Page 97 of Pregnant in Plaid
Tessa appears beside me, holding my hand. "You're doing great. Just breathe."
"Is Trace—" I gasp between breaths. "Did he say?—"
"He's on his way," Tessa assures me. "He'll be here soon."
"I need him." The words come out broken, desperate. "Tessa, I need him here. I'm so scared. I can't—I can't do this without him."
"You won't have to," she says firmly. "He's coming. He'll be here."
Another contraction rips through me, stronger than all the others.
Somewhere out there in the dark, Trace is racing through the snow.
Please let him get here in time.
Chapter 15
Trace
The phone rips me out of a nightmare where Patrice is getting on a plane and I'm stuck in quicksand, unable to move.
I fumble for it in the dark, knocking over a water glass in the process. The clock reads 2:07 AM in angry red numbers.
"Hello?" My voice comes out rough.
"Trace? It's Tessa." She sounds breathless, urgent. "Patrice is in labor. Her water broke. We're heading to the hospital now."
My brain stutters, trying to process. Labor. Water broke. Hospital.
"No, I'm serious," Tessa continues, responding to something I didn't say. "Trace, you need to come. Now."
"I'm—" I'm already moving, throwing off the covers, searching for pants in the dark. "I'm on my way.Is she?—"
"She needs you," Tessa says, her voice softer. "We'll be there in ten minutes. Drive safe."
The line goes dead.
Drive safe. Right. Because I'm definitely going to be thinking about speed limits right now.
I'm not technically out the door yet, but I'm close. Pants on—hopefully right-side out. Shirt grabbed from the floor. Truck keys. Wallet. Phone.
Good enough.
The truck is freezing, and my breath comes out in clouds as I turn the ignition. Come on, come on, start. The engine turns over on the third try, and I'm already backing out before the cab has time to warm up.
The roads are empty at this hour, covered in a light dusting of snow that sparkles in my headlights. Normally, I'd take it slow. Be cautious. Not tonight.
Tonight, I push the truck faster than I should, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
She's in labor. Seven weeks early. Because we had a fight. Because I pushed her. Because I couldn't just let her go and instead I had to?—
No. Stop. The doctor will say it's not my fault. The pregnancy book says these things happen. But the guilt sits heavy in my chest anyway, mixing with terror in a nauseating cocktail.
What if something's wrong with the baby? What if Patrice?—
I can't finish the thought. Can't let myself go there.
Instead, I focus on the road, on getting to her. Onbeing there like I should have been all along. Like I would have been if I'd known. If she'd told me. If I hadn't been an idiot and made her feel like she couldn't tell me.
