Chapter 10 #2
"Don't judge me. This sandwich is a religious experience."
She laughs and spears a piece of lettuce. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before she leans back in her chair and gives me that look.
The look that says we're about to have a Conversation with a capital C.
"So," she says. "How are things with Trace?"
I swallow my bite of sandwich and reach for my water. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Yes. Fine. We're cohabiting without killing each other, which feels like a win."
"Patrice."
"Tessa."
She leans forward. "You're in love with him."
I choke on my water. "What? No. That's ridiculous. I barely know him."
"You knew him well enough to sleep with him."
"That was one night. One great night, but still. That's not love."
"Then what is it?"
"Lust. Attraction. Temporary insanity brought on by alcohol and his stupidly perfect face."
Tessa just looks at me, eyebrows raised.
"Fine," I mutter. "Maybe it's a little more than lust. But it's been what, less than a few weeks? People don't fall in love that fast."
"I knew I loved Gage in two days."
"You're a weirdo."
"Maybe. But I'm a weirdo who's right." She takes a sip of her iced tea. "You should've seen your face when you talked about him yesterday. About the tour he gave you of Ashwood Falls."
"He was being nice. Showing me around so I don't feel like a complete outsider."
"He made you hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and told you stories about the town for three hours. That's not being nice—that's courting."
"People don't court anymore."
"Trace does." She singsongs.
I tear off a piece of my croissant and shove it in my mouth to avoid responding.
Because she's right. Trace has been nothing but thoughtful and patient and kind.
He leaves snacks out for me when I have midnight cravings.
He massages my back without me asking. He reads pregnancy books when he thinks I'm asleep.
And yesterday, walking around Ashwood Falls with him, listening to him talk about the town he loves with such obvious pride and affection—I felt something shift. Something that went beyond attraction or gratitude.
Something terrifying.
"I'm scared," I admit quietly.
Tessa reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Of what?"
"Of everything. Of falling for him when this wasn't the plan.
Of staying here and losing myself. Of leaving and wondering what if.
Of being a mom when I have no idea what I'm doing.
" My voice cracks. "My parents aren't here to help.
I don't have a job. I don't have an apartment.
I don't have anything figured out, and I'm supposed to bring a whole human into the world in six weeks. "
"You have me," Tessa says firmly. "And Gage. And Trace—whether you’re ready to admit how much or not."
"But what if—"
"What if you're happy?" she interrupts. "What if this is exactly where you're supposed to be? What if the plan changed, but the new plan is actually better?"
"I don't do well with changing plans."
"I know. But maybe it's time to try." She squeezes my hand again. "Look at me. I was supposed to marry Kyle and live in Florida. Instead, I'm marrying Gage and staying in Alaska. My plan got completely derailed, and I've never been happier."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because you chose it. I got... surprise pregnant and have nowhere else to go."
"Is that really why you might be staying? Because you have nowhere else to go?"
I open my mouth to say yes, because that's the safe answer. But it's not true, and we both know it.
"No," I whisper. "I might be staying because every time I think about leaving, something in my chest physically hurts. And I don't know if that's love or fear or pregnancy hormones, but it's there."
Tessa smiles. "That's love, honey. Scary, messy, inconvenient love."
We finish lunch and decide to walk around downtown Anchorage for a bit. Well, Tessa walks. I waddle. There's a difference.
We pass a baby store, and Tessa grabs my arm. "Can we go in? Just to look?"
"We're just looking," I agree. "I can't afford to actually buy anything right now."
Famous last words.
The store is full of tiny clothes that have no business being that cute. Onesies with little animals on them. Sleepers with feet. Hats that look like they belong on woodland creatures.
"Look at this," Tessa says, holding up a onesie that says "I'm proof Mommy and Daddy didn't just Netflix and chill."
I laugh. "That's terrible."
"It's amazing. You have to get it."
"I'm not getting that."
"Fine. What about this one?" She holds up another onesie, this one with a little bear face on it.
I take it from her. The fabric is soft, and the bear has a little smile. My throat gets tight.
"I don't even know if it's a boy or girl," I say quietly.
"You wanted to be surprised, right?"
"Yeah. I wanted to wait until the birth to find out."
"Does Trace know?"
"I didn't let him look at the ultrasound that long." I run my fingers over the bear's face. "What if I'm terrible at this?"
"At what?"
"Being a mom. What if I don't know what to do? What if I mess up? What if—"
"Patrice." Tessa puts her hands on my shoulders. "You're going to be amazing. You're organized, smart, capable—"
"I'm a control freak who can't handle when things don't go according to plan."
"Which means you'll be prepared for everything."
"You can't prepare for a baby."
"No, but you can love them. And that's the most important part." She hugs me carefully, mindful of my stomach. "Your parents would've loved being grandparents. And they'd be so proud of you."
That does it. The tears I've been holding back all-day spill over, and I'm crying in the middle of a baby store while clutching a onesie with a bear on it.
"I miss them," I choke out.
"I know." Tessa rubs my back. "They're still with you. And they're going to be with this baby too."
