Chapter 11 #2
"They're good together," Patrice says quietly.
"Yeah. They are."
"Makes you think, doesn't it?"
I look at her. "About what?"
"About finding someone who fits. Someone who makes you want to be better." She's watching the couple, but there's something wistful in her voice. "I never thought I wanted that. I was so focused on my career, my plans. And then—" She stops, hand on her stomach.
"And then?"
"And then everything changed." She looks at me. "For the better, I think. Even though it's terrifying."
"What's terrifying about it?"
"All of it. Giving up control. Trusting someone else.
Believing they won't leave when things get hard.
" She pauses. "My parents had that. They were a team, you know?
Even at the end—after the accident—I could see how much they loved each other.
That kind of love—it's beautiful, but it's also scary as hell. "
I reach over and take her hand. "You're not your mom. And I'm not your dad. We get to write our own story."
"What if I'm not brave enough to do this?"
"You flew across the country pregnant to take a job you believed in. You're brave."
She squeezes my hand. "You keep saying stuff like that."
"Because it's true."
The song ends, and Jake's voice comes over the speaker. "Alright, folks, time to get the rest of you out on the dance floor! Don't make the newlyweds do all the work!"
People start pairing off. I stand and hold out my hand to Patrice.
"Dance with me?"
She looks at my hand, then at the dance floor, then back at me. "I'm not exactly graceful right now."
"I don't care."
"I might step on your feet."
"I have on sturdy boots."
She laughs and takes my hand. "Okay. But if I fall, you're catching me."
"Always."
I lead her to the dance floor carefully, with one hand on her back, the other holding hers. The song is slow and sweet, and I pull her close—well, as close as we can get with her belly between us.
"This is awkward," she says, laughing.
"Little bit."
"The baby is squished."
"Is it okay?"
"Trace, the baby is fine. It's basically swimming in a water balloon. It's probably having a great time."
I adjust our position slightly, bring her closer to me. "Better?"
"Yeah. This works." She rests her free hand on my shoulder, and we sway to the music.
We're not really dancing—more like shuffling in a circle—but it doesn't matter. She's here, in my arms, smiling up at me like maybe she's starting to believe this could work too.
"You're good at this," she says after a moment.
"At slow dancing?"
"At being patient with me. I know I'm not easy."
"You're worth it."
She goes quiet, and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. Around us, other couples are dancing, laughing, celebrating. But right now, it feels like we're the only two people here.
"When's your wedding?" someone calls out—I think it's Tyler.
Patrice stiffens slightly in my arms.
"Yeah, Trace, when are you making an honest woman out of her?" another voice adds. Derek, probably.
"Maybe take bets?" someone else suggests, laughing.
"Ignore them," I murmur to Patrice.
But she's looking up at me, something uncertain in her eyes. "They think we're—"
"I know what they think."
"Does it bother you? That everyone assumes we're together?"
I stop moving and look at her directly. "No. Does it bother you?"
She's quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, "No. It doesn't."
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. "Good."
We keep dancing, and I can feel the weight of the question hanging between us. Not the one from the crowd, but the one we're both too scared to ask.
What are we doing?
Where is this going?
What happens after the wedding?
But I don't ask any of those questions. Instead, I just hold her and sway to the music and try to memorize this moment—the way she feels in my arms, the small smile on her face, the way her hand tightens slightly on my shoulder when the baby kicks.
The song ends, and she steps back with a slightly breathless laugh. "Okay, I need to sit down. My feet are killing me."
"Come on." I guide her back to our table and pull out her chair.
She sits with a grateful sigh. "You know what the worst part of pregnancy is? Besides the constant need to pee and the emotional rollercoaster and the fact that I can't see my own feet?"
"What?"
"That I can't even drink at a wedding. Do you know how much better all of this would be with wine?"
I laugh and grab her a glass of sparkling cider from a passing tray. "Best I can do."
"I'll take it." She sips and watches the dance floor. Gage and Tessa are dancing again, surrounded by friends and family, both of them glowing.
"They're going to be so happy," Patrice says softly.
"Yeah. They are."
"Do you think—" She stops, shakes her head. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just pregnancy brain."
But I can see it in her eyes. The same question I've been asking myself all day.
Could we have that too?
The reception continues around us. Cake, dancing, toasts that make people laugh and cry. At one point, Gage pulls me aside for a quiet moment away from the crowd.
