Page 8 of Pregnant in Plaid
Me: Yeah. Just processing.
Gage: She's a good person. Tessa loves her. That means something.
Me: I know.
Gage: You'll figure it out.
Me: Hope so.
I pocket my phone and head inside. I grab a beer from the fridge and settle into the armchair, staring at the cold fireplace.
January feels like both forever and no time at all. Time to get my head on straight. To prepare. To maybe, possibly, hopefully get a second chance at something I didn't even know I wanted until it was gone.
I take a long drink and close my eyes, letting myself remember: her laugh, her kiss, the way she said my name like it mattered.
"January," I say out loud, like making it a declaration will make it real. "I can wait until January."
I pull out my phone and do something possibly stupid. I open Instagram—which I barely use—and search for her name. Patrice Henley. There are a few accounts, but I find hers pretty quickly: professional photo, private account, bio that says "Numbers, not words."
I stare at the "Follow" button. My thumb hovers. Pulls back. Hovers again.
This is ridiculous. It's Instagram, not a marriage proposal. Just press it.
I press it.
The screen says "Requested" and my heart pounds like I just did something monumentally stupid or monumentally brave. Possibly both.
I set the phone face-down on the side table—because staring at it won't make her respond faster—and head to the bedroom.
Sleep should come easy. It doesn't.
My brain won't shut up, replaying that night on a loop: her laugh, her kiss, the way she fit against me like she'd been custom-made for my arms. Months of wondering if she remembers it the same way. Months of wanting another chance.
January suddenly feels impossibly far away and terrifyingly close all at once.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling.
This time, I'm not letting her leave without getting her number.
Assuming, of course, she even remembers who the hell I am.
Chapter 2
Patrice
The plane touches down in Anchorage, and I'm approximately ninety-seven percent sure I'm going to die. Not from the landing—which is smooth enough—but from the sheer, overwhelming panic that's been building since Florida and has now reached critical mass somewhere over Canadian airspace.
I'm seven months pregnant.
And I'm about to see the father of my child, who has no idea he's the father of my child, at my best friend's wedding in approximately two weeks.
"This is fine," I whisper to myself, gripping the armrests as passengers start gathering their bags. "Everything is totally, completely fine."
The woman next to me—who's been knitting something aggressively purple for the entire flight—gives me a concerned look. "Are you alright, dear? You look abit pale."
"Just excited to be in Alaska!" I say with manic brightness, then immediately regret it because my voice comes out approximately three octaves too high.
She eyes my very obvious belly. "How far along are you?"
