Page 25 of Unbreakable
He clutched under my ear, pulling me to him for a kiss. A joyful, excited, terrified wet kiss. “I’ll be the luckiest man to have you as my wife.”
He kissed me harder, really going for it until I pulled away. “Okay, I need you to feed me greasy diner food before I throw up.”
He laughed, putting the car in drive. “To the greasy diner we go.”
“What are your family names?”Dylan dipped his toast in some runny egg that I really couldn’t look at. Normally, runny eggs were my jam, but apparently the nugget occupying my uterus did not care for such things. I stifled a gag, looking away and covering my mouth. “Are you sick, J?”
“I just . . . cannot look at that egg.”
He chuckled, arranging a menu and a napkin dispenser from the side of the table to block my view of his plate. “Better?”
“Much, thank you.”
He sat back and sipped his cup of coffee. “It’s real, isn’t it? You’re getting sick and everything. This is really happening.”
“Seems pretty real to me,” I said, then cast my eyes to my plate. “You do want it, right?”
Dylan’s fingers laced with mine on the table. “Yeah. I do. I honestly thought you were going to choose to end it. I’m just getting used to it is all.”
“Did you want me to end it?”
He sighed and bent to get his eyes in my line of sight. “I know it’s probably hard to believe, but I really want whatever you want. I’m really excited now. Having a baby with you sounds perfect.”
I pointed at him with my toast. “And marrying me.”
“Yes, definitely marrying you,” he said, and his eyes went dewy. “Starting a family.”
“With the girl you met crawling across a stage in Santa Monica.”
Dylan laughed. “With exactly the girl who was crawling across a stage in Santa Monica, using those damn leather lungs to belt Celine Dion and sitting on my lap to introduce herself to me.”
I framed my hands around my face. “Aren’t I charming?”
“So fucking charming, baby. Now tell me your family names. Your dad is Joe,” he baited me.
“Dad is Joe, mom is Maureen, sister is Andrea, brother is Joey—” I started.
“So our son will be Giuseppe,” he said, like it was obvious.
“Who says it’s a boy?”
“I feel like it’s a boy.”
“And why Joe to Joey to Giuseppe?” I asked.
“He’s gotta have some Italian to match my last name.”
I cocked my head to the side. “You’re right. Dylan Peter is so Italian.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “I’m reclaiming my heritage.”
“And your parents are Carla and Phil.”
“See? Carla. Very Italian.”
“Maybe we go Charlotte so it’s like Carlotta?” I offered. “Or Carl if it’s a boy.”
“Or Carlo,” he countered. “Keep it Italian.”
