Page 1 of Pregnant in Plaid
Prologue
Patrice
The fluorescent lights in the bathroom buzz like angry bees trapped in a Mason jar, and I'm pretty sure the universe is laughing at me right now. Like, full-on cackling with tears streaming down its cosmic face.
I stare at the little plastic stick balanced on the edge of the sink like it's a bomb that might detonate if I blink wrong. Two pink lines. Bold, defiant, absolutely certain of themselves. They're not faint or questionable or maybe-if-you-squint-and-pray hopeful. Nope. These lines showed up to the party with confidence, a megaphone, and zero plans to leave quietly.
"This is fine," I whisper to my reflection, which looks pale, sweaty, and deeply unconvinced. "Everything is fine. I'm fine. We're all fine."
Narrator voice in my head: She was not, in fact, fine.
I grip the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles go white, forcing myself to take slow, measured breathslike I learned in that one yoga class I took before deciding downward dog was actually just advanced punishment. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. In. Out. Don't pass out in the office bathroom because that's how rumors start and HR gets involved.
My phone buzzes on the counter—probably another email about quarterly projections or expense reports—and I ignore it because right now, spreadsheets are the least of my problems. Numbers I can handle. Numbers make sense. Numbers don't look at you with two pink lines and smugly announce they're about to upend your entire carefully planned existence.
But this? This doesn't compute.
I'm Patrice Henley. Director of Finance. Youngest person to make senior management at my company. I have a five-year plan, a ten-year plan, and a retirement plan that involves a villa in Tuscany and at least three well-behaved cats named after famous economists. I color-code my closet. I alphabetize my spice rack. I've never missed a deadline in my life.
And now I'm pregnant.
Pregnant.
The word bounces around my skull like a pinball, hitting every anxiety button on the way down. Pregnant means baby. Baby means diapers and daycare and those weird squeeze pouches of pureed vegetables. Baby means my life is no longer mine—it belongsto someone else who doesn't even exist yet but has already hijacked my body like a tiny, adorable terrorist.
I press my palm flat against my still-flat stomach, half-expecting to feel something. Movement, maybe. Or a tiny kick of acknowledgment. But there's nothing. Just me, my hand, and the vague sensation that I might throw up again.
"Okay," I mutter, straightening my blazer and trying to channel the version of myself who once presented a budget proposal to the board without breaking a sweat. "Let's review the facts. Logically. Calmly."
Fact one: I'm about eight weeks pregnant. Give or take. The app I downloaded in a panic this morning says I'm the size of a raspberry, which feels both impossibly small and utterly terrifying.
Fact two: The father is a man I spent exactly one night with. One incredible, life-altering, why-don't-rom-coms-prepare-you-for-this kind of night.
Fact three: I have no idea how to contact him because I'm an idiot who didn't get his number, didn't ask for his last name, and definitely didn't think, Hey, maybe I should exchange contact info with this man in case of, oh I don't know, UNEXPECTED PREGNANCY.
I close my eyes and let the memory wash over me—not because I want to, but because my brain apparently thinks now is a great time for a highlight reel.
Two months ago
Ashwood Falls, Alaska.
I'm standing in Tessa's kitchen—well, technically Gage's kitchen, but since she moved in, it's become their kitchen in that nauseating way that makes single people want to gag and swoon simultaneously. She's pouring wine like her life depends on it, grinning at me with that stupidly happy glow people get when they're disgustingly in love.
"I can't believe you're actually here!" Tessa squeals, nearly sloshing Pinot Grigio onto the counter. "My best friend, in Alaska! Visiting me! Meeting Gage! This is like a rom-com come to life!"
"Please don't make this weird," I say, accepting the glass and taking a very large sip because I already know this trip is going to be weird. Tessa moved to Alaska after a disastrous engagement implosion and somehow ended up with a mountain man who carves bears out of wood and looks like he stepped off the cover of Lumberjack Quarterly. If that's not weird, I don't know what is.
Gage walks in then—big, bearded, flannel-wrapped—and nods at me with the kind of quiet intensity that probably makes small woodland creatures nervous. "Good to finally meet you," he says. "Tessa talks about you constantly."
"All good things, I hope," I reply.
"Mostly," he deadpans, and I like him immediately.
"We're going out tonight!" Tessa announces, bouncing on her toes like an overexcited puppy. "Drinks, dancing, the whole thing. Gage's best friend is coming too. You'll love him."
I raise an eyebrow. "Is this a setup?"
"No!" Tessa says, way too quickly. Then, "Maybe. A little. But in a fun, no-pressure way!"
