die. Not from the landing—which is smooth enough—but from the sheer, overwhelming panic that's been building since Florida and has now reached critical mass somewhere over Canadian airspace.
I'm seven months pregnant.
And I'm about to see the father of my child, who has no idea he's the father of my child, at my best friend's wedding in approximately two weeks.
"This is fine," I whisper to myself, gripping the armrests as passengers start gathering their bags. "Everything is totally, completely fine."
The woman next to me—who's been knitting something aggressively purple for the entire flight—gives me a concerned look. "Are you alright, dear? You look a bit pale."
"Just excited to be in Alaska!" I say with manic brightness, then immediately regret it because my voice comes out approximately three octaves too high.
She eyes my very obvious belly. "How far along are you?"
"Seven months."
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "And you're flying? Alone?"
"Yes, well, poor life choices are kind of my brand," I say, unbuckling and attempting to heave myself out of the seat with all the grace of a beached whale wearing business casual.
It takes me three tries.
The knitting lady watches with barely concealed alarm, like she's mentally calculating whether she needs to call for medical assistance or just run.
I finally make it upright, grab my carry-on from the overhead bin—which now weighs about as much as a small car because pregnancy makes everything heavier including your luggage, apparently—and waddle down the aisle behind a line of people who are all moving at normal human speeds while I'm operating at "penguin navigating an ice floe" velocity.
By the time I make it to baggage claim, I'm sweating despite the fact that it's January in Alaska and twelve degrees outside. My lower back aches. My feet are swollen. And I need to pee again, which is basically my constant state of existence now.
I'm standing by the carousel, watching bags go round and round like the world's most boring carousel, when my phone buzzes.
Tessa: YOURE HERE!!! I'm outside!! Can't wait to see you!!!
My stomach clenches. Not with baby gymnastics—though that's also happening—but with pure, unadulterated dread.
I haven't told her yet. About the pregnancy. About the fact that her wedding is going to be slightly more complicated than she anticipated because her maid of honor is gestating the best man's offspring.
I tried. I really did. I picked up the phone at least seventeen times over the last few months. But every time, the words stuck in my throat.
"Hey Tessa, remember that night we all went out? Well, funny story—I'm super pregnant with Trace's baby and forgot to mention it until now. Surprise!"
Yeah. That'll go over great.
My suitcase finally appears—bright purple because I'm nothing if not easy to identify—and I wrestle it off the carousel with a grunt that turns several heads.
A helpful-looking dad type starts to approach, probably to offer assistance, but I wave him off because accepting help means acknowledging I need help, and I'm not ready for that level of vulnerability yet.
I make my way toward the exit, pulling my coat tighter even though it no longer buttons over my stomach. I bought this coat specifically for this trip. Size large. It doesn't fit. Turns out "large" doesn't account for "housing an entire human being."
The automatic doors slide open, and a blast of Arctic air hits me like a slap from Mother Nature herself.
"Oh my God," I breathe, and my breath becomes visible. Like, cartoon-style puffs of white. "This is real cold. This is bones-freezing, regret-all-your-choices cold."
And then I see her.
Tessa is jumping up and down on the sidewalk like an overexcited golden retriever, waving both arms like she's trying to flag down a rescue helicopter. She's wearing a puffy coat that makes her look like a marshmallow and a hat with a pom-pom that bounces with every movement.
"PATRICE!" she screams, and several people turn to look.
I try to wave back, but my arm gets tangled in my purse strap, and I nearly drop my suitcase on my foot. Very graceful. Very professional Director of Finance energy.
Tessa sprints toward me—actually sprints—and I have approximately two seconds to decide whether I should turn sideways to hide the belly or just embrace the inevitable.
I choose inevitable.
She crashes into me with a hug that would be enthusiastic even if I weren't seven months pregnant, and definitely crosses into "potential injury" territory given my current state.
"Oof," I grunt as her arms wrap around me and immediately encounter the bump.
Tessa freezes. Pulls back. Looks down.
Her eyes go wide. Like, cartoon character seeing a ghost wide.
"Patrice," she says slowly, her gaze fixed on my stomach. "Are you..."
"Seven months pregnant?" I finish. "Yeah. Surprise."
"WHAT?!" The word comes out so loud that a nearby family startles and a pigeon takes flight. "You're PREGNANT? How long have you been pregnant? Why didn't you tell me? Oh my God, when are you due? WHO'S THE FATHER?"
