Twisted(64)

Why don’t you just cut to the chase and call the kid Shit Head?

I lean back in the chair. “Okay—you can start first.”

Her eyes roam the baby’s face. “Connor.”

I shake my head. “Connor’s not a first name.”

“Of course it is.”

“No—it’s a last name.” In my best Terminator voice I say, “Sarah Connor.”

Kate rolls her eyes. Then she says, “I’ve always liked the name Dalton.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“O-kay. Colin.”

I scoff, “No way. Sounds too much like ‘colon.’ They’ll be calling him Asshole the minute he steps foot on the playground.”

Kate looks at me incredulously. “Are you sure you went to Catholic school? It sounds like you grew up in juvie hall.”

Life is one big school playground. Remember that.

Wolf-pack mentality. You need to learn early how not to be the weakest link. They’re the ones who get eaten. Alive.

“Since you don’t approve of my choices, what do you suggest?” she asks.

I look at the sleeping face of our son. His perfect little lips, his long dark lashes.

“Michael.”

“Uh-uh. In third grade, Michael Rollins threw up all over my penny loafers. Whenever I hear that name I think of regurgitated hot dogs.”

Fair enough. I try again. “James. Not Jim or Jimmy—and sure as shit not Jamie. Just James.”

Kate raises her eyebrows. And tests it out. “James. James—I like it.”

“Yeah?”

She looks down at the baby again. “Yes. James it is.”

I reach into my back pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. “Fantastic. Now for his last name.”

She’s confused. “His last name?”

We’ve talked about using Brooks as the middle name. But let’s be honest—the only people who use a middle name are serial killers and pissed-off parents. So I came up with something much better.

I put the opened paper on Kate’s lap.

Take a look.

BROOKS-EVANS

She looks up, eyes wide with surprise. “You want to hyphenate his name?”

I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I think women should take their husband’s last names. Sure, it comes from the idea that a woman is property. And no, I don’t agree with that. In the future, if some punk comes along and implies that he owns my niece—I’m gonna buy him a shovel.

So he can dig his own grave before I put him in it.

But technically speaking, Kate is the last of the Brookses. Namesakes don’t mean as much anymore, but I have a feeling it means a lot to her.

“Well . . . he’s ours. And you did do most of the work. You should share half the credit.”

Her eyes soften as she reminds me, “You hate to share, Drew.”

I push some wayward hair behind her ear. “For you, I’m willing to make an exception.”

Plus, I’m banking on the fact that one day soon, Kate’s last name will match our son’s.

Of course, Kate deserves the best proposal ever—and the best takes time.

Planning.

It’s in the works right now. I’m taking ballooning lessons on Saturday afternoons, when she thinks I’m playing ball with the guys. Because I’m going to take Kate on a private hot-air balloon ride to the Hudson Valley. There’ll be an elegant picnic ready for us when we land. And that’s where I’ll pop the question

That way—on the outside chance Kate actually turns me down—I’ll have her in a totally secluded area until I can change her mind.

Genius, right?

I’ll have a limo waiting nearby—but not too near—to drive us back home, so we can sit back and relax on the way. And have limo sex, of course. You should never pass up the opportunity to have sex in a limo—it’s always fun.

Kate’s eyes are shiny with tears. Happy ones. “I love it. James Brooks-Evans. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

I lean forward and kiss our son’s forehead. And then I kiss his mother’s lips. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby. I’m supposed to be thanking you.”

She looks down at James tenderly. And in that voice that could make an angel green with envy, she starts to sing.

There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway

A song that they sing when they take to the sea

A song that they sing of their home in the sky

Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep

But singing works just fine for me

So good night you moonlight ladies

Rock-a-bye sweet baby James

Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose

Won’t you let me go down in my dreams

And rock-a-bye sweet baby James

There’s only a few times in a guy’s life that he’s allowed to cry without looking like a total chump.

This is one of those times.

When Kate is finished, I clear my throat. And rub the wetness from my eyes. Then I climb onto the bed beside her.

I’m pretty sure it’s against hospital policy, and I admit, some of those male nurses look pretty f*cking intimidating.

But come on—they’re nurses.