Page 37 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Okay, some pressure. But manageable pressure. Like—" I search for an analogy. "Like a nice weighted blanket instead of, I don't know, an anvil."
She laughs. Actually laughs, and the tension in my chest releases.
"A weighted blanket," she says.
"They're very therapeutic."
"You're ridiculous."
"Is that a yes?"
She looks around my kitchen—at the coffee maker with decaf already in it, the crackers I left out because I noticed she was queasy in the mornings, the prenatal vitamins next to her plate.
"I have to think about it," she says finally.
Not a no. I'll take it.
"Fair enough," I say. "But you'll stay through the wedding, right? Tessa would kill me if you left before next weekend."
"Yeah." She manages a small smile. "I'll stay through the wedding."
"Good." I stand, grabbing my coffee mug. "Want some breakfast? I make excellent scrambled eggs."
"You made me eggs yesterday."
"And they were excellent."
"They were good," she admits.
"Excellent," I correct.
"Don't push your luck, MacKenzie."
But she's smiling when she says it, and that feels like progress.
Turns out, having Patrice in my cabin means learning that pregnant women snack at random hours.
Two in the morning? Goldfish crackers.
Four in the afternoon? String cheese.
Nine at night? Peanut butter from the jar.
I find her at 11pm Thursday eating cereal dry from a mixing bowl.
"Hi," she says, looking guilty. "I know it's weird."
"It's not weird," I lie.
"I'm eating Froot Loops from a mixing bowl at eleven at night."
"Lots of people do that."
"Name one."
"College students. Pregnant women." I grab the box and pour some into a regular bowl. "See? Normal."
She watches me crunch dry Froot Loops. "You don't have to humor me."
