Chapter 3
Trace
The log explodes into kindling, and I'm pretty sure I just murdered an innocent piece of firewood.
I'm a father.
I swing the axe again. Another log detonates like I'm auditioning for a Viking rage commercial.
I'm going to be a dad.
The word bounces around my skull like a rubber ball in a concrete room, hitting every surface and making approximately zero sense. Dad. Father. Papa. Daddy. None of these words compute. They're like trying to download a file my brain doesn't have software for.
I line up another log, raise the axe, and bring it down with enough force that the chopping block shifts sideways.
Seven months pregnant. She's been pregnant for seven months, and I had no idea. Seven months of doctor appointments and cravings and—what do pregnant women even do? Read books about babies? Buy tiny socks? Panic at three in the morning about whether they're ready to keep a human alive?
Because I'm doing that last one right now, and the human isn't even here yet.
The axe comes down again. Wood splinters. My shoulders burn. Good. Physical pain I understand. Physical pain makes sense. This? This situation where Patrice Henley—the woman I haven't been able to stop thinking about for six months—just told me I'm the father of her child?
This is insane.
"You're going to run out of logs before you run out of feelings," Gage's voice comes from behind me, calm and measured in that way that usually means he's about to say something annoyingly wise.
"Then I'll start on the shed," I mutter, positioning another log.
"The shed's metal. You'll just dent the axe."
"Don't care."
Gage walks into my line of sight and leans against the woodpile, arms crossed, watching me like I'm a science experiment that's about to either succeed spectacularly or explode. Given my current state, explosion feels more likely.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks.
"No."
"Want to keep destroying my winter firewood supply?"
"Yes."
"Fair enough." He doesn't move, just keeps watching me work through my existential crisis one log at a time. This is why Gage is my best friend—he understands that sometimes a man needs to obliterate lumber before he can process emotions.
I swing again. The log splits clean down the middle, both halves flying in opposite directions like they're trying to escape the sheer force of my panic.
"She looks good," Gage offers after a minute. "Pregnant suits her."
I nearly drop the axe. "Don't."
"Just saying. Tessa thinks—"
"I don't care what Tessa thinks right now." The words come out harsher than I intend, and I immediately feel like an asshole. "Sorry. That's not—I didn't mean—"
"I know." Gage shifts his weight, considering his next words carefully. "You know you're going to have to talk to her eventually, right? Patrice. Not Tessa. Though probably Tessa too, since you're definitely on her shit list right now."
"I know."
"Running away to chop wood is a solid short-term strategy, but long-term—"
"I'm aware, Gage." I set up another log with more force than necessary. "I just need a minute to wrap my head around the fact that I'm going to be a father. That's not exactly a small piece of information to process."
"You'd have had more time if you'd gotten her number."
I glare at him. "Not helping."
"Wasn't trying to help. Was pointing out facts." He grins—actually grins—like this whole situation is somehow amusing instead of catastrophically life-altering. "Though for what it's worth, you're handling it better than I expected."
"Better than what? Passing out? Throwing up? Running screaming into the forest?"
"All of the above, actually. Thought there was a fifty-fifty chance you'd bolt."
The axe comes down hard enough that it sticks in the chopping block, and I have to wrestle it free. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good answer." Gage straightens up, brushing wood chips off his jacket. "Because that woman just flew across the country seven months pregnant to be here for Tessa's wedding, even though she knew she'd have to face you. That takes guts."
He's right. Of course he's right. Gage is annoyingly right about most things, which is why I usually trust his judgment even when I want to argue.
But right now, all I can think about is Patrice standing in the snow, shaking and pale and terrified, shouting that I'm the father of her child like it was both an accusation and a plea for help.
And I just... walked away.
Walked away to chop wood like a Neanderthal working through feelings.
"I'm an idiot," I mutter.
"Little bit, yeah," Gage agrees cheerfully. "But you're my idiot, so let's go inside before you freeze to death and I have to explain to your kid why their father died of hypothermia and emotional constipation."
I look down at myself and realize I've been out here long enough that my fingers are numb, my breath is coming out in visible puffs, and I can't feel my ears anymore. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since I started my therapeutic wood-murder session.
