Page 24 of Pregnant in Plaid
The room is simple but comfortable. A queen bed with a thick quilt, a dresser, a window that probablyhas a view of the forest in the daylight. There's a chair in the corner and a small table with a lamp. Everything looks... ready. Like he prepared for someone to actually use this space.
"Bathroom's across the hall," he says, setting my suitcase on the chair. "Extra blankets in the closet if you need them. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen—I'm serious about that. You're eating for two."
I nod, throat tight with an emotion I can't name.
He lingers in the doorway, and I can see him fighting with whatever he wants to say. Finally, he settles on, "This place is yours. No strings. No expectations. But tomorrow, we're talking. About the baby. About the future. About everything you haven't told me yet."
"Okay," I whisper.
"Get some rest." He starts to leave, then pauses. "Patrice?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here. Even if this is all kinds of messed up. I'm glad you told me."
Before I can respond, he's gone, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sink onto the bed, hand automatically going to my stomach. The baby kicks—a gentle flutter, like even it’s processing everything that just happened.
"What have I done?" I whisper to the empty room, to the baby, to myself.
Outside, I hear Trace moving around. Waterrunning. The clink of dishes. Normal sounds that somehow make this whole situation feel even more surreal.
I'm in Alaska. Staying with the father of my child. A man who bakes bread and builds furniture and looked at me like I was something precious instead of a problem to solve.
The baby kicks again, stronger this time.
"I know," I murmur, rubbing the spot. "I know. This is insane."
But insane or not, I'm here now.
Tomorrow I'll figure out what that means.
Tonight, I'm just going to lay on this bed and listen to a stranger—no, the father of my baby—do dishes in the next room.
And try not to think about how right this all feels.
Chapter 5
Trace
Idon't sleep.
Not a wink. Not even close. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling for approximately six hours, listening to every creak and groan of the cabin, hyper-aware that Patrice is sleeping—or not sleeping—one wall away from me.
I'm going to be a father.
The thought keeps circling back, no matter how many times I try to process it. Father. Dad. Someone's entire world, their first line of defense, the person they'll call when things go wrong. Me. The guy who once ate cereal for dinner five nights in a row because I forgot grocery shopping was a thing adults have to do.
And I missed everything.
Seven months. Seven months of doctor appointments and ultrasounds and—what else happens during pregnancy? Morning sickness? Cravings? That thingwhere they can't see their feet anymore? All of it. Gone. Because she didn't tell me.
Because I didn't get her number.
Because we're both idiots who had one incredible night and then fumbled literally every step after that.
Around five a.m., I give up on sleep entirely and head to the kitchen. If I can't sleep, I can at least make myself useful. Patrice is eating for two, which means she needs actual food, not whatever protein bars or granola or whatever inadequate nonsense she's been surviving on.
