Page 130 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Terrified," I admit. "We're taking her home to Trace's cabin. Just us. No nurses. No monitors. No one to tell us we're doing it right."
"You'll figure it out."
"What if I'm a terrible mother?"
"Then you'll be a terrible mother who loves her kid and does her best. That's more than a lot of kids get." Tessa squeezes my hand. "You flew to Alaska seven months pregnant to face the guy who got you pregnant. You went into labor seven weeks early. You've been living in a NICU for weeks. You're already doing the hard stuff."
"The hard stuff is starting tomorrow."
"Yeah. But you don't have to do it alone." She gestures around the cafeteria at Marnie unpacking more supplies, at Dr. Martinez talking with Gage and Trace, at the ridiculous balloons and homemade banner. "You have all of us."
I look around at these people—Trace's people, who've somehow become my people—and the knot I'vebeen carrying since I left Florida starts to unwind. When I moved to Alaska, I thought I was leaving my life behind. My job, my apartment, my carefully constructed independence.
But I wasn't leaving a life. I was finding one.
"I'm not going back to Florida," I say suddenly.
Tessa grins. "Took you long enough to admit it."
"I need to find work. I can't just be dependent on Trace."
"There's remote finance work. And the town could use help with budgets. Marnie's been managing the town finances with a spiral notebook and prayers."
"Seriously?"
"Welcome to small-town Alaska. We need your spreadsheet wizardry."
I could do remote consulting work. Help Marnie with the town finances. Actually contribute instead of just being Trace's pregnant girlfriend who moved to Alaska. I could have a career and a family and a life that's mine.
"I can do this," I say.
"You can absolutely do this." Tessa hugs me again. "You're staying. You're really staying!"
"I'm staying."
Trace looks over from the coffee station, catches my eye. He knows. Somehow he knows what I just decided. His face does this thing—relief and joy and love all at once—and I can't help but smile back.
Marnie appears with another bag. "I also brought frozen casseroles. Six of them. You just heat and eat."
"You're a saint," I tell her.
"I'm practical. Saints don't survive Alaska winters." She winks. "But welcome home, dear. Ashwood Falls is lucky to have you."
Home.
Not Florida. Not Hibiscus Harbor with its palm trees and humidity and office buildings.
Here. Alaska. This frozen, beautiful, ridiculous place with its small-town meddling and community support and people who throw cafeteria parties for babies they barely know.
This is home now.
Later, after the party winds down and everyone leaves and it's just Trace and me walking back to the NICU for evening visiting hours, he takes my hand.
"You're staying," he says. Not a question.
"I'm staying. But I need to contribute. Find work. Be a partner, not a dependent."
"You were never dependent. You're the most independent person I know."
