Page 63 of Blueline Baby

Right into his palm. Hard. The way it’s been doing for two weeks, but never once when his hand was actually there to feel it.

His whole face lights up. “Oh my God. Was that baby Russ⁠—”

“Do not.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

“You were absolutely going to say it. You promised.”

“That was before you agreed to marry me,” he says. And then he drops back down onto his knees in front of me and presses his mouth against my stomach.

“Hi,” he whispers. “I don’t know your name yet. But this is going to be great.”

Then he tips his head back to look up at me from the floor. “So. When do you want to get married?”

“Now.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but seriously.”

“I’m completely serious. Now.” I reach down and put both my hands on his face. “This week. At the courthouse. I don’t want a fancy dress, or a stressful party, or catering to deal with. I want to be married to you before I’m the size of a house. And then we can throw whatever giant, obnoxious party you want after the baby comes.”

Jack stares up at me for a long, quiet second.

“Backcheck Girl,” he says. “I have been waiting forever for you to finally be the reckless one.”

29

JACK

I ALREADY BOUGHT TOOTHBRUSHES

She’s turning the antique ring in slow circles around her finger, standing in the middle of the blue nursery, staring at it like she can’t believe it’s on her hand.

“Let’s do it tomorrow,” I tell her.

“Do what tomorrow?”

“You said now. You said this week. So let’s do it tomorrow, before you get sensible again.”

I’m only half joking. She’s never reckless. She actively calculates every decision she makes, and if she wants to get married right now, I’m going to make sure it happens tomorrow, before she has time to build a spreadsheet about it.

She laughs, but she doesn’t backtrack. “We can’t get married tomorrow, Jack. There’s a waiting period on a marriage license. You file the paperwork, and then you have to wait three days.”

“So when?”

“If we go down to the courthouse tomorrow morning, probably Thursday.”

“Thursday.” I can work with Thursday. Thursday is practically tomorrow.

“You have a home game on Thursday,” she says. “So maybe Friday.”

“No. Thursday. I’ll skip the morning skate. We’ll go to the courthouse and get married, and then you’ll come to the game that night as my wife.”

She pauses and looks up at me, and then a grin spreads all the way across her face.

“Your wife,” she says, trying the words on. “I’d come to the game as your wife.”

“Say it again.”