Chapter 14 #2
A sharp pain slices through my lower back, so sudden and intense that I grab the counter to keep from falling. It radiates around to the front, tightening like a vice, and for a second I can't breathe.
Then it passes.
"Okay," I say to my reflection. "That was new."
Probably another Braxton Hicks contraction. I've been having them on and off for days. Nothing to worry about.
I head back to the living room, where Tessa's scrolling through her phone.
"You okay?" she asks, looking up. "You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just—" Another contraction hits, stronger this time. I press my hand to my belly and breathe through it. "Just practicing for the real thing, apparently."
Tessa's on her feet immediately. "How close together are they?"
"I don't know. They just started." I wave her off. "Probably just Braxton Hicks. I've been having them for days."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." I force a smile. "I promise, if anything feels wrong, I'll say something."
She doesn't look convinced, but she sits back down on the couch. "Okay. But I'm watching you."
"Noted."
We spend the next few hours in careful conversation, avoiding the Trace-shaped elephant in the room. Tessa tells me about the wedding, about the funny moments I missed. About how Marnie from the general store got tipsy and started giving unsolicited marriage advice to everyone.
I laugh in the right places. Make the appropriate responses. But my mind is elsewhere.
Around nine, Gage declares he's heading to bed—meaning claiming the couch for the night—and Tessa starts yawning.
"You should sleep," I tell her. "You've had a long day."
"So have you."
"Yeah, but I'm going to be up half the night anyway. Might as well get comfortable with my insomnia now."
She hesitates. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Go. Sleep. Enjoy your bed while you have it."
She hugs me carefully. "If you need anything—"
"I'll wake you up. Promise."
She disappears into the bedroom, and I'm left alone in the living room doom scrolling on my phone. I wait until I hear Gage's soft snores from the couch where he's already settled in for the night, then I quietly grab my suitcase and wheel it to the bed, trying not to make noise.
The bedroom is small but cozy, with a king bed that takes up most of the space. Tessa's already curled up on one side, and I carefully lower myself onto the other, trying not to jostle the mattress too much.
But sleep won't come.
I lie there in the dark, one hand on my belly, thinking about everything that happened today. The fight. The things Trace said. The things I said.
The look on his face when I told him I was leaving.
I reach for my suitcase on the floor and pull out the tiny onesie I bought a few days ago at that baby store in Anchorage. It's white with a little bear on it, and when I saw it, I couldn't resist. It was so Alaska. So perfectly, ridiculously Alaska.
I hold it up in the dim light filtering through the curtains. It's so small. Hard to believe an actual human will fit into this in a few weeks.
My baby. Mine and Trace's.
The question sits heavy in my chest—what am I doing?
Running back to Florida? Back to a life that doesn't exist anymore? Lauren offered to help me get my old job, sure, but is that really what I want? Spreadsheets and quarterly reports and pretending the last two weeks never happened?
Staying here means uncertainty. A man who might love me or might just feel obligated. A tiny town in Alaska where I don't have a job or a plan or anything resembling stability.
The onesie presses against my chest. Terrified doesn't even begin to cover it.
Not of Alaska. Not of being a single mom. Not even of the uncertainty.
Staying and having it not work out—that's what keeps me awake. Letting myself believe in something good and watching it fall apart. That's the fear that makes my hands shake.
And there's more. The way Trace looked at me when I left—like I'd broken something fundamental between us—keeps replaying in my mind. He told me he loved me. Twice. And I essentially told him I didn't believe him.
He probably hates me now.
Even if he doesn't, even if he could forgive me, how do I come back from that? The words I'd need to say—I'm sorry, I was wrong, I love you—feel impossible. Like trying to speak after swallowing glass.
Leaving is the right choice. The only choice. Back to Florida, have the baby, figure out some kind of custody arrangement. People do it all the time.
The lie tastes bitter.
I carefully fold the onesie and tuck it back into my suitcase. Tomorrow, I'll get on a plane. I'll go home. I'll move on.
Tonight, I'll just lie here and try not to think about what I'm leaving behind.
The contraction wakes me from a fitful sleep.
For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't Trace's bed, isn't his cabin—and then I remember. Tessa's cabin. The fight. The plan to leave in the morning.
The contraction tightens like a fist around my middle, and I bite my lip to keep from making noise. The clock on the nightstand reads 1:47 AM.
Just Braxton Hicks. Has to be. It’s too early for labor.
But this one feels different. Stronger. More focused.
I wait for it to pass, breathing slowly, then carefully slide out of bed. Tessa doesn't stir. I grab my phone and tiptoe out of the bedroom, not wanting to wake her.
The contractions have been coming and going all evening, but I thought they'd stopped. Apparently not.
