Chapter 13
Trace
Iwake up to the best morning of my life.
Patrice is still asleep in my arms, her hair spread across my pillow, one hand resting on her belly. The early morning light filters through the curtains, and for a moment, everything is perfect. Still. Peaceful.
This is my family.
The thought settles over me with absolute certainty. Not just the baby—though I'm excited and terrified about that in equal measure—but her. Patrice. The woman who makes me laugh, who challenges me, who walked into my life and turned everything upside down in the best possible way.
Last night proved that. The way she looked at me, the way she said she was falling in love with me—people don't say things like that without meaning them. That's got to mean something.
Still, there's this nagging voice in the back of my head. The one that remembers Lauren telling her about that job in Florida. The one that knows she still hasn't officially said she's staying.
But she will. She has to. After last night, there's no way she's seriously considering leaving. Right?
I push the thought away and press a kiss to her shoulder, careful not to wake her.
She stirs anyway, making a small sound of protest.
"Morning," I murmur.
"Too early," she mumbles into the pillow.
"It's almost eight."
"Still too early."
I smile and pull her closer. "How are you feeling?"
"Pregnant. Sore. In need of approximately twelve more hours of sleep." She rolls over to face me, wincing slightly. "Also, I need to pee. Again. Your child is using my bladder as a trampoline."
"Want me to help you up?"
"I'm not an invalid." But she takes my hand anyway and lets me pull her to sitting. "Though I appreciate the offer."
She shuffles to the bathroom, and I lie there, trying to ignore the anxiety creeping in. She's not leaving. She can't be. Not after everything.
She comes back a few minutes later, moving slower than usual, and sits on the edge of the bed.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah, just—" She stops, pressing a hand to her stomach. Her face goes tight.
I'm on my feet immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just a cramp."
"A cramp? Like a contraction?"
"No, like a—" She winces again. "Okay, maybe like a contraction. But it's fine. It's probably just Braxton Hicks."
"Braxton what?"
"Braxton Hicks. False labor. Totally normal." She breathes through it, then relaxes. "See? Fine."
I'm already reaching for my phone. "We should go to the hospital."
"Trace, no. It's fine."
"You just had a contraction!"
"A false contraction. That's literally what Braxton Hicks are. They're practice contractions. The book says they're completely normal in the third trimester."
"What if it's not false? What if you're actually in labor?"
"I'm not in labor. Trust me, I'd know."
"How would you know? This is your first baby!"
She gives me a look. "Women have been having babies for thousands of years without panicking men hovering over them. I'm fine."
But I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. I'm watching her like she might spontaneously give birth at any second, and she's acting like this is no big deal.
"At least call the doctor," I say.
"It's eight in the morning on a Sunday. I'm not calling Dr. Martinez about normal pregnancy symptoms."
"Then we go to the ER."
"We're not going to the ER for Braxton Hicks contractions." She stands up carefully. "I'm going to take a shower. You're going to calm down. And then we're going to have breakfast like normal people."
"I don't want to be normal people. I want to make sure you and the baby are okay."
"We are okay." She touches my face. "I promise. If anything feels wrong, I'll tell you. But right now, I just need a shower and some food."
I watch her head to the bathroom, every muscle in my body tense. This is what the next six weeks are going to be like, isn't it? Me panicking at every twinge while she tells me to calm down.
Assuming she's even here. Assuming she stays.
No. Stop that. She's staying. She has to be.
I grab my phone and start Googling Braxton Hicks contractions. Ten minutes later, I'm both reassured and more anxious than before. The internet is not helpful. Half the sources say they're totally normal and have nothing to worry about. The other half list about forty things that could be wrong.
Patrice emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping.
"Did you spend the entire time I was in the shower Googling pregnancy symptoms?" she asks.
"No."
"Liar."
"Okay, yes. But in my defense, the internet is very confusing and mostly just made me more worried."
"Stop Googling." She digs through the dresser for clothes. "The internet will convince you that every symptom is either nothing or imminent death. There's no middle ground."
"But what if—"
"Trace." She turns to face me, one hand on her hip. "I love that you care. I really do. But you need to trust me on this. I've been living in this body for almost eight months. I know what feels normal and what doesn't. And this feels normal."
