We’re friendly, at least. I like her a lot.” And then, as if she couldn’t hold back the words: “She’s my ex’s ex. So we… we started having coffee. We had stuff to talk about.”
Stuff to talk about? That sounded ominous.
“Anyway!” Laura said, and her voice was too light all of a sudden, all let’s-move-past-that-part-shall-we?
So he said, “Yeah, anyway. Ruth?”
“Well, she’s very honest. Painfully honest. She would never lie. So I’ve been asking her opinion on my names, and she had… feedback. Strong feedback.”
Even though Laura sounded amused rather than upset, Samir felt a flare of indignation. “Well, what does she know? Maybe she’s wrong. You need more than one opinion.”
“I chose her as a sounding board because she’s so sensible. I do realise that my choices can get a bit… flamboyant.”
“What are your choices? And what’s she been saying?”
Laura snorted. “Hang on, I’ll read you the texts.” She shuffled around in her seat, because her little bag had somehow gotten caught behind her. Her breasts bounced with every wiggling movement, but Samir didn’t watch because he was a gentleman, and gentlemen did not ogle unsuspecting friends—even if said friends happened to be unreasonably hot.
Laura finally reached her bag, produced her phone, and began reading out texts with wry intonation. “Okay, here we go. Me: ‘How about Canon?’ Ruth—”
Samir nearly crashed the car. “Did you just say Canon?”
“Yes,” Laura replied calmly. “It’s badass. And gender-neutral.”
He stared at her as best he could while keeping an eye on the road.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’m just trying to figure out,” he mused, “how you could seem like such a reasonable human being, but secretly harbour a desire to name your innocent baby Canon.”
“You and Ruth would get on so well.”
“What did she say?”
“As I was going to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted—”
“If you expected me to contain myself at Canon, you really don’t know me at all.”
She raised her voice over his mutterings. “Ruth said: ‘Do you want your baby to suffer?’”
“I’ve changed my mind about Ruth. You’re right. She should have final say on all baby names.”
Laura snorted. “Not final say—”
“Final say.”
“You haven’t heard my other ideas yet!”
“Okay,” he said mildly. “You have three chances to convince me that you’re capable of naming this baby.”
“Who died and made you the baby king?”
“Your good judgement.”
She laughed, and the sound washed over him like spring rain. “Alright, um… Let me think of the best ones… Okay, so, Satyr.”
“No.”
“Ocean.”
“Laura,” he said, very seriously. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Oh my God, shut up. I like the ocean! The ocean is mighty! It’s beautiful! And I’ll be living right by it through this pregnancy, so it’s… symbolic, and stuff.”
“Last chance. Third name.”
She huffed. “You’re very closed-minded.”
“I’m trying to save your child from a lifetime of terrible jokes.”
“Fine. What about Solo?”
Samir felt a migraine coming on. “As in… Han Solo?”
“No!” she said, clearly outraged. “As in Solange!”
“Solange…?”
There was a pause. Then she gave a pained sort of sigh. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Okay.” He felt his lips twitch. “But here’s an idea—why don’t you just call the kid Solange?”
“Because I don’t know Bump’s gender! So it has to be neutral. Okay?” She peered at him suspiciously, as if he might be deliberately sabotaging her cursed baby name campaign.
Samir cleared his throat and did his best to sound serious. “Alright, I get it. So you want something like… Willow?”
“Hm.” She pursed her lips. He awaited her verdict with baited breath. Or rather, he held his breath to stop himself from chuckling at her adorably grave expression. Finally, she admitted, “I quite like that.”
“Really?”
“Well, it’s okay. A bit plain, though.”
He didn’t bother to hold back his laughter, now. “Oh, Laura. What am I going to do with you?”
“I imagine that’s up to you,” she said. And something in her voice caught him, hooked him, had his fingers tightening around the steering wheel and his gaze darting toward her. But she was looking out of the window, the curtain of her hair hiding her face.
He’d probably been imagining things, anyway.
Laura’s belly looked like an iced bun. An iced bun with raspberry jam dribbling down the sides. She really hadn’t expected to get stretch marks so suddenly.
She’d always been rather fond of raspberry jam.
“Ready? It’s cold.” The grim-faced sonographer didn’t wait for a response before slapping icy jelly all over Laura’s midriff.
“Crikey,” Laura muttered. “You weren’t joking.”
“Mmm,” the woman grunted. She was relatively young, red-headed, and apparently in a bad mood. Or perhaps she was