Epilogue - Trace
Trace
Six months later
Brooklyn makes a sound that's half-giggle, half-pterodactyl shriek, and launches a fistful of mashed sweet potato directly at my face.
It hits me square in the left eye.
"Good arm," Patrice observes from her spot at the kitchen table, where she's supposedly working but is actually watching this disaster unfold with barely concealed amusement. "She's got your aim."
I wipe orange goo off my face with a dish towel that's already covered in approximately seventeen other food substances. "She's got your determination. And your timing. She waited until I looked away."
"Strategic."
"Diabolical."
Brooklyn, strapped into her high chair like a tiny orange-covered dictator, grins at me with exactly two teeth and makes grabby hands for the spoon.
Her hair—dark like mine, curly like Patrice's—sticks up in every direction.
She's wearing a bib that says "I'm the boss" which Tessa bought as a joke but has turned out to be disturbingly accurate.
"More?" I ask, loading up the spoon with sweet potato.
She opens her mouth like a baby bird, accepts exactly one bite, then immediately spits it back out onto the tray. The sound effects alone are impressive.
"Why do we even try?" I ask.
"Because the pediatrician said she needs vegetables," Patrice says, not looking up from her laptop. "And because we're optimists who believe that someday she'll actually swallow food instead of wearing it."
"That day is not today."
"That day is never today."
Brooklyn bangs both hands on her high chair tray, which is apparently the signal that mealtime is over and she's ready to move on to her next reign of terror. I wipe her face—she tries to eat the washcloth—and lift her out of the chair.
She's six months old, fifteen pounds of pure chaos, and has somehow become the center of my entire universe.
"I'm going to change her," I announce.
"You changed her last time," Patrice says.
"I change her every time. You have conference calls."
"I had one conference call this week."
"One very important conference call that kept you busy for approximately forty-five minutes during which Brooklyn and I bonded over diaper cream and the philosophical question of why babies find their own feet so fascinating."
Patrice finally looks up from her laptop, grinning. "Are you complaining about diaper duty?"
"I'm bragging about diaper duty. I'm an expert now. I could teach a class. 'Advanced Diaper Changing for Babies Who Won't Stay Still.'"
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm a father. It's the same thing."
I carry Brooklyn to the changing table—the one Gage and I eventually assembled correctly on our third attempt—and somehow manage to get her changed despite her newfound ability to roll over mid-wipe. She thinks it's a game. I think it's a test of my patience and reflexes.
"Done," I announce, lifting her up. "Clean diaper, minimal casualties."
"Define minimal," Patrice calls from the kitchen.
"Only one wipe ended up on the floor instead of in the trash."
"That's actually pretty good for you."
Brooklyn makes another pterodactyl sound and grabs my beard, which has become her favorite toy. I've learned to just accept that my facial hair is community property now.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Text from Gage.
Gage: Picnic at the lake. 2pm. Bring the baby and whatever weird organic food Patrice makes you eat now.
I type back.
Me: We eat normal food.
Gage: You had quinoa last week.
Me: That was one time.
Gage: Tessa made cookies. Normal cookies. With sugar and everything.
Me: We'll be there.
"Gage and Tessa want to do a picnic," I tell Patrice. "Lake. Two o'clock. Apparently there are cookies involved."
She closes her laptop. "I should finish this budget analysis for Marnie."
"The town budget can wait. Tessa's cookies cannot."
"You make a compelling argument."
"I'm very persuasive."
"You're very food-motivated."
"I'm a man of simple needs: my daughter, my girlfriend, and baked goods."
Patrice stands up and stretches. She's wearing one of my flannel shirts over leggings, her hair in a messy bun, no makeup, and she's never looked better.
Six months of motherhood looks good on her.
She's looser now, less wound up about schedules and plans.
Still color-codes Brooklyn's clothes, but she doesn't panic when things don't go according to the spreadsheet anymore.
"Let me get Brooklyn's bag," she says.
"I already packed it."
She stops. "You packed the diaper bag?"
"Diapers, wipes, extra clothes, sunscreen, that hat she hates, three toys, snacks, and the sleep sack she can't sleep without."
"Who are you and what did you do with Trace?"
"I'm Dad Trace. Organized. Plans ahead. Even labels the snack containers."
"Did you pack enough diapers?"
"Six."
"We'll be gone three hours. Pack eight."
"See, this is why we're a good team. I pack, you overpack, and somehow Brooklyn still ends up covered in mysterious substances."