That last question hangs in the air between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. I look like a very pregnant fish.
"It's, um," I start, then chicken out. "It's complicated."
"Complicated?" Tessa repeats, her voice climbing toward frequencies only dogs can hear. "Patrice Henley, you are seven months pregnant and you didn't tell your best friend, and now you're saying it's complicated?"
"Okay, yes, I know how that sounds—"
"It sounds INSANE. It sounds like you've been hiding a WHOLE HUMAN in your body and just casually decided to mention it when you showed up to my wedding looking like you're smuggling a basketball!"
"Technically it's more like a watermelon at this point," I say, which is absolutely not helpful.
Tessa stares at me. Then she grabs my suitcase handle with one hand and my arm with the other. "We're going to the car. Right now. And you're going to tell me everything. And I mean everything."
"Can I pee first?"
"NO."
"Tessa, I'm seven months pregnant. I always have to pee. It's basically my superpower now."
She sighs, releases my arm, and points toward the terminal. "Fine. But make it fast. And when you get back, you're spilling every single detail or I'm uninviting you from my wedding."
"You can't uninvite your maid of honor!"
"Watch me!"
I waddle back inside—because there's no other way to describe my current method of locomotion—and find the bathroom. The woman at the sink gives my belly a knowing look and says, "Third trimester?"
"Yep."
"The peeing never stops."
"So I'm learning."
By the time I emerge, Tessa has loaded my suitcase into the back of Gage's truck and is sitting in the driver's seat with her arms crossed and an expression that clearly says you have five seconds to start talking or I will drive this truck into a snowbank.
I climb in—which takes three times longer than it should because pregnancy has stolen my ability to do anything quickly—and buckle the seatbelt under my belly because above is no longer an option.
Tessa turns to face me. "Talk."
"Okay, so—"
"And don't leave anything out."
"Right, so the thing is—"
"Including the father."
"Especially the father," I mutter.
"What?"
"Nothing. Okay. Here's the situation." I take a deep breath, which is harder than it used to be because my lungs are currently being used as a footrest by a tiny human. "Remember that night we all went out? After you moved up here?"
Tessa's eyes narrow. "The night I got drunk and Gage took me home early?"
"That's the one."
"And you and Trace stayed out dancing?"
Oh God. Here we go. "Yeah. About that."
Her expression shifts from confused to suspicious to shocked in about two seconds flat. "Wait. Are you telling me—"
"We slept together," I blurt out. "Just once. That night. And then I left the next morning without getting his number because I'm an idiot and a coward and apparently allergic to healthy communication."
"You slept with Trace," Tessa says, each word careful and measured like she's defusing a bomb. "My fiancé's best friend. The best man at my wedding."
"Yes."
"And you're pregnant with his baby."
"Yes."
"And he doesn't know."
"CORRECT."
"PATRICE!"
"I KNOW!"
"How does he not KNOW?!"
"Because I didn't tell him!" I cover my face with my hands.
"I panicked, okay? I found out I was pregnant two months after that night, and I just..
. I couldn't. I didn't know how to contact him, and even if I did, what was I supposed to say?
'Hey, remember that one-night stand? Congratulations, you're going to be a father? '"
"YES!" Tessa shouts. "EXACTLY THAT! That's exactly what you say!"
"Well, I didn't!"
"Clearly!"
We sit in furious silence for approximately ten seconds before Tessa's expression shifts from angry to something that looks suspiciously like scheming.
"Oh my God," she says slowly. "He's going to see you at the wedding."
"I'm aware."
"He's going to see you VERY pregnant at the wedding."
"Also aware."
"And he's going to do the math."
"YEP." I slump back in the seat, which is less dramatic when you're seven months pregnant and the seatbelt is cutting into your ribs. "Which is why I was hoping to maybe... I don't know... hide? For the next seventy-two hours?"
"Hide?" Tessa's voice reaches a pitch previously only achieved by opera singers and dog whistles. "You want to HIDE at my WEDDING while seven months pregnant with the best man's baby?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."
"Because it IS bad!"
"I have a plan!" I insist, even though I absolutely do not have a plan. "I'll just... wear something flowy. And stand behind things. Large things. Like tables. Or ice sculptures. Do you have ice sculptures?"