Page 16 of Pregnant in Plaid
"About forty-five minutes."
"Shit."
"Yeah." Gage claps me on the shoulder, and we start walking back toward the cabin. "Fair warning—Tessa's probably going to yell at you. Possibly throw something. She's very protective of Patrice."
"As she should be." I run a hand through my hair, which is damp with sweat despite the cold. "I left her standing in the snow. Pregnant. After she just told me I'm the father. I'm officially the worst person alive."
"Second worst," Gage corrects. "First place goes to the guy who ghosted his pregnant girlfriend to 'findhimself' in Thailand. You just needed forty-five minutes to process a bomb drop. That's different."
"Is it?"
"According to Tessa's scale of male failures, yes. You're at like a four out of ten. Thailand guy is a solid nine."
"What's a ten?"
"Dead-beat dads who don't pay child support."
We reach the porch, and I can see warm light spilling from the windows. Inside is warmth, answers, and a conversation I'm absolutely not ready to have. But I'm also freezing, emotionally exhausted, and fairly certain I just worked through my entire winter workout routine in one session.
I reach for the door handle, then pause. "What do I even say to her?"
Gage considers this. "Well, 'sorry for abandoning you to murder firewood' is probably a good start. Then maybe 'I'm terrified but I'm not going anywhere.' Women like honesty."
"That's it? That's your advice?"
"Would you prefer me to write you a script?"
"Yes, actually. That would be extremely helpful."
"Too bad. You're on your own." He pushes open the door and warm air rushes out, along with the smell of coffee and something baking. "But for what it's worth, you've got this. You're one of the best men I know, Trace. You'll figure it out."
The confidence in his voice steadiessomething in my chest. Gage doesn't hand out compliments like candy—when he says something, he means it.
I step inside, stomping snow off my boots, and immediately hear voices from the kitchen. Tessa's, sharp and protective. Patrice's, quieter, tired.
"—absolutely not your fault," Tessa is saying. "He needs to grow up and deal with—oh."
Both women turn to look at me as I walk into the kitchen, and the temperature in the room drops approximately twenty degrees despite the fire crackling in the living room.
Tessa's eyes narrow into slits. "You."
"Me," I agree, because what else is there to say?
"You have exactly thirty seconds to explain why you just abandoned a pregnant woman in the snow to go on a lumberjack rampage."
"I wasn't rampaging. I was processing."
"With anaxe."
"It's Alaska. Processing with axes is culturally appropriate." The joke lands with the grace of a dead fish, and I immediately regret it. "Sorry. That was—I'm not good at this."
Patrice is sitting at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug of what looks like hot chocolate. She won't meet my eyes. Her hair is slightly damp from melted snow, and there's still a tremor in her hands that makes my chest ache.
I did that. I made her shake. I walked away when she needed me to stay.
"Patrice," I start, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" she asks quietly, still not looking at me. "For walking away? For not being there for the last seven months? For getting me pregnant in the first place?"
