Chapter 5
Trace
Idon't sleep.
Not a wink. Not even close. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling for approximately six hours, listening to every creak and groan of the cabin, hyper-aware that Patrice is sleeping—or not sleeping—one wall away from me.
I'm going to be a father.
The thought keeps circling back, no matter how many times I try to process it.
Father. Dad. Someone's entire world, their first line of defense, the person they'll call when things go wrong.
Me. The guy who once ate cereal for dinner five nights in a row because I forgot grocery shopping was a thing adults have to do.
And I missed everything.
Seven months. Seven months of doctor appointments and ultrasounds and—what else happens during pregnancy? Morning sickness? Cravings? That thing where they can't see their feet anymore? All of it. Gone. Because she didn't tell me.
Because I didn't get her number.
Because we're both idiots who had one incredible night and then fumbled literally every step after that.
Around five a.m., I give up on sleep entirely and head to the kitchen. If I can't sleep, I can at least make myself useful. Patrice is eating for two, which means she needs actual food, not whatever protein bars or granola or whatever inadequate nonsense she's been surviving on.
I pull out eggs, bacon, and bread. Start the coffee—decaf, because I spent hours last night listening to pregnancy podcasts while staring at the ceiling. Apparently pregnant women can have some caffeine, but not too much. The podcast lady was very specific about that.
The bacon sizzles in the pan, filling the cabin with the smell of breakfast and normalcy, like this is just another Saturday morning and not the day after my entire life changed.
I crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them harder than strictly necessary.
Bread in the toaster. Orange juice poured.
Everything precise, controlled, because if I can control breakfast, maybe I can control the panic that's been threatening to swallow me whole since yesterday.
When everything's ready—eggs fluffy, bacon crispy, toast perfectly golden—I stand there staring at the two plates like they might have answers.
She's still asleep. I should let her sleep. Pregnant women need rest, right? That was definitely mentioned in at least three of those podcasts.
But I find myself walking down the hallway anyway, stopping at her closed door.
I shouldn't open it. That's creepy. That's a violation of privacy and boundaries and all those things normal people respect.
I open it anyway. Just a crack.
She's asleep on her side, buried under the quilt, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her dark hair spreads across the pillow, and even in sleep, there's a tension in her face that makes my chest ache. Like even unconscious, she's worried about something.
The curve of her stomach is visible under the blanket, and the reality of it hits me all over again. My baby. Our baby. Growing right there, existing, completely oblivious to the chaos their mere existence has caused.
I watch her for longer than I should, trying to reconcile this woman—vulnerable, sleeping, pregnant—with the sharp-tongued, confident woman I spent one unforgettable night with months ago. Both versions are real. Both versions are carrying my child.
And I have no idea what I'm doing.
Her eyes open catching me standing in the doorway like a creeper.
"Good morning," I say quickly, before she can scream or throw something. "I made breakfast."
She blinks at me, clearly still half-asleep. "You're watching me sleep?"
"No. Maybe. Briefly." I hold up my hands in surrender. "In my defense, I also made food. So, it's less creepy stalker, more concerned... person who happens to live here."
"That's not better."
"Yeah, I'm realizing that now." I back up a step. "Breakfast is ready. Take your time. I'll just be in the kitchen, questioning my life choices."
I hear her laugh—a soft, sleepy sound—as I retreat down the hallway.
Ten minutes later, she appears in the kitchen doorway, looking rumpled and beautiful and deeply skeptical of the spread I've laid out on the table.
"You made all this?" she asks.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of basic food preparation."
"It's just..." She gestures at the table. "This is a lot of food, Trace."
"You're eating for two." I pull out a chair for her. "Sit. Eat. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"No, but I listened to approximately six hours of pregnancy podcasts last night while I couldn't sleep. The lady was very clear about proper nutrition."
She sits, eyeing the bacon like it might be a trap. "You're taking this very seriously."
"Someone has to." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see her flinch. I soften my tone. "Sorry. I just—you're pregnant. With my baby. And I missed seven months of it. So yeah, I'm taking it seriously."
She picks up a piece of bacon, takes a bite. Her eyes close and she makes a noise that does things to my blood pressure that are deeply inappropriate given the circumstances.
