Epilogue - Trace #2
"Patrice," I say, and my voice comes out more serious than I intended.
"I want to marry you. I want Brooklyn to have two parents who are legally bound to each other and threw a party about it.
I want to spend the rest of my life changing diapers and packing too many snacks and watching you color-code everything we own. "
"That's romantic," she says, but her eyes are shiny.
"I want to wake up next to you every morning for the next sixty years. I want to fight about whose turn it is to take out the trash. I want to grow old and embarrass our kids and be the couple that still holds hands in the grocery store."
"Our kids?" she asks. "Plural?"
"If you want. Someday. When we're ready."
Brooklyn stirs, makes a sleepy sound, and settles back against my chest.
"I want that too," Patrice says quietly. "All of it. The marriage, the partnership, the growing old together. The embarrassing our kids."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a 'you better get me an actual ring and do this properly.'"
"Done. I'll get a ring. We'll do it right. Fall wedding?"
"Fall wedding," she agrees. "Small. Just family and friends. Nothing fancy."
"Like Tessa and Gage's."
"Exactly like that."
"I can work with that."
Tessa makes a sound that's somewhere between a squeal and a sob. "You're getting married!"
"We literally just decided this thirty seconds ago," Patrice points out.
"And I'm already planning the bachelorette party."
"Please don't."
"Too late. I'm thinking tasteful but fun. Maybe a wine night? Or a spa day? Or—"
"Tessa," Gage interrupts gently. "Let them have a minute."
"Right. Yes. Sorry. I'm just so happy for you guys." She wipes her eyes. "My best friend and my husband's best friend are getting married. Brooklyn gets two parents who are married. This is perfect."
Six months ago, I was chopping wood and panicking about becoming a father.
Now I'm sitting by a lake, Brooklyn asleep on my chest, Patrice's hand in mine, planning a wedding I never thought I'd want.
Gage is right there making fun of my quinoa consumption, and Tessa's already planning a bachelorette party.
I wouldn't change a single thing.
"What about more kids?" I ask, because apparently I'm on a roll today. "You said plural."
Patrice laughs. "Let's get through the wedding first." She pauses, looking at Brooklyn. "But someday. I want Brooklyn to have siblings."
"Someday sounds perfect."
"Someday sounds terrifying," she corrects. "But also perfect."
Brooklyn wakes up then, realizes she's missing out on attention, and demands to be the center of the universe again. Patrice takes her, tickles her stomach until she giggles, and I watch them together—my daughter and the woman I'm going to marry—and think about the future.
More kids someday. More chaos, more sweet potato in my hair, more three AM diapers and tiny clothes that cost a fortune. More of Patrice laughing while Brooklyn tries to eat something she shouldn't. More moments exactly like this one.
"You're staring again," Patrice says.
"Can't help it. You're both really cute."
"We know."
Brooklyn reaches for me, and I take her back, and the five of us sit by the lake—soon to be six with Tessa and Gage's baby on the way—and talk about nothing and everything.
Later, when we're packing up, Gage pulls me aside. "You're really doing this?"
"Getting married? Yeah."
"You're sure?"
"More sure than I've been about anything." I look over at Patrice, who's trying to wrestle Brooklyn back into her sunglasses. "She's it for me. Always has been. Even when I was too stupid to realize it."
"You were pretty stupid," Gage agrees.
"Thanks for the support."
"That's what best friends are for. Calling you on your bullshit and standing beside you anyway."
"Philosophical today."
"Tessa's pregnant. I'm emotional." He claps me on the shoulder. "But I'm happy for you. Both of you. You're good together."
"We are."
"And Brooklyn's lucky to have you as parents."
"We're lucky to have her."
We load up the trucks—Patrice insisting on reorganizing the diaper bag because apparently I packed it wrong—and head home. Brooklyn falls asleep in her car seat halfway back, and when we pull into the cabin's driveway, Patrice turns to me.
"Did we really just get engaged?" she asks.
"Pretty sure."
"That was the weirdest engagement ever."
"We do everything weird. Why start being normal now?"
She laughs, and it sounds like home. "Fair point."
We carry Brooklyn inside—still sleeping, thank god—and get her into her crib without waking her, which is basically a miracle. The cabin is quiet. Peaceful. Ours.
"Fall wedding," Patrice says, leaning against me in the doorway of Brooklyn's room.
"October," I suggest. "The aspens will be golden."
"October works." She looks at Brooklyn sleeping. "More kids someday though."
"More kids someday," I agree.
"But not yet."
"God, no. Not yet. One is plenty." I glance at the sweet potato still stuck to my shirt. "More than plenty."
From her crib, Brooklyn makes a sound like she's disagreeing with us in her sleep.
"She's going to be a handful," Patrice says.
"She already is."
"Worth it though."
"Absolutely worth it."
We stand there, watching our daughter sleep, planning a future that six months ago I couldn't have imagined. A wedding. More kids. Growing old together in this cabin in Alaska, surrounded by friends and family and the life we're building together.
"Hey Trace?" Patrice says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Even though you pack the diaper bag wrong."
"Even though you reorganize it every single time."
She kisses me, soft and sweet, and Brooklyn sleeps on, peaceful and safe.
Brooklyn sighs in her sleep, one tiny hand curled into a fist, and Patrice's fingers find mine in the dark.
"You okay?" she whispers.
"Yeah." I pull her closer, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and baby lotion and home. "More than okay."
And I am.