"How long have I been out here?" I ask.
"About forty-five minutes."
"Shit."
"Yeah." Gage claps me on the shoulder, and we start walking back toward the cabin. "Fair warning—Tessa's probably going to yell at you. Possibly throw something. She's very protective of Patrice."
"As she should be." I run a hand through my hair, which is damp with sweat despite the cold. "I left her standing in the snow. Pregnant. After she just told me I'm the father. I'm officially the worst person alive."
"Second worst," Gage corrects. "First place goes to the guy who ghosted his pregnant girlfriend to 'find himself' in Thailand. You just needed forty-five minutes to process a bomb drop. That's different."
"Is it?"
"According to Tessa's scale of male failures, yes. You're at like a four out of ten. Thailand guy is a solid nine."
"What's a ten?"
"Dead-beat dads who don't pay child support."
We reach the porch, and I can see warm light spilling from the windows. Inside is warmth, answers, and a conversation I'm absolutely not ready to have. But I'm also freezing, emotionally exhausted, and fairly certain I just worked through my entire winter workout routine in one session.
I reach for the door handle, then pause. "What do I even say to her?"
Gage considers this. "Well, 'sorry for abandoning you to murder firewood' is probably a good start. Then maybe 'I'm terrified but I'm not going anywhere.' Women like honesty."
"That's it? That's your advice?"
"Would you prefer me to write you a script?"
"Yes, actually. That would be extremely helpful."
"Too bad. You're on your own." He pushes open the door and warm air rushes out, along with the smell of coffee and something baking. "But for what it's worth, you've got this. You're one of the best men I know, Trace. You'll figure it out."
The confidence in his voice steadies something in my chest. Gage doesn't hand out compliments like candy—when he says something, he means it.
I step inside, stomping snow off my boots, and immediately hear voices from the kitchen. Tessa's, sharp and protective. Patrice's, quieter, tired.
"—absolutely not your fault," Tessa is saying. "He needs to grow up and deal with—oh."
Both women turn to look at me as I walk into the kitchen, and the temperature in the room drops approximately twenty degrees despite the fire crackling in the living room.
Tessa's eyes narrow into slits. "You."
"Me," I agree, because what else is there to say?
"You have exactly thirty seconds to explain why you just abandoned a pregnant woman in the snow to go on a lumberjack rampage."
"I wasn't rampaging. I was processing."
"With an axe."
"It's Alaska. Processing with axes is culturally appropriate." The joke lands with the grace of a dead fish, and I immediately regret it. "Sorry. That was—I'm not good at this."
Patrice is sitting at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug of what looks like hot chocolate. She won't meet my eyes. Her hair is slightly damp from melted snow, and there's still a tremor in her hands that makes my chest ache.
I did that. I made her shake. I walked away when she needed me to stay.
"Patrice," I start, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" she asks quietly, still not looking at me. "For walking away? For not being there for the last seven months? For getting me pregnant in the first place?"
"All of it." I move closer to the table, slowly, like approaching a spooked animal. "But mostly for walking away just now. That was—I shouldn't have done that."
"You needed a minute." Her tone is flat, emotionless, and somehow that's worse than if she'd yelled. "I get it."
"No, you don't." I pull out the chair across from her and sit down, even though Tessa looks like she wants to physically throw me back outside.
"What I needed was to be there for you. To stay.
To have a conversation like an actual adult instead of running off to commit violence against innocent lumber. "
That gets a tiny huff that might be a laugh. Might be. Hard to tell.
"The lumber had it coming," she mutters into her mug.
"Did it though?"
"Probably not." She finally looks up, and her eyes are red-rimmed like she's been crying. That knife in my chest twists deeper.
"Look, Trace, I don't expect anything from you. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel obligated or trapped or—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to, and both women flinch. I soften my voice, try again. "Please. Just... let me talk for a minute."
Patrice nods slowly, warily, like she's waiting for me to bolt again.
I take a breath. "I'm terrified. Absolutely, completely terrified. I don't know the first thing about being a father. I don't know how to change a diaper or burp a baby or any of that stuff parents are supposed to know. I don't even know if I'd be any good at it."
"Trace—"