Chapter 7 #2
"Want me to—" I stop. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You were going to offer something."
"It's fine."
She sits up, looking suspicious. "What were you going to offer, Trace?"
"Massage," I admit. "But that's—we don't have to—"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, please massage my back before I die from pregnancy spine compression." She rotates, presenting her back to me. "Just—nothing weird."
"Nothing weird," I agree, even though touching her feels like the definition of weird given our situation.
But I move behind her on the couch anyway, and carefully—so carefully—press my thumbs into the muscles along her spine.
She makes a sound that might be a whimper.
"Too hard?" I ask.
"Perfect. Don't stop."
So, I don't stop. I work my thumbs up her spine, feeling the knots, the tension she's carrying. She's tight everywhere—shoulders, lower back, that spot between her shoulder blades.
"You're really good at this," she mumbles, half-asleep already.
"SEALs get training in field medicine. Includes basic massage for muscle injuries."
"Remind me to thank the Navy later."
I work on a particularly stubborn knot at the base of her neck, and she actually moans.
"Right there. Oh my god, right there."
Do not think about the last time she made sounds like that. Do not think about—
Too late. I'm thinking about it. About that night. About her under me, gasping my name, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Trace?" She turns her head slightly. "You okay?"
"Fine," I manage. "Just—you had a really stubborn knot."
"Had?"
"It's gone now."
She rotates to face me, and we're suddenly very close. Close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose. Close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches—
"Thank you," she says softly.
"Anytime."
And I mean it. I'll massage her back every day if it means she makes those sounds of relief. Even if it kills me.
Especially if it kills me.
That night, we end up on the couch watching the fire. She came out of the kitchen looking restless, I was reading a pregnancy book, and somehow we ended up here together.
"Tell me about Alaska," she says. "Why here instead of Virginia Beach?"
"My mom was from Ashwood Falls. She grew up here." I poke at the fire. "When I got out of the Navy, I wanted somewhere quiet. Remembered her stories about this place. Found this property for sale five years ago and it felt right."
"She never brought you here?"
"Once. When I was seven. But she moved to Virginia when she married my dad, and he never wanted to come back." I pause. "After she died, coming here felt like understanding where she came from. Who she was before she was just my mom."
"I get that," Patrice says quietly. "My parents died when I was twenty-two. Car accident. I kept finding little pieces of their lives afterward—recipes, labeled tools. Glimpses of who they were."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." She pulls her blanket tighter. "Do you miss the SEAL stuff?"
"Sometimes. Miss the team, the purpose." I lean back. "But I don't miss the violence. Don't miss wondering if I'd make it home." I pause. "Don't miss being alone."
She's quiet. "Tell me about your work. The carpentry."
"It's good work. Honest." I lean back. "You build something, it stays built. After years of destroying things in the service, it feels good to create instead."
"And you just do furniture?"
"Custom pieces mostly. Cabinets, tables, bedroom sets. Whatever people need. Keeps me busy." I glance at her. "What about you? What was the job you lost?"
"Director of Finance for a logging company. Or was supposed to be." She pulls the blanket tighter. "Before that I was at a marketing firm in Hibiscus Harbor. That's where I lived—small town on Florida's East Coast."
"You liked it there?"
"I did. Had my life figured out. Or thought I did." She touches her stomach. "Then this happened."
"Could be worse timing. Could've been during a zombie apocalypse."
She laughs.
We sit as the fire burns lower, and I'm acutely aware of her. The way she keeps adjusting, trying to get comfortable. The way she absently rubs her stomach.
"What happens next?" she asks quietly. "After the wedding. After the baby. What does this look like?"
"I don't know. But I know what I want it to look like."
"What's that?"
"This." I gesture between us. "You here. Me here. The baby here. Us figuring it out together."
"That simple?"
"That complicated. But yeah. That simple too."
She doesn't speak for a long moment. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That I'll stay and it won't work. That I'll leave and regret it. That I'm not enough."
"Patrice." I wait until she looks at me. "You're already enough. Coming here, telling me, showing up—that takes guts. You're braver than you think."
Her eyes shine in the firelight. "You don't know that."
"I do. You flew here seven months pregnant to tell me the truth. You kept our baby safe. You reorganized my kitchen even though your back hurt. You're scared, but you're doing it anyway. That's brave."
"You're good at pep talks."
"Should've been part of SEAL training."
She smiles, and the sound makes me want things I shouldn't want.
"I should go to bed," she says, standing slowly. "Long day tomorrow."
"More kitchen reorganizing?"
She laughs softly. "Maybe. If you're lucky."
