Page 20 of Pregnant in Plaid
"We both will." I squeeze her hand one more time, then reluctantly let go to pick up my coffee. "So. Eight weeks, huh?"
"Give or take."
"That's... soon."
"Very soon."
"Should I be reading books or something? Is there a manual? A dad handbook?"
"There are about seventeen thousand books, actually. I can give you a list."
"Please do. I'll start tonight." I pause. "After I apologize to the woodpile."
She grins, and the tension that's been coiled in my chest finally loosens. "The woodpile probably deserved it."
"You think?" I raise an eyebrow. "Those logs were completely innocent. Just minding their own business before I went full lumberjack rampage on them."
"Processing with axes," she says, echoing my earlier terrible joke. "Culturally appropriate."
"Exactly." I stand, offering her myhand. "Come on. Let's see what Tessa's panic-planning while we've been sitting here."
She takes my hand—warm, solid, real—and lets me help her up. It takes more effort than it probably should, and she groans as she gets to her feet.
"Being pregnant is glamorous," she mutters.
"You make it look good."
"Liar."
"Terrified, clueless liar," I correct. "But an honest one about everything else."
She laughs, and it's the best sound I've heard all day. We're going to figure this out. Maybe not today, maybe not next week.
But we'll figure it out.
Chapter 4
Patrice
Tessa has created a war room.
That's the only way to describe what's happened to the living room in the forty-five minutes Trace spent murdering firewood and I sat in the kitchen having an existential crisis. There are lists. Actual physical lists written on approximately seventeen different colors of sticky notes, arranged across the coffee table in what I can only assume is some kind of organizational system that makes sense to exactly one person on this planet.
"Oh good, you're both here!" Tessa practically bounces off the couch, waving what appears to be a color-coded spreadsheet. "I've been planning!"
"I can see that," I say carefully, because the last time I saw Tessa this enthusiastic about planning something, she organized an office Secret Santa that somehow ended with the entire accountingdepartment in matching reindeer sweaters. "What exactly are we looking at here?"
"Your life." She beams at me like she just announced she solved world hunger. "Or, well, the next eight weeks of your life. And possibly the eighteen years after that, but we'll start with the immediate priorities."
Trace and I exchange a look that roughly translates toshould we be concerned or terrified?
"Babe," Gage says from his position by the fireplace, where he's been wisely staying out of whatever this is. "Maybe ease them into it?"
"There's no time for easing! She's having a baby in eight weeks!" Tessa gestures at my stomach like it's a ticking time bomb. "Do you know how much there is to do? So much, Gage. SO MUCH."
"I'm aware," I say, sinking onto the couch because standing is overrated when you're seven months pregnant and emotionally exhausted. "I've been living with this reality for a while now."
"But you've been living with it alone," Tessa counters, and there's no accusation in her voice—just fierce, protective love that makes my throat tight. "Now you've got us. Which means we're going to make sure you're ready."
