Page 7 of Pregnant in Plaid
My heart does something stupid and painful in my chest. "Yeah? Who's that?"
"My best friend Patrice," Tessa says, watching me carefully. "You remember her, right? You guys hung out that night at the bar?"
Hung out. That's one way to describe it.
"Uh, yeah," I say, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near transparent desperation. "I remember her."
Gage snorts softly, which is basically his version of hysterical laughter.
Tessa's eyes light up with unholy glee. "Oh my God, you like her. You still like her! I knew it!"
"I don't—" I start, then stop because lying to Tessa is pointless. The woman can smell a crush from three miles away. "Okay, fine. Yeah. She was cool."
"Cool," Tessa repeats, grinning. "That's the best you can do? Cool?"
"What do you want me to say?" I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. "She left without a word. Pretty clear message there."
"Or," Tessa says, drawing out the word, "maybe she panicked. Maybe she had to catch a flight and didn't want to wake you. Maybe she's been thinking about you this whole time and just doesn't know how to reach out."
"Has she?" I ask, hating how hopeful I sound.
Tessa hesitates. "I... don't know. She doesn't really talk about personal stuff unless she's ready. But she's moving to Anchorage! She got a job offer—Director of Finance for some big logging company. She's flying up in January for the interview, and then she'll be here permanently!"
The world tilts slightly. "She's moving here? To Alaska?"
"Well, Anchorage," Tessa clarifies. "But that's only a few hours away. Close enough for visits. And she'll definitely be atthe wedding."
My brain is short-circuiting. Patrice is moving to Alaska. Permanently.
"Holy shit," I mutter.
"Right?" Tessa bounces on her toes. "This is perfect! You'll see her at the wedding, you guys can talk, maybe reconnect, and then boom—epic romance! I'm basically a genius matchmaker."
"You're basically delusional," Gage says affectionately.
"Delusion is just optimism in a party hat," Tessa retorts.
I sink back onto the couch, trying to process this information. Four months. I have that long to figure out what to say, how to act, whether I should pretend it didn't matter or admit that it did.
Half a year to prepare for the possibility that she might not remember me the same way I remember her.
Gage catches my eye and gives me one of his patented looks that says, We'll talk about this later when Tessa isn't vibrating with matchmaking energy.
Dinner is surprisingly edible—some kind of pasta situation with vegetables and cheese that Tessa announces is "experimental rustic Italian fusion," which I think just means she made it up as she went. But it's good, and the company is better, and by the time I leave, I'm feeling almost optimistic about the whole situation.
Almost.
The drive home is quiet except for the sound of mythoughts spiraling. I try to picture it: seeing Patrice again. What I'll say. How she'll react. Whether she'll pretend that night never happened or acknowledge it or—worst case scenario—have absolutely no idea who I am.
Back at the cabin, I stand on the porch, staring up at the stars. The night is clear and cold and impossibly vast, and I feel ridiculously small under all that sky.
Somewhere in Florida, Patrice is living her life. Working, probably. Maybe going out with friends. Maybe dating someone new. Maybe not thinking about me at all.
Or maybe—and this is the thought that I can't shake, the one that keeps me up at night—maybe she thinks about me too.
My phone buzzes.
Gage: You good?
