Page 19 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Hey." I reach across the table without thinking, and she doesn't pull away when my hand covers hers. "I'm not angry. Confused? Yes. Terrified? Absolutely. But not angry."
"You should be."
"Maybe. But I'm not." I squeeze her hand gently. "We're both in this now. Together. Scared out of our minds but together. Deal?"
She looks at our hands, then back at my face, searching for something. Whatever she finds must satisfy her because she nods slowly.
"Deal."
Tessa bursts into tears.
Both Patrice and I turn to stare at her, alarmed, as she waves us off with one hand while clutching her chest with the other.
"I'm fine," she sobs. "I'm just—you're having a baby! My best friend and my fiancé's best friend are having a baby! This is like a Hallmark movie but with more cursing!"
"Babe," Gage says gently, pulling her into a hug. "Maybe tone down the emotions? You're scaring them."
"I can't help it! It's beautiful! They're going to co-parent! There's going to be a tiny human at our wedding!"
"Actually," Patrice says carefully, "I'm due in about eight weeks, so probably not at your wedding. But close."
Tessa gasps. "Eight weeks? That's so soon! Oh my God, we have so much to do! We need to throw you a baby shower! And get the nursery ready! And—do you have a nursery? Where are you living? Do you have a crib? A car seat? OH MY GOD, DO YOU HAVE A CAR SEAT?"
"Tessa," Gage says firmly. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing! I'm breathing and planning and?—"
"How about we let them eat dinner first," he suggests, steering her gently toward the living room. "Then we can tackle world domination and baby logistics."
"But—"
"Dinner first. Planning later."
As Gage successfully extracts his hysterical fiancée from the kitchen, Patrice and I are left alone at the table, still holding hands across the scattered plates and cooling soup.
"Your friends are intense," she says.
"My friends are also your friends, so that's on both of us," I point out.
"Fair."
We sit there for another moment, neither of us quite ready to let go or break this fragile peace we've built. Outside, the sun has fully set, and through the windows, I can see stars starting to appear in the clear Alaska sky.
"Trace?" Patrice says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not running."
I look at her—really look at her—this woman who's been carrying my child for seven months, who flew across the country knowing this conversation was coming, who's somehow still holding herself together despite everything.
"Thank you for telling me," I say. "Even if your delivery could use some work."
She laughs, and it's the best sound I've heard all day. "You mean shouting 'look in the fucking mirror' wasn't tactful?"
"Little aggressive, yeah. But effective."
"I'll work on my communication skills."
