Page 4 of Pregnant in Plaid
The bathroom door creaks open, and I shove the test into my blazer pocket so fast I nearly drop my phone in the toilet. My coworker Janet breezes in, talking on her cell about her kid's soccer practice, and I paste on my most professional smile.
"Morning, Janet," I say, voice only slightly strangled.
"Morning, Patrice!" she chirps, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire world just tilted sideways.
I wash my hands, check my reflection one more time—still pale, still panicked, but passably professional—and head back to my desk.
My computer screen glows with spreadsheets and emails and all the normal trappings of my very normal, very organized life. Except nothing feels normal anymore. Everything feels tilted, off-balance, like I'm standing on a boat in rough water.
I pull up a new browser tab and type: What to dowhen you're pregnant and don't know how to contact the father.
The results are… less than helpful.
I close the tab and open another: How to survive pregnancy without telling anyone.
Also unhelpful.
Finally, I type: Can you ignore a pregnancy and hope it goes away?
The universe responds with a firm, resounding: Absolutely not, you walnut.
I slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling tiles, counting them like they hold answers. They don't. They're just tiles. Boring, beige, judgmental tiles.
A notification pops up: Calendar reminder – Job interview in Anchorage, Alaska – January.
Oh.
Oh.
The job. The promotion. The opportunity I applied for months ago and completely forgot about. Director of Finance for a logging company in Anchorage—better pay, better title, better everything.
In Alaska.
Where Trace lives.
The irony is so thick I could choke on it.
I touch my stomach again, this time with something that might be resolve or might just be indigestion.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay. New plan."
Plan A: Get the job. Move to Alaska. Casually run into Trace at some point and just… handle it. Like an adult. A calm, rational adult who definitely didn't flee his cabin like a thief in the night.
Plan B: Don't get the job. Stay in Florida. Raise this baby alone. Never see Trace again. Pretend that night never happened.
Plan C: Panic. Continuously. Forever.
I'm currently on Plan C, but I'm aspiring to Plan A.
My desk phone rings—my boss, probably wondering why I've been in the bathroom for twenty minutes—and I answer with my best professional voice.
"Patrice Henley speaking."
"Patrice, do you have those Q3 reports ready?"
"Absolutely," I say smoothly, pulling up the file I finished two days ago because I'm nothing if not prepared. "Sending them now."
I hang up, forward the email, and take a long, shaky breath.