"Thank you," he says. "For being here. For standing up for me. For everything."
"You're my best friend. Where else would I be?"
"I know. But still. Thank you." He pauses. "You tell her yet?"
"Tell who what?"
"Don't play dumb. Patrice. Did you tell her?"
"It's your wedding day. Can we not—"
"That's a no." He sighs. "Trace. What are you waiting for, man?"
"The right moment."
"There's no such thing as the right moment. There's just moments. And you're wasting them."
"I know. I just—" I run a hand through my hair. "What if she says no? What if I tell her and she runs?"
"Then at least you'll know. But I don't think she will." He claps me on the shoulder. "Stop being scared. Take the leap. Ask her to stay."
He heads back to Tessa, leaving me standing there with my thoughts and my fears and the certainty that he's right.
I make my way back to Patrice. She's talking to a woman I think from her old job in Florida—professional-looking, probably mid-thirties, gesturing animatedly while Patrice laughs. When she sees me, her whole face lights up.
That's when I know.
I'm going to tell her. Tonight. After the wedding, when we're back at the cabin and it's just us.
I'm going to tell her I love her, that I want her to stay, that I want to build a life together.
And I'm going to hope like hell she says yes.
"Hey," I say, sliding into the chair next to her. "Having fun?"
"The best time." She smiles. "This wedding is perfect. Small, intimate, just people who matter. If I ever—" She stops, cheeks flushing slightly.
"If you ever what?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."
But the implication hangs there, warm and hopeful.
If I ever get married.
The reception winds down as the evening fades into night. Gage and Tessa leave in a shower of birdseed—Tessa insisted, something about being better for the birds than rice—and the crowd slowly disperses.
I find Patrice by the door, wrapped in her shawl, looking tired but happy.
"Ready to go?" I ask.
"Yeah. My feet are staging a revolt, and the baby has decided my ribs are a punching bag."
I help her to the truck and drive us back to the cabin. She's quiet, staring out the window at the dark landscape rolling by.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "About what it would be like. To have what they have."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "And?"
"And I think—" She pauses. "I think I'm scared."
We pull up to the cabin, and I turn off the engine. In the sudden silence, I can hear both of our breathing.
"Patrice—"
"We should go inside," she says quickly. "It's cold."
She's out of the truck before I can respond, hurrying toward the door.
I follow, my heart pounding.
We get inside, and she immediately kicks off her shoes with a relieved sigh. "Oh my god, that's so much better."
"Want some tea?" I ask.
"Actually—" She turns to face me, and there's something different in her eyes. Something vulnerable and determined all at once. "Can we just talk? No tea, no distractions. Just... talk?"
"Of course." I gesture to the couch. "Come here."
She settles onto the cushions, and I sit next to her. Close, but not touching. The fire crackles in the hearth, shadows dancing across her face.
"Today was beautiful," she says quietly. "Watching Gage and Tessa. Seeing how sure they are." She looks down at her hands. "I keep waiting for that certainty, you know? For everything to click into place and make sense. But I'm still just... scared."
"Of what?"
"Everything." Her voice breaks slightly. "Of wanting this. Of wanting you. Of what happens if I let myself fall and you—" She stops, shaking her head.
"And I what?"
She meets my eyes. "What if you realize this isn't what you wanted? That we moved too fast, that the baby is enough but I'm not, that—"
"Patrice." I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. "Look at me."
She does, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears.
"I've been trying to find the right moment to say this," I tell her. "The perfect time, the perfect words. But there's no such thing as perfect, is there?"
"No," she whispers.
"I love you." The words come out rough, raw, but true.
"Not because of the baby. Not because you're here and it's convenient.
I love you because you make me laugh. Because you're brave even when you're terrified.
Because you walked into my life and everything shifted, and I don't want it to shift back. "
A tear slides down her cheek. "Trace—"
"I'm not asking you to have all the answers right now," I continue. "I'm not asking you to stop being scared. I'm just asking you to stay. To try. To see where this goes."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hand trembling in mine. Then she leans forward, closing the distance between us, and presses her forehead to mine.
"I'm so scared," she breathes.
"I know you are."
She pulls back just enough to look at me, and something in her expression shifts. The fear is still there, but underneath it is something else. Something warm and wanting.
"Show me," she whispers. "Show me this is real."