She kisses me—quick and warm—and takes Brooklyn from my arms. "Let's go. Before Gage eats all the cookies."
The lake is perfect. Sunshine, light breeze, water so blue it looks fake. We've got a spot on the shore with a view of the mountains, and Tessa's spread out enough food to feed a small army.
"You made enough for twelve people," I tell her.
"I made enough for Gage," she corrects. "The rest is for you three."
Gage is already working through a sandwich that's roughly the size of his head. "She's not wrong."
Brooklyn is on a blanket in the shade, propped up on her stomach, investigating a leaf with the intense focus of a scientist discovering a new element. She's wearing tiny sunglasses that keep sliding down her nose. Every time they slip, she looks confused and vaguely offended.
"She's getting so big," Tessa says, settling down next to Patrice. "I swear she's grown since last week."
"She's growing out of clothes faster than I can buy them," Patrice says. "Do you know how expensive baby clothes are?"
"Do you know how much Trace spent at the baby store?" Gage asks.
"We don't talk about that," I say quickly.
"Five thousand dollars," Gage continues, because he's a traitor. "In one trip."
"It was necessary," I argue.
"You bought twenty bottles."
"Different nipple flows!"
"She only has one mouth."
Brooklyn chooses this moment to roll onto her back, lose her sunglasses completely, and start giggling at the sky. The sound is pure joy, and it hits me right in the chest like I've been tackled. I'd forgotten what pure joy even sounded like before Brooklyn.
Patrice scoops her up and blows a raspberry on her stomach. More giggling. Brooklyn grabs Patrice's hair and yanks hard enough to make her wince, but Patrice just laughs and carefully untangles the tiny fingers.
"She's got a good grip," Tessa observes.
"She's training to be a wrestler," Patrice says. "Or possibly a dictator. We're not sure yet."
"Why not both?" Gage suggests.
Brooklyn reaches for me, doing the grabby hands that mean "Dad, rescue me from this excessive affection." I take her and she immediately tries to eat my shirt collar.
"Everything's a chew toy," I explain.
"She's teething," Patrice says. "The drool situation is out of control."
"I've seen less drool on actual dogs," I agree.
We eat. Brooklyn manages to get bits of cookie in her hair despite the fact that we didn't actually give her any cookie—she's just that talented.
Gage tells a story about a customer at his shop who wanted a bear carved out of a tree stump but couldn't decide which kind of bear, so Gage carved a bear that looks perpetually confused about its own species.
"I call it 'Existential Crisis Bear,'" he says.
"That's deeply philosophical," Patrice says.
"That's a guy who couldn't make up his mind and now has a four-foot-tall monument to indecision in his yard."
Brooklyn falls asleep on my chest, which is my favorite thing in the entire world. She's warm and heavy and her little hand is curled in my shirt. Her breathing is steady, peaceful. No monitors. No nurses. Just my daughter, sleeping on my chest, trusting me completely to keep her safe.
Six months ago, I was terrified I'd break her. Now I can't imagine life without her.
Patrice catches me staring at Brooklyn and smiles. "What?"
"Just thinking how lucky I am."
"We're both lucky."
"I'm more lucky."
"That's not a competition you can win."
"Watch me."
Tessa and Gage exchange a look—the kind married people share when they're watching their friends figure out what they already know.
"So," Tessa says, way too casual, "have you two talked about making this official?"
Patrice raises an eyebrow. "Making what official?"
"You know. Marriage. Wedding. That thing where you legally bind yourselves together and throw a party about it."
"Subtle," Gage mutters.
"I don't do subtle," Tessa says cheerfully. "Life's too short. And you two are clearly endgame, so why wait?"
Patrice looks at me. I look at Brooklyn, who's drooling on my shirt. Then I look back at Patrice.
"She's not wrong," I say.
"About which part?"
"The endgame part. The making it official part. The party part."
"Are you proposing?"
"I'm testing the waters."
"That's the worst proposal ever."
"Good thing it's not actually a proposal then." I shift Brooklyn slightly so I can reach for Patrice's hand. "But for the record, I've been thinking about it. A lot. Like, constantly."
"Constantly?" She's trying not to smile and failing.
"Every day. Sometimes multiple times per day. Usually when Brooklyn does something cute, or when you're working and biting your pencil because you're concentrating, or when we're grocery shopping and you reorganize the cart by food groups."
"That's efficient."
"That's adorable. And also slightly controlling, but I love that about you."
"This is the weirdest pre-proposal I've ever heard," Tessa whispers to Gage.
"Let him work," Gage whispers back.