Chapter 3 #2
"But." I lean forward, making sure she can see my face, see that I mean every word.
"I'm not going anywhere. That's my kid. Our kid.
And you flew across the country seven months pregnant to be here for your best friend's wedding, even though you knew you'd have to face me.
That's braver than anything I've ever done, and I'm not about to let you do this alone. "
The kitchen is silent except for the crackling fire and the sound of Gage's coffee maker gurgling in the background.
Patrice stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then her bottom lip starts to tremble, and oh God, she's going to cry again, and I have no idea what to do about that.
"Don't," I say quickly. "Please don't cry. I can't—I don't handle crying well. I'll panic and say something stupid, and then Tessa will throw something at my head, and—"
"You really don't know how to change a diaper?" Patrice asks, and there's something almost like amusement in her voice.
"Not even a little bit. I've never even held a baby. They seem fragile."
"They are fragile."
"See? Already terrified." I run a hand through my hair. "But I'll learn. I'll read books. Watch YouTube videos. Take classes if they exist. Whatever it takes."
Tessa, who's been watching this exchange like a tennis match, sets a mug of coffee down in front of me with slightly less force than a weapon. "You mean that?"
"Every word."
"Because if you hurt her—if you bail or act like an asshole or do anything that makes me regret not hiding her from you—I will personally ensure you regret being born."
"Noted. And fair." I pick up the coffee mug, grateful for something to do with my hands. "But I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me now."
Patrice laughs—a real laugh this time, watery but genuine. "You say that like it's a threat."
"More like a promise." I meet her eyes across the table. "A really awkward, terrifying promise that I'm probably going to mess up repeatedly, but a promise nonetheless."
She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, and when she looks at me again, there's something softer in her expression. Not forgiveness—that'll take time—but maybe the beginning of it.
"For the record," she says quietly, "I'm terrified too."
"Yeah?"
"Absolutely. I have no idea what I'm doing. I've been winging it for seven months, and honestly, I'm pretty sure I'm going to break the baby within the first week."
"Well, if we're both clueless, at least we can panic together."
"That's... actually kind of comforting."
"See? I'm already excelling at this co-parenting thing."
Tessa snorts. "You've been in the same room for five minutes and haven't run away again. That's not excelling. That's baseline competence."
"I'll take it," I say, and I mean it.
Gage appears in the doorway, surveying the scene with the practiced eye of someone who's defused more tense situations than he'd like to remember. "Everyone still alive?"
"Mostly," Tessa says.
"Good enough." He crosses to the fridge and pulls out leftovers. "Patrice, when's the last time you ate?"
"Um." She frowns, thinking. "The airport? Maybe?"
"That was six hours ago!" Tessa practically shrieks. "You're eating for two! You need nutrients! Protein! Vegetables!"
"I had a granola bar on the plane."
"A granola bar is not a meal!"
I watch as Tessa launches into full mother-hen mode, pulling out food and plates and lecturing Patrice about prenatal nutrition with an intensity usually reserved for military operations. Gage catches my eye and grins, mouthing welcome to fatherhood with entirely too much amusement.
Watching Patrice try to protest while Tessa literally spoon-feeds her soup, I feel the panic ease. Not disappear—that'd be asking too much—but ease. Like my brain finally caught up with reality and decided not to run screaming.
This is happening. In two months, I'm going to be a father.
And maybe I won't completely screw it up.
"Trace," Patrice says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why didn't you get my number? That night?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected anger, accusations, demands. Not this quiet, vulnerable question that hits harder than any of those would have.
"Honestly?" I lean back in my chair, considering how much truth to give her. "I was going to. The next morning. I was going to ask for your number, maybe suggest breakfast, see if that night was the start of something or just a really good story."
"But?"
"But you were gone. Just... gone. No note, no number, nothing. And I figured that was your way of saying it was just one night. That you didn't want anything more."
Her expression shifts—surprise, guilt, regret all tangled together. "I thought I was doing you a favor. Making it easy. One night, no complications, clean break."
"Yeah, well." I gesture vaguely at her very pregnant stomach. "Turns out one-night stands don't always come with clean breaks."