I nod and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Okay. I'm buying the bear onesie."
"Good choice."
We end up buying not just the onesie but also a soft blanket, a stuffed moose that Tessa insists is essential for Alaska babies, and a book called "The Wonky Donkey" because it made us both laugh until we cried.
By the time we get back to the car, it's late afternoon and I'm exhausted.
The drive back to Ashwood Falls is quieter than the drive up. Tessa plays softer music, and I rest my head against the window, watching the landscape roll by. Mountains and trees and sky that goes on forever.
It's beautiful. Alaska is beautiful.
And I might stay. At least for now.
Maybe longer.
Maybe forever.
We pull up to Trace's cabin just as the sun is starting to set. The lights are on inside, and I can see his silhouette moving past the window.
"You okay?" Tessa asks.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"Go rest. I'll see you tomorrow for more wedding stuff."
"Can't wait," I say, but I'm smiling.
I grab my garment bag and shopping bags and waddle up to the door. It opens before I can reach for the handle.
Trace stands there, looking unfairly good in jeans and a flannel shirt, his hair slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it.
"Hey," he says. "How was the shopping?"
"Successful. I found a dress that doesn't make me look like a Christmas tree or a planet."
"I'm sure you looked beautiful either way."
"You haven't seen me in the Christmas tree dress."
He grins and takes the bags from me. "Come on. I made dinner."
"You made dinner?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of more than wood carving."
"What did you make?"
"Spaghetti. Nothing fancy, but it's hot and there's garlic bread."
My stomach growls audibly. "You're a saint."
"I'm really not," he says, but he's smiling as he leads me inside.
The cabin smells like tomato sauce and garlic, and I could cry again from how perfect it is. Trace sets my bags down and gestures to the couch.
"Sit. Rest. I'll bring you a plate."
"I can get my own plate."
"I know you can. But you don't have to."
I sit, because arguing takes energy I don't have, and a few minutes later he brings me a plate piled high with pasta and bread. I dig in immediately, and it's delicious—simple but good, exactly what I needed.
Trace sits next to me with his own plate, and we eat in comfortable silence. The fire crackles in the fireplace, and outside, the first stars are starting to appear.
"Thank you," I say after a while.
"For what?"
"For this. For dinner. For letting me stay here. For not being a jerk about the whole surprise pregnancy thing."
"Patrice." He sets his plate down and turns to face me. "I'm not doing you a favor. I want you here. I want to be part of this."
"I know. It's just—"
"Hard to believe?" He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I get it. But I'm not going anywhere."
The way he's looking at me makes my chest tighten in that scary, wonderful way that Tessa was talking about.
I should say something. I should tell him I'm scared or that I'm falling for him or that I don't want to leave.
But the words stick in my throat, and I end up just nodding.
He smiles and squeezes my hand, then stands up to clear the plates.
I lean back against the couch and press a hand to my stomach. The baby kicks, as if to say, You're an idiot.
"I know," I whisper. "I know."
Later, after dinner, I'm standing in front of the mirror in the guest room—my room—in my pajamas. The baby is pressing against my ribs, and my back aches, and when I look at my reflection, all I see is how huge I am.
My stomach is enormous. My hips are wider. My face is rounder. Everything about my body has changed, and I barely recognize myself.
"I'm so big," I mutter. "I'm a freakin’ whale."
"You're not a whale."
I jump and spin around. Trace is standing in the doorway, and from the look on his face, he heard everything.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough." He walks into the room and stops in front of me. "You're not a whale."
"Then what am I?"
He's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "Beautiful. You're carrying our baby. That's the most incredible thing I've ever seen."
My throat gets tight. "Trace."
"I mean it." He reaches out and rests his hand on my stomach.
The baby kicks, and his face lights up. "Every time I look at you, I'm amazed.
Not just by the baby, but by you. How strong you are.
How brave. How you got on a plane pregnant and flew across the country because you believed in yourself enough to take the job. "
"That was stupid."
"That was courage." His thumb traces small circles on my stomach. "You're not a whale, Patrice. You're a woman who's creating life, and that's the most beautiful thing in the world."
I'm crying again. Pregnancy has turned me into a leaky faucet.
"I can't reach my feet," I admit. "To put my shoes on. I tried earlier, and I couldn't do it."
"Then I'll help you." He drops to his knees in front of me and gently lifts one of my feet.
"Trace, you don't have to—"
"I want to."
He carefully slides my socks on, then my slippers, treating me like I'm something precious instead of a crying pregnant mess who ate an entire chocolate croissant and called herself a whale.
When he's done, he looks up at me, still on his knees, and the expression on his face is so tender it makes my heart crack open.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He stands and pulls me into a hug, careful not to squish my stomach. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat, steady and sure.
I'm falling for him.
The realization sits heavy in my chest, warm and terrifying all at once. His heartbeat drums steady under my ear, and the baby kicks between us like it's trying to get his attention too.
I should pull away. I should go to bed and pretend this moment didn't crack something open inside me.
But I don't move.
And neither does he.