Page 27 of Pregnant in Plaid
"What if I'm a grown woman who's been handling her own medical care for seven months without you?" She's shaking now, hands clenched at her sides. "What if I don't need you swooping in and taking over my life?"
"Someone needs to!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "You flew across the country alone seven months pregnant! You didn't tell me about the baby! You were planning to stay in a hotel and apartmenthunt and start a new job all by yourself while growing an entire human being! Forgive me for thinking maybe you could use some help!"
"I don't need your help! I don't need your pity! I don't need you to feel obligated to?—"
"Stop saying that!" I slam my hand on the counter, and she jumps. I immediately regret it, and force myself to take a breath. "Stop saying I feel obligated. Stop acting like this is some burden I'm grudgingly accepting. That's my baby, Patrice. Mine. Not some obligation. Not some responsibility I'm trying to avoid. Mine."
"You didn't want it seven months ago," she says, and her voice breaks on the words. "You didn't even get my number."
That hits like a punch to the gut. "What?"
"That morning." She's crying now, angry tears streaming down her face. "I woke up early. You were still asleep. And I thought—God, I thought I should leave. Make it easy. Because it was just one night, right? Just fun. Just two people who'd had too much to drink and made a mistake?—"
"It wasn't a mistake?—"
"I didn't know that!" She's shouting now, and I've never seen her like this—raw, furious, terrified. "I didn't know if you wanted anything more. I didn't know if I was just another one-night stand or if—" She stops, wiping at her face. "I left because I thought I was doing you a favor. And then I foundout I was pregnant, and I thought—why would I tell you? Why would I trap you with a baby you never asked for?"
The words hang between us, and I can feel my own anger draining away, replaced by something that hurts worse.
"You really thought that?" I ask quietly. "You thought I'd see our baby as a trap?"
"I didn't know what you'd think. We spent one night together, Trace. One night. I don't know you. You don't know me."
"Then let me." I move around the counter, slowly, like approaching something fragile. "Let me know you. Let me be here for this. For you. For the baby."
"Why?" She looks up at me, and her face is so vulnerable it makes my chest ache. "Why do you care so much? Is it just because of the baby? Because you feel like you have to?"
"No." I reach out, hesitate, then gently cup her face in my hands. She doesn't pull away. "I mean, yes, the baby matters. Of course, the baby matters. But Patrice—" I make sure she's looking at me, really looking. "That night meant something to me. You meant something."
She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide.
"I thought about you," I continue, because apparently we're doing this now. "After you left. I thought about calling Tessa and asking for your number. I thought about flying to Florida and showing up at your office like some kind of stalker. I talked myself outof it because I figured you left for a reason. Because you didn't want more."
"I did want more," she whispers. "I was just scared."
"Yeah. Me too."
We stand there in the kitchen, her face in my hands, both of us breathing too hard and staring at each other like we're seeing each other for the first time.
"I'm sorry," I say. "For making the appointment without asking. You're right. That was controlling. I just—I'm terrified, Patrice. I'm terrified I'm going to screw this up. That I'm going to be a terrible father. That I already missed too much and I can't—I can't miss any more."
"You're not going to be a terrible father," she says, and her hands come up to grip my wrists. Not pulling away. Just holding on. "You bake bread and build furniture and you made me the best breakfast I've had in months. You're going to be fine."
"I don't know how to change a diaper."
"Neither do I."
"I don't know what to do when babies cry."
"Join the club."
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to drop it at least once in the first week."
She laughs, watery and beautiful. "Okay, that one's concerning. But we'll work on it."
"We?"
"We." She takes a shaky breath. "I'm scared too. I'm terrified. I've been pretending I have everythingunder control for seven months, but I don't. I have no idea what I'm doing. And maybe—maybe trying to do this alone was stupid. Maybe I need help. Maybe I need you."