Another one hits as I'm crossing the living room, and I have to grip the back of the couch to stay upright. Gage is sprawled across it, dead to the world, one arm hanging off the side.
I breathe through the contraction, counting in my head. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A full minute before it releases.
That's not normal.
I make my way to the bathroom and close the door quietly behind me. The last thing I need is to wake everyone up over false labor. I'll just—I'll wait it out. Splash some water on my face. Calm down.
I turn on the tap and run cold water over my wrists, an old anxiety trick my mom taught me. The shock of cold always helped.
Another contraction builds, and this one makes me grab the counter. It's stronger. Sharper. There's pressure low in my pelvis that wasn't there before.
"Okay," I whisper to my reflection. "This is fine. Everything is fine."
And then I feel it.
The gush of fluid that soaks through my pajamas and pools on the bathroom floor.
My water just broke.
"No," I breathe. "No, no, no. It's too early. This can't be—"
Another contraction hits, harder than all the others, and I can't hold back the cry of pain.
"Tessa!" My voice comes out as a shriek. "Tessa!"
Within seconds, the bathroom door bursts open. Tessa appears, wild-eyed and confused, with Gage right behind her.
"What's wrong?" Tessa asks, then sees the floor. "Oh my God. Is that—"
"My water broke." I'm shaking, tears streaming down my face. "It's too early. The baby's not supposed to come for six more weeks. I did this. The fight with Trace, the stress, I did this—"
"Stop." Gage is suddenly all business, stepping past Tessa. "Can you walk?"
"I—yes. Maybe. I don't—" Another contraction cuts me off, and I double over.
"That's a no." He scoops me up like I weigh nothing, which is a minor miracle considering I'm currently the size of a small whale. "Tessa, grab her shoes and coat. We're going to the ER. Now."
"I'll call Trace," Tessa says, already moving.
"No!" I grab her arm. "Don't. He doesn't want to—"
"He absolutely wants to," Gage cuts me off. "Call him."
He carries me through the cabin, moving fast, and suddenly we're outside in the freezing night air. The cold hits my face like a slap.
"Keys are in my coat pocket," Gage tells Tessa as she rushes ahead to open the truck door.
She helps him ease me into the front seat, and I'm hit by another contraction before I can even buckle my seatbelt. I cry out, gripping the door handle.
"How far apart are they?" Gage asks, already starting the engine.
"I don't—two minutes? Three?"
"Shit." He floors it, the truck fishtailing slightly on the snowy road before the tires catch.
Tessa's in the back seat, phone pressed to her ear. "Come on, pick up, pick up—Trace? It's Tessa. Patrice is in labor. Her water broke. We're heading to the hospital now... No, I'm serious... Trace, you need to come. Now."
I can't hear his response, but Tessa's expression softens. "She needs you," she says quietly. Then, "We'll be there in ten minutes. Drive safe."
She hangs up and sit forward in her seat to look at me. "He's on his way."
I want to argue. Want to say he doesn't need to come, that I can do this alone. But another contraction steals my breath, and all I can do is grip the seat and try to breathe.
"That's it," Tessa coaches. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. You've got this."
"It's too early," I sob. "What if something's wrong? What if the baby—"
"The baby is going to be fine," Gage says firmly, taking a turn way too fast. "Dr. Martinez is the best. And babies born early do really well. You hear me? Everything's going to be fine."
I want to believe him. I do. But terror has wrapped around my chest like a vice, squeezing tighter with each contraction.
The hospital lights appear ahead, bright and stark against the dark sky. Gage pulls up to the ER entrance and throws the truck into park.
"Stay here," he tells Tessa. "I've got her."
He's out of the truck and opening my door before I can protest, lifting me out with the same efficiency he probably used in combat situations.
"I can walk," I manage.
"Not fast enough." He's already moving toward the entrance, where a nurse is rushing out with a wheelchair.
"How far apart are the contractions?" the nurse asks as Gage sets me carefully in the chair.
"Two minutes, maybe less," Gage answers when I can't.
"Water broke?"
"About ten minutes ago."
The nurse nods, already pushing me through the automatic doors. "We've got you. You're going to be okay."
Another contraction rips through me, and I cry out, gripping the wheelchair arms.
Tessa appears beside me, holding my hand. "You're doing great. Just breathe."
"Is Trace—" I gasp between breaths. "Did he say—"
"He's on his way," Tessa assures me. "He'll be here soon."
"I need him." The words come out broken, desperate. "Tessa, I need him here. I'm so scared. I can't—I can't do this without him."
"You won't have to," she says firmly. "He's coming. He'll be here."
Another contraction rips through me, stronger than all the others.
Somewhere out there in the dark, Trace is racing through the snow.
Please let him get here in time.