"Good?" I ask, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"So good. I've been trying not to eat too much bacon because everyone on the internet says pregnant women shouldn't have nitrates, but this is..." She takes another bite, and there's that noise again. "This is worth the risk."
I file that information away. Bacon: approved. Internet pregnancy advice: questionable. Also note: stop thinking about the noises she makes while eating. That's a dangerous road.
"The internet also says pregnant women shouldn't eat sushi, soft cheese, deli meat, or basically anything enjoyable," I say, sitting down across from her with my coffee. "At a certain point, you have to weigh the risks versus the benefits of actually wanting to eat."
She points her fork at me. "See, this is the kind of practical thinking I can get behind. My pregnancy app sent me a notification last week warning me about the dangers of gardening. Gardening, Trace. Like I'm going to spontaneously develop an interest in landscaping at seven months pregnant."
"Maybe the baby wants you to take up gardening."
"The baby wants me to eat an entire jar of pickles at two a.m. and then immediately regret it. The baby has questionable judgment."
I grin, watching her work her way through the eggs. She eats like someone who's been hungry for a while, which makes me wonder when she last had a proper meal. That granola bar on the plane doesn't count.
"When did you eat last?" I ask. "Like, actually eat. Not snacks."
She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. "Define 'actually eat.'"
"Protein. Vegetables. Things that aren't packaged in convenient, portable formats."
"I had Chinese takeout three days ago. Does that count?"
"Three days ago?"
"I've been busy." She's defensive now, which means I'm right to be concerned. "Packing for the trip, tying up loose ends at work, preparing for the move to Anchorage. It's not like I've been starving myself."
"But you haven't been feeding yourself properly either."
She sets down her fork, and I can see I've pushed a button. "Look, I'm doing the best I can, okay? It's not easy being pregnant alone. Some days I'm so tired I can barely stand up long enough to cook anything. Some days food makes me nauseous. Some days I just—I just survive. That's all I can do."
The anger I felt earlier evaporates, replaced by something that feels suspiciously like guilt. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to criticize. I'm just—"
"Worried," she finishes. "I know. But Trace, you can't come in here and suddenly start managing my life because you're worried. That's not how this works."
"Then tell me how it works," I say, leaning forward. "Because I don't know. I don't know what you need. I don't know what's normal and what's concerning. I don't know if you're supposed to be this tired or if that's a problem. I don't know anything, and it's driving me crazy."
She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Okay. Fair point. How about this—you can ask me things. You can express concern. But you can't make decisions for me. Deal?"
"Deal."
"So," she says finally, pushing her plate back. "What's the plan?"
"Plan?"
"For today. The weekend. This whole..." She gestures between us. "Situation."
Right. Plan. I have one of those. I think.
"I called Dr. Martinez," I say, and watch her eyes narrow dangerously. "She's the doctor from town—delivered Tessa's friend's baby last year, really well-respected. I figured you'd need someone local while you're here, and she had an opening this morning, so—"
"You made me a doctor's appointment?" Her voice is very quiet. Very controlled. The kind of quiet that means I've just stepped on a landmine.
"Well, yeah. I thought—"
"Without asking me?"
"I was being helpful—"
"You were being controlling!" She stands, and I can see the anger radiating off her. "You don't get to make decisions for me, Trace. You don't get to schedule my medical appointments without my permission. That's not help. That's—that's—"
"Smart!" I stand too, because this is apparently happening now. "That's smart! You're seven months pregnant and you just flew across the country, and you don't have a local doctor here and what if something happens? What if you go into early labor? What if—"
"What if I'm a grown woman who's been handling her own medical care for seven months without you?" She's shaking now, hands clenched at her sides. "What if I don't need you swooping in and taking over my life?"
"Someone needs to!" The words burst out before I can stop them.
"You flew across the country alone seven months pregnant!
You didn't tell me about the baby! You were planning to stay in a hotel and apartment hunt and start a new job all by yourself while growing an entire human being!
Forgive me for thinking maybe you could use some help! "
"I don't need your help! I don't need your pity! I don't need you to feel obligated to—"