Chapter 5 #2
"Stop saying that!" I slam my hand on the counter, and she jumps.
I immediately regret it, and force myself to take a breath.
"Stop saying I feel obligated. Stop acting like this is some burden I'm grudgingly accepting.
That's my baby, Patrice. Mine. Not some obligation.
Not some responsibility I'm trying to avoid. Mine."
"You didn't want it seven months ago," she says, and her voice breaks on the words. "You didn't even get my number."
That hits like a punch to the gut. "What?"
"That morning." She's crying now, angry tears streaming down her face. "I woke up early. You were still asleep. And I thought—God, I thought I should leave. Make it easy. Because it was just one night, right? Just fun. Just two people who'd had too much to drink and made a mistake—"
"It wasn't a mistake—"
"I didn't know that!" She's shouting now, and I've never seen her like this—raw, furious, terrified.
"I didn't know if you wanted anything more.
I didn't know if I was just another one-night stand or if—" She stops, wiping at her face.
"I left because I thought I was doing you a favor.
And then I found out I was pregnant, and I thought—why would I tell you?
Why would I trap you with a baby you never asked for? "
The words hang between us, and I can feel my own anger draining away, replaced by something that hurts worse.
"You really thought that?" I ask quietly. "You thought I'd see our baby as a trap?"
"I didn't know what you'd think. We spent one night together, Trace. One night. I don't know you. You don't know me."
"Then let me." I move around the counter, slowly, like approaching something fragile. "Let me know you. Let me be here for this. For you. For the baby."
"Why?" She looks up at me, and her face is so vulnerable it makes my chest ache. "Why do you care so much? Is it just because of the baby? Because you feel like you have to?"
"No." I reach out, hesitate, then gently cup her face in my hands. She doesn't pull away. "I mean, yes, the baby matters. Of course, the baby matters. But Patrice—" I make sure she's looking at me, really looking. "That night meant something to me. You meant something."
She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide.
"I thought about you," I continue, because apparently we're doing this now.
"After you left. I thought about calling Tessa and asking for your number.
I thought about flying to Florida and showing up at your office like some kind of stalker.
I talked myself out of it because I figured you left for a reason. Because you didn't want more."
"I did want more," she whispers. "I was just scared."
"Yeah. Me too."
We stand there in the kitchen, her face in my hands, both of us breathing too hard and staring at each other like we're seeing each other for the first time.
"I'm sorry," I say. "For making the appointment without asking. You're right. That was controlling. I just—I'm terrified, Patrice. I'm terrified I'm going to screw this up. That I'm going to be a terrible father. That I already missed too much and I can't—I can't miss any more."
"You're not going to be a terrible father," she says, and her hands come up to grip my wrists. Not pulling away. Just holding on. "You bake bread and build furniture and you made me the best breakfast I've had in months. You're going to be fine."
"I don't know how to change a diaper."
"Neither do I."
"I don't know what to do when babies cry."
"Join the club."
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to drop it at least once in the first week."
She laughs, watery and beautiful. "Okay, that one's concerning. But we'll work on it."
"We?"
"We." She takes a shaky breath. "I'm scared too. I'm terrified. I've been pretending I have everything under control for seven months, but I don't. I have no idea what I'm doing. And maybe—maybe trying to do this alone was stupid. Maybe I need help. Maybe I need you."
Something in my chest that's been tight since yesterday finally loosens. "You've got me. For all of it. Every appointment, every craving, every middle-of-the-night panic attack. I'm here."
"Even though I'm a mess?"
"Especially because you're a mess. We can be messes together."
She smiles, and it's the first real smile I've seen from her since she arrived. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." She steps back, and my hands fall away from her face. "But you're canceling that doctor's appointment."
"Consider it done."
"And you're not making any more decisions about my medical care without asking me first."
"Understood."
"And—" She pauses, considering. "You're teaching me how to make bacon that good."
I grin. "Deal."
She heads back down the hallway, probably to get dressed, and I lean against the counter, feeling like I just survived something intense and important.
My phone buzzes. A text from Gage.
Gage: You still alive?
Me: Barely. We had a fight.
Gage: About?
Me: I may have scheduled a doctor's appointment without asking her first.
Gage: You idiot.
Me: Yeah, I'm aware.
Gage: Did you apologize?
Me: Groveled, actually.
Gage: Good. Tessa wants to know if Patrice is okay.
Me: Define okay. But yeah. We're figuring it out.
Gage: That's all any of us can do.
I set my phone down and start cleaning up breakfast, feeling lighter than I have since yesterday.
We're figuring it out. Together.
And we're going to be okay.
When Patrice emerges again, she's showered and dressed, looking more put-together than she has any right to after crying in my kitchen.
"So," she says, leaning against the doorframe. "What do we do now?"
I look at her—this strong, stubborn, terrified woman who's carrying my baby and trying so hard to hold everything together—and I know exactly what I need to say.
"Now?" I cross my arms, meeting her eyes. "Now we do this right. You tell me everything. Due date, doctor appointments, what you've been eating, if you've been taking vitamins, all of it. You stop trying to handle everything alone. And I stop trying to control everything."
"That sounds reasonable."
"I'm also probably going to hover. A lot. It's going to be annoying."
"I can handle annoying."
"And I'm going to ask you approximately eight hundred questions about pregnancy because those podcasts I listened to last night were informative but not comprehensive."
"Only eight hundred?"
"Today. Tomorrow I'll have more."
She laughs, and the sound fills the cabin like sunlight. "You know what? I can work with that."
"Good." I push off the counter. "Because I would've been there. For all of it. Every appointment, every milestone, every moment. I missed seven months, Patrice. But I'm damn sure going to be there from now on."
She looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she nods.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Okay."
And for the first time since she told me I'm going to be a father, I feel like we might actually pull this off.
Yeah.
We're going to be okay.