Chapter 14
Patrice
Tessa and Gage's living room smells like pine and wood smoke.
I stand in the middle of their cozy one-bedroom cabin with my suitcase, feeling like the world's most inconvenient houseguest. The one who shows up unannounced, extremely pregnant, and fresh from a massive fight with your husband's best friend.
"You're taking the bedroom," Gage says, already grabbing my suitcase.
"No." I shake my head. "Absolutely not. You two just got married two days ago. I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."
"You're eight months pregnant," Gage counters. "You're not sleeping on the couch."
"I've slept on worse."
"Not happening." He looks at Tessa. "Back me up here."
Tessa, to her credit, looks torn. "Patrice, really, we don't mind—"
"I mind." I plant my hands on my hips, which is less authoritative when you're shaped like a beach ball. "This is your honeymoon. Well, your honeymoon week. Whatever. I'm not taking your bed. I'll be fine on the couch."
"I'll take the couch," Gage says. "You and Tessa can share the bed."
"Gage—"
"Non-negotiable." His tone leaves no room for argument. "You're pregnant. You need proper rest. End of discussion."
I open my mouth to protest, then close it. The truth is, my back is killing me and the thought of trying to get comfortable on a couch sounds like medieval torture.
"Thank you," I finally say, my voice small.
He nods once and disappears down the hallway with my suitcase.
"So." Tessa appears at my elbow with two mugs. She hands me one. "Tea. Decaf. Because apparently that's your life now."
"Thanks." I take it, wrapping both hands around the warmth. "I'm sorry. This is not how you should be spending your first week of marriage."
"We decided not to do a honeymoon until after the baby's born anyway," Tessa says, settling onto the couch and patting the spot next to her. "We wanted to be here. For you."
The words make my throat tight. "You guys didn't have to do that."
"We wanted to," Tessa says simply. She tucks her legs underneath her. "Now. Want to talk about the fight?"
"Not really."
"Tough. You're in my cabin. My rules." She blows on her tea. "What happened?"
I open my mouth to say "nothing" or "it's complicated" or one of those other deflection phrases people use when they don't want to admit they've made catastrophically poor life choices. But instead, what comes out is: "I told him I'm leaving tomorrow."
Tessa's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Tomorrow? As in, less than twenty-four hours from now tomorrow?"
"Yep."
"And he... didn't take it well?"
"That's one way to put it." I take a sip of tea and burn my tongue, which feels fitting. "He basically tried to forbid me from getting on a plane."
"Forbid?"
"His word, not mine. Well, not his exact word. But the sentiment was definitely in the forbid family."
Tessa winces. "Okay, that's not great."
"Right? Who does he think he is? I'm a grown woman. I can make my own decisions. I don't need his permission to—"
"But you're also eight months pregnant with his baby and planning to fly across the country."
I glare at her. "Whose side are you on?"
"Yours. Always." She pauses. "But also, maybe slightly Trace's? Because from where I'm sitting, this seems like a situation where everyone's a little bit wrong and a little bit right and mostly just scared."
"I'm not scared." The words come out automatically, reflexively.
"Patrice."
"Fine. I'm terrified." I set the mug down before I drop it. "Happy now?"
"Not particularly." She leans forward. "Want to tell me why?"
And suddenly, it all comes pouring out. The fight. The things he said. The things I said. The way he looked at me like I was breaking his heart and the way I felt my own heart cracking in response.
"He told me he loves me," I say, and my voice wavers. "Last night. And again this morning. And I don't—I don't know if I believe him."
"Why not?"
"Because!" I throw my hands up, forgetting momentarily about the whole center-of-gravity-shifted-by-enormous-belly thing, and almost tip over.
Tessa reaches out to steady me. "Because we barely know each other.
Because he only found out about the baby two weeks ago.
Because what if he only thinks he loves me because of this? " I gesture at my stomach.
"What if he does love you?"
"Then I'm even more screwed."
Tessa blinks. "How is that worse?"
"Isn't it?" I stand up—well, attempt to stand up, which involves several false starts and one moment where I seriously consider just living on this couch forever.
"What if I stay here in Ashwood Falls? What if I let myself believe this is real?
And then six months from now, when the baby's crying at three AM and I haven't slept in days and I'm covered in spit-up and exhausted, he looks at me and realizes this isn't what he signed up for? "
"Or," Tessa says quietly, "he looks at you and loves you more."