She pauses at the hallway. "Trace?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight."
"Anytime."
She disappears into the guest room, and I stay on the couch staring at the dying fire.
Two weeks to convince her to stay.
Two weeks to figure out how to let her go if she decides to leave.
Saturday morning, I wake to find her in the doorway of the spare bedroom—the one I cleared out two nights ago.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Looking at the space." She touches her stomach. "It's a good size for a nursery."
"Yeah?" Hope flares in my chest. "You think so?"
"I mean—" She catches herself. "If someone were to use it for that. Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," I agree.
She turns to look at me. "Do you have a crib?"
"No. But I could build one."
"You can build a crib?"
"I build furniture for a living, Patrice. A crib is just a very small bed with bars."
She grins. "When you put it that way..."
"Want to help me design it?"
The question hangs between us. Designing a crib together means planning. Planning means staying.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Yeah. Let's design a crib."
We spend the morning sketching plans at my kitchen table. She has strong opinions about height, slat spacing, drawers underneath.
"Safety standards," she explains. "The slats can't be more than two and three-eighths inches apart."
"You researched this."
"I've been pregnant for months. I've researched everything." She shows me her phone. "Do you know how many things can kill a baby? It's terrifying."
"We'll make it safe," I promise. "Safest crib in Alaska."
By lunch, we have a design. By dinner, I'm cutting wood in my workshop while she sits on a low, stable stool and watches.
"You're good at this," she says.
"Had a lot of practice."
"How long have you been doing carpentry?"
"Since I got out. Needed something to do with my hands that wasn't—" I stop.
"Wasn't what?"
"Violent," I admit. "Coming home, you have to retrain yourself. Figure out how to use those skills for something productive."
She's quiet. "That must have been hard."
"It was." I set down the saw. "But this helps. Building things. Creating instead of destroying. I learned from Gage."
Her eyes shine in the workshop light. "You're good at it."
"Thanks." I turn back to the wood. "The crib should be done in a few days if I work on it each night."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I look at her. "For the baby. For you. I want to."
She touches her stomach, and I see the moment she stops fighting it.
"Okay," she whispers.
That night, I find her in the kitchen crying.
Quietly, but her shoulders are shaking.
"Hey." I'm across the room in seconds. "What's wrong? Is it the baby?"
"No, I'm—" She wipes her face. "I'm fine. Just hormones."
"Patrice."
"I'm fine."
I sit next to her. "Talk to me."
Long pause. Then: "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"All of it. The birth. Being a mom. What if I'm terrible at it?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that. You don’t even know me."
"I do. You're already putting this baby first." I reach for her hand. "That's what makes a good parent. Not having all the answers. Just showing up."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then you mess up. We both will." I squeeze her hand. "But we'll figure it out together."
She stares at our hands. "Why are you so calm?"
"I'm not. I'm terrified." I laugh. "I've been up every night reading. Do you know how many swaddling techniques exist? It's excessive."
She laughs through tears. "How many?"
"At least seven. I stopped counting." I hand her a tissue. "Point is, we're both scared. But at least we can be scared together."
She squeezes my hand. "Together."
"Yeah."
She leans her head on my shoulder, and we sit in the quiet kitchen until she calms down.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
"Anytime."
Because somewhere between her showing up pregnant and now, this stopped being about obligation.
This became about her.
Sunday night—our last night before the week really starts rolling toward the wedding—we end up on the couch again. It's becoming our thing, I realize. The fire, the quiet, her curled up on one end while I read or work.
Tonight, I'm reading the pregnancy book. She's supposedly napping, but her breathing hasn't evened out yet. She's awake.
"Trace?" she says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Read to me?"
I look up. "From the pregnancy book?"
"Yeah. I want to know what you're learning."
So I read to her about the third trimester. About contractions and how the baby is developing now. About what to expect in the coming weeks as we get closer to the due date.
Her hand rests on her stomach the whole time, and I watch her face as I read. Watch the way her expression softens when I describe how the baby can hear voices now. Watch her smile when I mention that the baby is probably already recognizing familiar sounds.
"That means the baby knows your voice," she says.
"Maybe."
"Definitely. You've been talking around me for days."
"Talking to you," I correct. "Not around you."
"Either way." She shifts, getting comfortable. "Keep reading."
So I do. I read until she actually does fall asleep, curled up with her hand on her stomach and a small smile on her face.
And I let myself imagine this is our life. Not just for a week or a month, but forever.
Her here. Me here. The baby between us.
A family.
God, I want that. I want it so badly it aches.
Not much time until the wedding.
Not much time to show her this could work.