Page 34 of Pregnant in Plaid
In the lobby, an older woman with a walker stops us.
"Trace MacKenzie, is that you?" She peers up at him with sharp eyes behind thick glasses.
"Mrs. Patterson. How are you feeling?"
"Oh, can't complain. Hip's healing up nicely." Sheturns to me with unconcealed curiosity. "And who's this lovely young lady?"
"This is Patrice. Patrice, Mrs. Patterson. She runs the library book club."
"Used to run it," Mrs. Patterson corrects. "These days I mostly just attend and complain about everyone's choices. You're the one carrying Trace's baby, aren't you? Linda called me right after you checked in."
I blink. "That was only an hour ago."
"Small town, dear. News travels fast. Especially good news." She pats my arm. "You'll do just fine here. Trace is a good man. Takes after his mother, God rest her soul."
And just like that, she shuffles off, leaving me standing there trying to process the fact that apparently everyone in town already knows I'm here and pregnant with Trace's baby.
"Sorry about that," Trace says, looking apologetic. "I should've warned you. Privacy isn't really a thing in Ashwood Falls."
"It's fine." And weirdly, it is. Everyone was friendly. Welcoming. Not judgmental or gossipy in a mean way, just... interested. Like they're genuinely happy for Trace. For us.
For us.
When did we become an "us"?
We're walking back to the truck when he stops by the driver's side door, pulling out the ultrasoundpictures. He looks at them with this expression—soft, awed, a little terrified. Then, very carefully, he opens his wallet and tucks one of the pictures inside, right behind his license where he'll see it every time he opens it.
The wall I've been building—the one that cracked during the ultrasound—crumbles completely.
This is real. He's real. This isn't obligation or duty or whatever I convinced myself it was. This is a man who spent last night listening to pregnancy podcasts, who asked Dr. Martinez about episiotomies without flinching, who just put a picture of our baby in his wallet like it's the most precious thing he owns.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
"Ready?" he asks, looking up and catching me staring.
"Yeah," I manage, climbing into the truck. "Ready."
As we drive back toward his cabin, I watch him from the corner of my eye. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us. Close enough to touch if I wanted to. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
His protectiveness is starting to feel less annoying and more... comforting. Like maybe having someone who wants to take care of me isn't the worst thing. Like maybe I don't have to do everything alone just because I've been doing it alone.
Like maybe this could actually work.
"Patrice?" he says, glancing over at me.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For keeping the appointment. For letting me come. For—" He pauses, searching for words. "For giving me a chance to be here. I know I screwed up, making it without asking. But I'm glad you went anyway."
"Me too," I admit quietly.
And I mean it.
We drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence. When we pull up to his cabin, I stay in the truck for a moment, watching him grab the stack of birthing class pamphlets from the back seat like they're mission briefings.
