Page 18 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Well, if we're both clueless, at least we can panic together."
"That's... actually kind of comforting."
"See? I'm already excelling at this co-parenting thing."
Tessa snorts. "You've been in the same room for five minutes and haven't run away again. That's not excelling. That's baseline competence."
"I'll take it," I say, and I mean it.
Gage appears in the doorway, surveying the scene with the practiced eye of someone who's defused more tense situations than he'd like to remember. "Everyone still alive?"
"Mostly," Tessa says.
"Good enough." He crosses to the fridge and pulls out leftovers. "Patrice, when's the last time you ate?"
"Um." She frowns, thinking. "The airport? Maybe?"
"That was six hours ago!" Tessa practically shrieks. "You're eating for two! You need nutrients! Protein! Vegetables!"
"I had a granola bar on the plane."
"A granola bar is not a meal!"
I watch as Tessa launches into full mother-hen mode, pulling out food and plates and lecturing Patrice about prenatal nutrition with an intensity usually reserved for military operations. Gage catches my eye and grins, mouthingwelcome to fatherhoodwith entirely too much amusement.
Watching Patrice try to protest while Tessa literally spoon-feeds her soup, I feel the panic ease. Not disappear—that'd be asking too much—but ease. Like my brain finally caught up with reality and decided not to run screaming.
This is happening. In two months, I'm going to be a father.
And maybe I won't completely screw it up.
"Trace," Patrice says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why didn't you get my number? That night?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected anger, accusations, demands. Not this quiet, vulnerable question that hits harder than any of those would have.
"Honestly?" I lean back in my chair, considering how much truth to give her. "I was going to. The next morning. I was going to ask for your number, maybe suggest breakfast, see if that night was the start of something or just a really good story."
"But?"
"But you were gone. Just... gone. No note, no number, nothing. And I figured that was your way of saying it was just one night. That you didn't want anything more."
Her expression shifts—surprise, guilt, regret all tangled together. "I thought I was doing you a favor. Making it easy. One night, no complications, clean break."
"Yeah, well." I gesture vaguely at her very pregnant stomach. "Turns out one-night stands don't always come with clean breaks."
"Apparently not."
We sit in silence for a moment, processing. Then Patrice sets down her spoon and looks at me with an expression so serious it makes my stomach drop.
"I need to tell you something," she says. "About why I didn't contact you."
"Okay."
"It wasn't just because I didn't have your number. It was because..." She takes a shaky breath. "I was scared. Scared you'd think I was trying to trap you or that I wanted something from you. Scared you'd be angry or feel obligated or?—"
