Chapter 7
Trace
She's been here since yesterday, and I've already learned that pregnant women need to pee constantly.
Not that I'm complaining. Just—science should probably study this.
I'm at my kitchen table pretending to review blueprints for the Johnsons' addition when Patrice emerges from the bathroom for what has to be the eighth time this morning.
Her hair's piled in a messy knot, she's wearing one of my flannels over leggings, and she looks both adorable and like she might murder me if I point that out.
"Don't," she warns, catching me looking.
"Don't what?" I ask innocently.
"Whatever you were about to say about my bladder."
"Wasn't going to say anything about your bladder." I was totally going to say something about her bladder.
"You had that look."
"What look?"
"That look men get when they think something is cute and they're deciding whether to risk death by mentioning it." She waddles—there's no other word for it—to the coffee maker and pours herself decaf. "The answer is no. Always no."
"Noted," I say, biting back a grin.
She settles into the chair across from me with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in her soul. "How do you work from home without going insane?"
"Who says I'm not insane?"
"Fair point. You did let a pregnant stranger move into your cabin."
"You're not a stranger," I say, and something shifts in her expression. "You're the mother of my kid."
Before she can respond—before either of us can examine that statement too closely—her phone rings.
She glances at the screen, and her whole face lights up. "It's my new boss. Hold on." She answers, all professional brightness. "This is Patrice. Hi, David! Yes, I'm—"
She stops. Listens. And I watch her face go from excited to confused to absolutely stricken in the space of about ten seconds.
"What do you mean shut down?" Her voice pitches higher. "But I signed the contract. I already gave notice at—" She pauses. "State investigation? No, I—I understand it's not your fault, but—"
She's gone pale. Completely pale. Her hand moves to her stomach, that protective gesture she does when she's stressed.
"My signing bonus?" Her laugh sounds broken. "No, no, I understand. Legal fees. Right. Of course." Another pause. "Sure. Yes. Thank you for letting me know."
She ends the call and just sits there, staring at her phone like it might spontaneously combust.
"Patrice?"
"The company's gone." Her voice is flat.
Emotionless. Which is somehow worse than if she'd been crying.
"State shut them down for fraud. Apparently the CEO was running some kind of pyramid scheme and it all collapsed yesterday.
The job's gone. The signing bonus I was counting on for—" She places both hands on her stomach. "Gone. All of it."
Shit.
"Okay," I say carefully. "That's—"
"I have no job." She's still staring at the phone.
"No insurance. The apartment lease I am supposed to sign in Anchorage starts on Monday and I can't afford it without the job.
Tessa's wedding is next weekend, and I have exactly two thousand dollars in savings and—" Her voice cracks. "I'm having a baby in eight weeks."
"Patrice—"
"I'm so stupid." She puts her phone down with shaking hands. "I thought I had it figured out. Thought I could do this on my own. Be independent. Not need anyone. And now I'm—" She makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "I'm that statistic. Single mom with no job and no plan and—"
"Stop."
She looks up at me, eyes shining.
"First of all," I say firmly, "you're not stupid. You got screwed by a criminal who's probably going to federal prison. That's not on you."
"But I should have—"
"Should have what? Run a full financial investigation on the company before accepting a job? Patrice, that's not how normal people operate." I move my chair closer, reaching for her hand. "And second, you're not alone. You have me."
"Trace—"
"Let me finish." I take a breath. These thoughts have been spinning since yesterday—time to get them out.
"You're here. In Alaska. The baby's going to be born here at Ashwood Falls Medical.
You've already got Dr. Martinez. The nursery down the hall—" The one I stayed up until 2am last night clearing out. "—has space for a crib."
"I can't just—"
"Stay." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "Stay here. In Ashwood Falls. In this cabin. You don't need to figure everything out right now. Just—" I squeeze her hand. "Stay for Tessa's wedding. See how it feels. And then we'll figure out next steps together."
"Together," she repeats, like she's testing the word.
"Yeah. Together. As in, you're not doing this alone anymore whether you like it or not."
She stares at me for a long moment. "You're offering me your cabin."
"Our cabin," I correct. "If you want it."
"Trace, that's—that's insane. We barely know each other."
"We're having a baby together. We're going to know each other real well real soon." I give her my best reasonable expression. "Besides, where else are you going to go? Try to find another job seven months pregnant?"
"I could—" She stops. "Okay, I don't actually have a counter-argument."
"Because it's a good plan."
"It's an insane plan."
