Page 15 of Pregnant in Plaid
Gage walks into my line of sight and leans against the woodpile, arms crossed, watching me like I'm a science experiment that's about to either succeed spectacularly or explode. Given my current state, explosion feels more likely.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks.
"No."
"Want to keep destroying my winter firewood supply?"
"Yes."
"Fair enough." He doesn't move, just keeps watching me work through my existential crisis one log at a time. This is why Gage is my best friend—he understands that sometimes a man needs to obliterate lumber before he can process emotions.
I swing again. The log splits clean down the middle, both halves flying in opposite directions like they're trying to escape the sheer force of my panic.
"She looks good," Gage offers after a minute. "Pregnant suits her."
I nearly drop the axe. "Don't."
"Just saying. Tessa thinks?—"
"I don't care what Tessa thinks right now." The words come out harsher than I intend, and I immediately feel like an asshole. "Sorry. That's not—I didn't mean?—"
"I know." Gage shifts his weight, considering his next words carefully. "You know you're going to have to talk to her eventually, right? Patrice. Not Tessa. Though probably Tessa too, since you're definitely on her shit list right now."
"I know."
"Running away to chop wood is a solid short-term strategy, but long-term?—"
"I'maware, Gage." I set up another log with moreforce than necessary. "I just need a minute to wrap my head around the fact that I'm going to be a father. That's not exactly a small piece of information to process."
"You'd have had more time if you'd gotten her number."
I glare at him. "Not helping."
"Wasn't trying to help. Was pointing out facts." He grins—actually grins—like this whole situation is somehow amusing instead of catastrophically life-altering. "Though for what it's worth, you're handling it better than I expected."
"Better than what? Passing out? Throwing up? Running screaming into the forest?"
"All of the above, actually. Thought there was a fifty-fifty chance you'd bolt."
The axe comes down hard enough that it sticks in the chopping block, and I have to wrestle it free. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good answer." Gage straightens up, brushing wood chips off his jacket. "Because that woman just flew across the country seven months pregnant to be here for Tessa's wedding, even though she knew she'd have to face you. That takes guts."
He's right. Of course he's right. Gage is annoyingly right about most things, which is why I usually trust his judgment even when I want to argue.
But right now, all I can think about is Patrice standing in the snow, shaking and pale andterrified, shouting that I'm the father of her child like it was both an accusation and a plea for help.
And I just... walked away.
Walked away to chop wood like a Neanderthal working through feelings.
"I'm an idiot," I mutter.
"Little bit, yeah," Gage agrees cheerfully. "But you'remyidiot, so let's go inside before you freeze to death and I have to explain to your kid why their father died of hypothermia and emotional constipation."
I look down at myself and realize I've been out here long enough that my fingers are numb, my breath is coming out in visible puffs, and I can't feel my ears anymore. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since I started my therapeutic wood-murder session.
"How long have I been out here?" I ask.
