Page 17 of Pregnant in Plaid
"All of it." I move closer to the table, slowly, like approaching a spooked animal. "But mostly for walking away just now. That was—I shouldn't have done that."
"You needed a minute." Her tone is flat, emotionless, and somehow that's worse than if she'd yelled. "I get it."
"No, you don't." I pull out the chair across from her and sit down, even though Tessa looks like she wants to physically throw me back outside. "What Ineededwas to be there for you. To stay. To have a conversation like an actual adult instead of running off to commit violence against innocent lumber."
That gets a tiny huff that might be a laugh. Might be. Hard to tell.
"The lumber had it coming," she mutters into her mug.
"Did it though?"
"Probably not." She finally looks up, and her eyes are red-rimmed like she's been crying. That knife in my chest twists deeper.
"Look, Trace, I don't expect anything from you. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel obligated or trapped or?—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to, and both women flinch. I soften my voice, try again. "Please. Just... let me talk for a minute."
Patrice nods slowly, warily, like she's waiting for me to bolt again.
I take a breath. "I'm terrified. Absolutely, completely terrified. I don't know the first thing about being a father. I don't know how to change a diaper or burp a baby or any of that stuff parents are supposed to know. I don't even know if I'd be any good at it."
"Trace—"
"But." I lean forward, making sure she can see my face, see that I mean every word. "I'm not going anywhere. That's my kid. Our kid. And you flew across the country seven months pregnant to be here for your best friend's wedding, even though you knew you'd have to face me. That's braver than anything I've ever done, and I'm not about to let you do this alone."
The kitchen is silent except for the crackling fire and the sound of Gage's coffee maker gurgling in the background.
Patrice stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then her bottom lip starts to tremble, and oh God, she's going to cry again, and I have no idea what to do about that.
"Don't," I say quickly. "Please don't cry. I can't—I don't handle crying well. I'll panic and say something stupid, and then Tessa will throw something at my head, and?—"
"You really don't know how to change a diaper?" Patrice asks, and there's something almost like amusement in her voice.
"Not even a little bit. I've never even held a baby. They seem fragile."
"They are fragile."
"See? Already terrified." I run a hand through my hair. "But I'll learn. I'll read books. Watch YouTube videos. Take classes if they exist. Whatever it takes."
Tessa, who's been watching this exchange like a tennis match, sets a mug of coffee down in front of me with slightly less force than a weapon. "You mean that?"
"Every word."
"Because if you hurt her—if you bail or act like an asshole or do anything that makes me regret not hiding her from you—I will personally ensure you regret being born."
"Noted. And fair." I pick up the coffee mug, grateful for something to do with my hands. "But I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me now."
Patrice laughs—a real laugh this time, watery but genuine. "You say that like it's a threat."
"More like a promise." I meet her eyes across the table. "A really awkward, terrifying promise that I'm probably going to mess up repeatedly, but a promise nonetheless."
She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, and when she looks at me again, there's somethingsofter in her expression. Not forgiveness—that'll take time—but maybe the beginning of it.
"For the record," she says quietly, "I'm terrified too."
"Yeah?"
"Absolutely. I have no idea what I'm doing. I've been winging it for seven months, and honestly, I'm pretty sure I'm going to break the baby within the first week."