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am on your side. That's why I'm telling you this.
" She squeezes my hand gently. "Look, I can't tell you what to do.
But I can tell you what I see. And what I see is a man who's terrified but trying.
Who's stepped up every single day since he found out.
Who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars and possibly also invented indoor plumbing. "
Despite everything, I laugh. "That's very specific."
"I'm just saying, the man appreciates you." She bumps my shoulder gently. "And yeah, maybe it's fast. Maybe it's scary. But when has anything worthwhile ever been easy?"
I lean my head on her shoulder. "I hate it when you're wise."
"I know. It's very inconvenient for you."
We sit in silence for a moment. Then she says, "What are you really afraid of?"
The one I've been avoiding since I saw those two pink lines back in August.
"That I'm making a mistake," I whisper. "If I stay, what if it doesn't work?
What if I end up trapped here in Alaska with a baby and no job and no way out?
But if I go back to Florida..." I swallow hard.
"If I go back, I have friends. I have a support system.
I have Lauren who already offered to help me get my old job back. I have familiarity. I have—"
"An escape route."
"Exactly."
"But do you have what you want?"
Before I can answer, Gage clears his throat from across the room. "Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to check if you needed anything. Food? Water? A mediator?"
"I'm fine," I say.
"She's not fine," Tessa says at the same time.
Gage sighs and comes into the living room, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. He looks tired. Probably because his first week of marriage has been hijacked by his best friend's baby mama drama.
"Sorry," I mutter. "This is probably not how you envisioned your first week of marriage."
"Actually, I envisioned a lot more naked time and a lot fewer feelings discussions," Gage says dryly. "But SEALs adapt."
"Gage!" Tessa swats at him.
"What? I'm being honest." He crosses his arms. "Look, Patrice. I don't know you that well. But I know Trace. And I know he doesn't do things halfway."
"That's what Tessa said."
"Because it's true." He shifts his weight. "When he's in, he's all in. Always has been. It's one of his best and most annoying qualities."
Despite myself, I smile. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, remember when I told you how we met? Afghanistan?"
I nod.
"Our unit was pinned down. Bad situation.
I got hit—nothing fatal, obviously, but I was bleeding out and couldn't move.
Trace could've made it to cover. Should've made it to cover.
Instead, he came back for me. Carried me half a mile under fire.
" Gage's jaw tightens. "Could've gotten himself killed.
When I asked him why the hell he did it, you know what he said? "
I shake my head.
"He said, 'You're my best friend. That's it. That's the whole reason.' Like it was the most obvious thing in the world." Gage looks at me directly. "So, when I tell you that if he says he loves you, he means it—I'm not guessing. I know."
The weight of his certainty makes my throat tight.
"But he can't make you stay," Gage continues. "That's your choice. Just—" He pauses. "Just make sure you're running toward something, not away from it."
And with that profoundly uncomfortable dose of wisdom, he nods once and leaves.
Tessa and I sit in silence.
"He's smarter than he looks," I finally say.
"Don't tell him that. His ego's big enough already."
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. My hand goes to my belly automatically, and the baby—my raspberry, though it’s definitely bigger than a raspberry now—kicks hard against my palm.
"What do you think, kiddo?" I murmur. "What do we do?"
The baby kicks again, like it’s voting.
"It probably wants to stay," Tessa says. "Babies are smart that way."
"Or the baby's just punching my bladder for fun." I struggle to my feet. "Which, speaking of, I need to pee. Again. For the millionth time today."
"Want company?"
"To the bathroom?"
"I didn't mean in the bathroom, weirdo. I meant do you want me to wait here or give you privacy to spiral in peace?"
"Privacy, please. I spiral better alone."
"Fair enough."
I make my way to the bathroom and handle my business. When I'm washing my hands, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look exhausted. Puffy. My hair's doing this weird thing where half of it is flat, and the other half is sticking up like I touched an electrical socket. There are tear tracks on my cheeks I don't remember making.
But underneath all that, there's something else. Something that looks suspiciously like the truth I've been avoiding.
I love him.
Not "falling for him" or "could maybe love him eventually." I love him. Present tense. Fully. Terrifyingly.
And that's the real problem, isn't it? Because if I don't love him, leaving is easy. But if I do love him, staying is the scariest thing in the world.
Because what if it doesn't work?
What if—