Page 30 of Pregnant in Plaid
She hands me a clipboard with approximately seventeen forms to fill out, and Trace and I settle into chairs that are slightly too small and covered in fabric that's probably seen better days. There's a TV mounted in the corner playing some home renovation show on mute, and a stack of magazines on the side table that appear to be from 2019.
"So," I say, clicking my pen. "Linda seems nice."
"Linda's great. Her daughter was in my squad in Afghanistan. Saved my life twice."
Of course she did. Of course everyone in this town is connected in some deeply meaningful way that makes me feel like an outsider crashing a family reunion.
I work my way through the forms—medical history, insurance information, emergency contact. I pause at that last one, pen hovering over the blank line. In Florida, I left it blank. Tessa lives too far away, my parents are gone, and I'm not close enough with anyone else to list them as the person who'd be called if something went wrong.
But now there's Trace.
Trace leans over. "Put me down."
"What?"
"Emergency contact. Put me down." He rattles off his phone number like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Trace—"
"Patrice." He covers my hand with his, warm andsolid. "I'm the father. I should be the emergency contact."
He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is. I write down his number and try to ignore the way my hand is shaking slightly, the way having someone to call—having someone who wants to be called—makes my throat tight.
When I return the clipboard to Linda, she beams at us like we're the most adorable thing she's ever seen. "Dr. Martinez will be right with you! Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."
Those few minutes stretch into fifteen. Trace flips through a magazine about fishing, occasionally showing me pictures of particularly impressive catches like I have any context for what makes a fish impressive. I try not to fidget, try not to think about the fact that this is really happening. Doctor's appointment. With Trace. Like we're a couple. Like this is normal.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, setting down the magazine.
"Fine. Just—this is weird."
"Weird how?"
"Weird like—" I gesture vaguely between us. "Like I've been going to these appointments alone for seven months and now suddenly you're here and Linda thinks we're together and everyone's going to assume?—"
"That I'm the father of your baby?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because I am."
"I know that. But it's just—people are going to have opinions."
"Let them." He shrugs. "Small town. People always have opinions. Doesn't mean we have to care about them."
"Easy for you to say. You live here. I'm the outsider who showed up pregnant with your baby."
"You're not an outsider." His voice is firm. "You're the mother of my child. That makes you family. And in Ashwood Falls, family matters more than gossip."
Before I can respond to that—before I can process what it means that he just called me family—a nurse appears in the doorway, smiling warmly. "Patrice Henley? Come on back."
The exam room is standard medical issue—uncomfortable paper-covered table, generic posters about prenatal nutrition, a sink, a chair. Trace hovers uncertainly by the door.
"You can sit," I tell him, gesturing to the chair.
"You sure?"
"Would I have said it if I wasn't sure?"
He sits, and I hoist myself onto the exam table with significantly less grace than I'd like. The paper crinkles loudly, announcing my every movement like the world's most annoying soundtrack.
I'm still trying to find a comfortable position when I hear it.
