Page 39 of Pregnant in Plaid
"No one likes inefficiency." She climbs down. "I'm nesting. Tessa warned me. So, unless you want me color-coding your sock drawer, let me fix your kitchen."
I look at the chaos—seventeen spice jars, three types of pasta, alarming amounts of hot sauce.
"Alphabetize away."
"Really?"
"Really. Just don't throw out the hot sauce."
"It's six years old!"
"Still good."
"Everything goes bad, Trace."
"Not hot sauce."
She mutters something about typical men and goes back to reorganizing.
Two hours later, every cabinet is closed, countersclear, and Patrice is sprawled on my couch looking exhausted.
"Kitchen's done," she announces.
"Looks good."
"Looks organized." She stretches, wincing. "My back is killing me."
"Want me to—" I stop. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You were going to offer something."
"It's fine."
She sits up, looking suspicious. "What were you going to offer, Trace?"
"Massage," I admit. "But that's—we don't have to?—"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, please massage my back before I die from pregnancy spine compression." She rotates, presenting her back to me. "Just—nothing weird."
"Nothing weird," I agree, even though touching her feels like the definition of weird given our situation.
But I move behind her on the couch anyway, and carefully—so carefully—press my thumbs into the muscles along her spine.
She makes a sound that might be a whimper.
"Too hard?" I ask.
"Perfect. Don't stop."
So, I don't stop. I work my thumbs up her spine, feeling the knots, the tension she's carrying. She's tighteverywhere—shoulders, lower back, that spot between her shoulder blades.
