Page 9 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Seven months."
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "And you're flying? Alone?"
"Yes, well, poor life choices are kind of my brand," I say, unbuckling and attempting to heave myself out of the seat with all the grace of a beached whale wearing business casual.
It takes me three tries.
The knitting lady watches with barely concealed alarm, like she's mentally calculating whether she needs to call for medical assistance or just run.
I finally make it upright, grab my carry-on from the overhead bin—which now weighs about as much as a small car because pregnancy makes everything heavier including your luggage, apparently—and waddle down the aisle behind a line of people who are all moving at normal human speeds while I'm operating at "penguin navigating an ice floe" velocity.
By the time I make it to baggage claim, I'm sweating despite the fact that it's January in Alaska and twelve degrees outside. My lower back aches. My feet are swollen. And I need to pee again, which is basically my constant state of existence now.
I'm standing by the carousel, watching bags goround and round like the world's most boring carousel, when my phone buzzes.
Tessa: YOURE HERE!!! I'm outside!! Can't wait to see you!!!
My stomach clenches. Not with baby gymnastics—though that's also happening—but with pure, unadulterated dread.
I haven't told her yet. About the pregnancy. About the fact that her wedding is going to be slightly more complicated than she anticipated because her maid of honor is gestating the best man's offspring.
I tried. I really did. I picked up the phone at least seventeen times over the last few months. But every time, the words stuck in my throat.
"Hey Tessa, remember that night we all went out? Well, funny story—I'm super pregnant with Trace's baby and forgot to mention it until now. Surprise!"
Yeah. That'll go over great.
My suitcase finally appears—bright purple because I'm nothing if not easy to identify—and I wrestle it off the carousel with a grunt that turns several heads. A helpful-looking dad type starts to approach, probably to offer assistance, but I wave him off because accepting help means acknowledging I need help, and I'm not ready for that level of vulnerability yet.
I make my way toward the exit, pulling my coat tighter even though it no longer buttons over my stomach. I bought this coat specifically for this trip.Size large. It doesn't fit. Turns out "large" doesn't account for "housing an entire human being."
The automatic doors slide open, and a blast of Arctic air hits me like a slap from Mother Nature herself.
"Oh my God," I breathe, and my breath becomes visible. Like, cartoon-style puffs of white. "This is real cold. This is bones-freezing, regret-all-your-choices cold."
And then I see her.
Tessa is jumping up and down on the sidewalk like an overexcited golden retriever, waving both arms like she's trying to flag down a rescue helicopter. She's wearing a puffy coat that makes her look like a marshmallow and a hat with a pom-pom that bounces with every movement.
"PATRICE!" she screams, and several people turn to look.
I try to wave back, but my arm gets tangled in my purse strap, and I nearly drop my suitcase on my foot. Very graceful. Very professional Director of Finance energy.
Tessa sprints toward me—actually sprints—and I have approximately two seconds to decide whether I should turn sideways to hide the belly or just embrace the inevitable.
I choose inevitable.
She crashes into me with a hug that would be enthusiastic even if I weren't seven months pregnant,and definitely crosses into "potential injury" territory given my current state.
"Oof," I grunt as her arms wrap around me and immediately encounter the bump.
Tessa freezes. Pulls back. Looks down.
Her eyes go wide. Like, cartoon character seeing a ghost wide.
"Patrice," she says slowly, her gaze fixed on my stomach. "Are you..."
"Seven months pregnant?" I finish. "Yeah. Surprise."
