Page 60 of The Lookback

“I want us to buy Ralph Lauren,” he says. “As a thank you, I mean.” He sighs. “Or maybe we can just name the baby Ralph.”

“What if it’s a girl?”

He shrugs. “People give girls guy’s names all the time. I had this roommate in college named Whitney—cool guy—and he always insisted it used to be a boy’s name, you know, before Whitney Houston ruined it.”

Now I’m laughing. “You have no naming rights. None at all.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, tugging on my wrist to try and pull me toward the house. “You know I’ll be doing almost all the diapers. I should at least be able to name the little pooper.”

“It’s not a pooper,” I say. “It’s a he or a she.”

“We should talk about that, too,” he says. “I don’t think we should force it into a gender box. We should let it choose its own gender when it’s old enough.”

“You’re kidding,” I say.

He can’t help his grin. “I’m kidding.”

Thank goodness. “I need to paint the nursery.”

“Oh, no.” He groans. “You realize. . .”

“What?”

He takes my hand carefully and strokes the back of it, his fingers coming to rest on the top of my shackle ring. “My parents are going to lose their minds if we aren’t married before this baby comes.”

“Married?” I lift my eyebrows.

He shrugs. “They’re old school.”

I lean closer. “Well, as it happens, about that, so am I.”

He laughs. “Not even close.”

“And I was thinking. . . If we do it soon, I could wear this dress.”

He steps back. “Thatblackdress?” He raises both eyebrows.

“What?” I spin around. “I like it. Not that many blondes can wear black, and it’s flattering. I can still squeeze into it, and I was wearing this dress when I decided to keep our baby.”

“I’m sold,” he says, “but prepare yourself for all the comments about whether it’s a wedding or a funeral.”

“My wedding,” I say. “Your funeral.” I’m smiling even broader, now. “I like it.”

He sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the doorway into his house. “You would. You’re a disturbing woman, Mrs. David Park.”

“So,” a woman’s voice says from down the hall. “Does this mean you will be getting married after all?” David’s mother is glowering as she steps into view. Not a night person. I make a mental note.

“We don’t have much choice now,” I say with a grin. “Your son knocked me up.”

The look on her face is priceless. It almost makes everything else worth it.

15

MANDY

Once, when I was a teenager, my dad brought home a horse who had clearly been abused. She shied away every time anyone had anything in their hands—a crop, a stick, a bag, a jacket. Anything. If I lifted my hand to pet her, she’d flinch. Dad wanted to get her under saddle right away. Nothing gets better while sitting on a shelf, he said.

I had known it was the wrong move, but he’s my dad.

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