"Apparently not."
We sit in silence for a moment, processing. Then Patrice sets down her spoon and looks at me with an expression so serious it makes my stomach drop.
"I need to tell you something," she says. "About why I didn't contact you."
"Okay."
"It wasn't just because I didn't have your number. It was because..." She takes a shaky breath. "I was scared. Scared you'd think I was trying to trap you or that I wanted something from you. Scared you'd be angry or feel obligated or—"
"Hey." I reach across the table without thinking, and she doesn't pull away when my hand covers hers. "I'm not angry. Confused? Yes. Terrified? Absolutely. But not angry."
"You should be."
"Maybe. But I'm not." I squeeze her hand gently. "We're both in this now. Together. Scared out of our minds but together. Deal?"
She looks at our hands, then back at my face, searching for something. Whatever she finds must satisfy her because she nods slowly.
"Deal."
Tessa bursts into tears.
Both Patrice and I turn to stare at her, alarmed, as she waves us off with one hand while clutching her chest with the other.
"I'm fine," she sobs. "I'm just—you're having a baby! My best friend and my fiancé's best friend are having a baby! This is like a Hallmark movie but with more cursing!"
"Babe," Gage says gently, pulling her into a hug. "Maybe tone down the emotions? You're scaring them."
"I can't help it! It's beautiful! They're going to co-parent! There's going to be a tiny human at our wedding!"
"Actually," Patrice says carefully, "I'm due in about eight weeks, so probably not at your wedding. But close."
Tessa gasps. "Eight weeks? That's so soon! Oh my God, we have so much to do! We need to throw you a baby shower! And get the nursery ready! And—do you have a nursery? Where are you living? Do you have a crib? A car seat? OH MY GOD, DO YOU HAVE A CAR SEAT?"
"Tessa," Gage says firmly. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing! I'm breathing and planning and—"
"How about we let them eat dinner first," he suggests, steering her gently toward the living room. "Then we can tackle world domination and baby logistics."
"But—"
"Dinner first. Planning later."
As Gage successfully extracts his hysterical fiancée from the kitchen, Patrice and I are left alone at the table, still holding hands across the scattered plates and cooling soup.
"Your friends are intense," she says.
"My friends are also your friends, so that's on both of us," I point out.
"Fair."
We sit there for another moment, neither of us quite ready to let go or break this fragile peace we've built. Outside, the sun has fully set, and through the windows, I can see stars starting to appear in the clear Alaska sky.
"Trace?" Patrice says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not running."
I look at her—really look at her—this woman who's been carrying my child for seven months, who flew across the country knowing this conversation was coming, who's somehow still holding herself together despite everything.
"Thank you for telling me," I say. "Even if your delivery could use some work."
She laughs, and it's the best sound I've heard all day. "You mean shouting 'look in the fucking mirror' wasn't tactful?"
"Little aggressive, yeah. But effective."
"I'll work on my communication skills."
"We both will." I squeeze her hand one more time, then reluctantly let go to pick up my coffee. "So. Eight weeks, huh?"
"Give or take."
"That's... soon."
"Very soon."
"Should I be reading books or something? Is there a manual? A dad handbook?"
"There are about seventeen thousand books, actually. I can give you a list."
"Please do. I'll start tonight." I pause. "After I apologize to the woodpile."
She grins, and the tension that's been coiled in my chest finally loosens. "The woodpile probably deserved it."
"You think?" I raise an eyebrow. "Those logs were completely innocent. Just minding their own business before I went full lumberjack rampage on them."
"Processing with axes," she says, echoing my earlier terrible joke. "Culturally appropriate."
"Exactly." I stand, offering her my hand. "Come on. Let's see what Tessa's panic-planning while we've been sitting here."
She takes my hand—warm, solid, real—and lets me help her up. It takes more effort than it probably should, and she groans as she gets to her feet.
"Being pregnant is glamorous," she mutters.
"You make it look good."
"Liar."
"Terrified, clueless liar," I correct. "But an honest one about everything else."
She laughs, and it's the best sound I've heard all day. We're going to figure this out. Maybe not today, maybe not next week.
But we'll figure it out.