I take a breath. "Okay. Okay. I trust you."
"Good." She pulls on a maternity dress. "Now, are you making breakfast, or am I ordering pizza?"
"It's eight in the morning."
"And?"
"You can't have pizza for breakfast."
"Watch me."
I laugh despite myself and head to the kitchen. She follows, moving carefully, and I try very hard not to hover. It's difficult. Every time she winces or pauses, I want to bundle her into the truck and drive straight to the hospital.
I make scrambled eggs and toast because that's about the extent of my breakfast cooking abilities. Patrice sits at the table, and I notice her phone on the counter, face down. She must have brought it in when she came out of the bathroom.
I try not to think about whether she's been making plans. Whether she's already decided to leave and just hasn't told me yet.
Stop it. Just stop.
I plate the food and bring it over. "There. Edible breakfast."
She takes a bite. "It's good."
"You sound surprised."
"I am a little." She grins. "You're a man of many talents, Trace MacKenzie. Wood carving, dancing at weddings, mediocre breakfast foods—"
"Hey, I said edible, not mediocre."
"I stand by my assessment." But she's smiling, and for a moment, everything feels light. Easy.
I sit across from her and watch her eat. She catches me staring.
"What now?" she asks.
"Nothing. Just—" I reach across the table for her hand. "Last night was incredible."
Her smile fades slightly. "It was."
"So," I say, keeping my tone casual even though my heart is pounding, "we should probably talk about what happens next."
She tenses immediately. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I gesture between us. "Last night. Us. The baby. Everything."
"Right. That."
"I was thinking," I continue carefully, "you could stay here. At the cabin. With me. We don't have to have everything figured out right away, but we can—"
"Trace." She pulls her hand back. "I need to tell you something."
The tone of her voice makes my stomach drop. This is it. This is where she tells me she's leaving. I knew it. I fucking knew it.
"Okay," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"My flight back to Florida is tomorrow."
The words don't make sense. I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. "What?"
"I booked it this morning. After my shower."
"But—last night—"
"Last night was amazing," she says quickly. "But it doesn't change the fact that I have a life in Florida. A job opportunity. A plan."
"You have a life here too," I say, and I can hear my voice rising. "You have me. You have the baby. You have—"
"I've been here two weeks, Trace. Two weeks. That's not a life. That's—" She struggles for words. "That's a detour."
"A detour?" I'm on my feet now, pacing. "Is that what last night was? A detour?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
She stands up too, hand on her belly. "I meant that I can't base my entire life on one night and two weeks of—of this!"
"Two weeks of what? Being happy? Being together? Building something?"
"Playing house," she says, and the words hit like a slap. "We've been playing house, Trace. But that's not real life."
"We just—we made love. You said you were falling in love with me!"
"I also said I was scared!"
"And your solution is to run away?"
"I'm not running away," she says, but her voice wavers. "I'm going home. There's a difference."
"You're eight months pregnant. You're not getting on a plane."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're not flying to Florida in your condition."
Her eyes flash with something dangerous. "My condition? Are you seriously telling me what I can and can't do right now?"
"Someone has to! You're being ridiculous!"
"I'm being ridiculous? You're the one acting like I'm made of glass!"
"Because you're carrying my child!" The words come out louder than I intended, and I see her flinch. But I can't stop now. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to fly this late in pregnancy? What if something happens? What if you go into labor on the plane?"
"I'm not going into labor. The baby's not due for six more weeks."
"Babies don't follow schedules, Patrice!"
"Neither do I!" She's shouting now too. "And I don't need your permission to make decisions about my own body!"
"I'm not trying to control you—"
"Yes, you are! You're literally trying to forbid me from leaving!"
"Because it's not safe!"
"That's not your call to make!"
"I'm the father! I have rights!"
"Rights?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You didn't even know about these rights two weeks ago! You had no idea this baby even existed! And now you're trying to—what? Control me? Keep me here because it's convenient for you?"
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You want me to stay because of the baby. Not because of me. Because you feel obligated. Responsible."
"That's not true." I move toward her, but she steps back. "Patrice, I love you. I told you that last night."
"People say a lot of things during sex."
The words hit like another slap. I stop moving. "You don't believe me."