"Best kind," I say. "Look, I'm not asking you to marry me or sign a lease or anything. Just—stay. At least through the wedding. See how it goes. No pressure."
"No pressure," she says skeptically. "You're offering me a room in your cabin and you're the father of my baby and there's no pressure."
"Okay, some pressure. But manageable pressure. Like—" I search for an analogy. "Like a nice weighted blanket instead of, I don't know, an anvil."
She laughs. Actually laughs, and the tension in my chest releases.
"A weighted blanket," she says.
"They're very therapeutic."
"You're ridiculous."
"Is that a yes?"
She looks around my kitchen—at the coffee maker with decaf already in it, the crackers I left out because I noticed she was queasy in the mornings, the prenatal vitamins next to her plate.
"I have to think about it," she says finally.
Not a no. I'll take it.
"Fair enough," I say. "But you'll stay through the wedding, right? Tessa would kill me if you left before next weekend."
"Yeah." She manages a small smile. "I'll stay through the wedding."
"Good." I stand, grabbing my coffee mug. "Want some breakfast? I make excellent scrambled eggs."
"You made me eggs yesterday."
"And they were excellent."
"They were good," she admits.
"Excellent," I correct.
"Don't push your luck, MacKenzie."
But she's smiling when she says it, and that feels like progress.
Turns out, having Patrice in my cabin means learning that pregnant women snack at random hours.
Two in the morning? Goldfish crackers.
Four in the afternoon? String cheese.
Nine at night? Peanut butter from the jar.
I find her at 11pm Thursday eating cereal dry from a mixing bowl.
"Hi," she says, looking guilty. "I know it's weird."
"It's not weird," I lie.
"I'm eating Froot Loops from a mixing bowl at eleven at night."
"Lots of people do that."
"Name one."
"College students. Pregnant women." I grab the box and pour some into a regular bowl. "See? Normal."
She watches me crunch dry Froot Loops. "You don't have to humor me."
"I'm not humoring you. I'm eating cereal." I crunch another handful. "Though the mixing bowl is a choice."
"More Froot Loops fit."
"Can't argue with that."
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For not making me feel like a disaster."
"You're not a disaster."
"I'm unemployed, pregnant, and eating cereal from a mixing bowl past bedtime."
"You're between jobs, growing a human, and practicing optimal Froot Loop consumption," I correct. "It's all about perspective."
She laughs, and I'm already planning tomorrow's Froot Loop restock.
"Go to bed," I tell her gently. "The Froot Loops will be here tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"On my honor as a former SEAL."
She rolls her eyes but puts the mixing bowl in the sink. "Goodnight, Trace."
"Night, Patrice."
I watch her waddle—definitely waddling now—back toward the guest room, and I'm already mentally making a note to stock up on Froot Loops tomorrow.
Friday morning, I find her reorganizing my kitchen.
Every cabinet is open, contents spread across counters, and she's on a stepstool reaching for the top shelf.
"Whoa!" I'm across the kitchen in three steps, hands on her waist. "What the hell are you doing up there?"
She doesn't even look down. "Your kitchen makes no sense."
"Get down. Now." I help her off the stool, heart hammering. "You're seven months pregnant. No ladders, no stools, no—"
"It's a stepstool, Trace. I'm not climbing Everest."
"I don't care if it's six inches off the ground." I move the stool away from her. "You need something from a high shelf, you ask me."
She crosses her arms. "Your kitchen makes no sense."
"My kitchen makes perfect sense."
"You keep plates farthest from the dishwasher. Your spices aren't alphabetized."
"Spices are supposed to be alphabetized?"
"Yes! And your pots should be hanging, not in a bottom cabinet." She points to the unused pot rack. "Why have a rack if you won't use it?"
"Because I put the pots in the cabinet."
"But it's inefficient!"
"Maybe I like inefficiency."
"No one likes inefficiency." She climbs down. "I'm nesting. Tessa warned me. So, unless you want me color-coding your sock drawer, let me fix your kitchen."
I look at the chaos—seventeen spice jars, three types of pasta, alarming amounts of hot sauce.
"Alphabetize away."
"Really?"
"Really. Just don't throw out the hot sauce."
"It's six years old!"
"Still good."
"Everything goes bad, Trace."
"Not hot sauce."
She mutters something about typical men and goes back to reorganizing.
Two hours later, every cabinet is closed, counters clear, and Patrice is sprawled on my couch looking exhausted.
"Kitchen's done," she announces.
"Looks good."
"Looks organized." She stretches, wincing. "My back is killing me."