I take a sip. “Not that I’ve done that, obviously. Just saying. Something to think about.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why would I be thinking about meat loaf babies?”
My shoulders shrug. “It’s two things I love—meat loaf and babies.”
She slams the popcorn bag on the counter. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking in riddles—”
“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands in surrender. “No riddles. Just hypotheticals. Like: What would be worse—a baby who pukes allthe time, or one who only sleeps when being held with ocean sounds in the background?”
She groans and finally rips the popcorn open, the steam cloud puffing up like it’s trying to escape the awkward energy in the room.
I lean against the counter. “Do you like the name Poppy?”
She levels me with a long, suspicious look like she’s trying to figure out whether I’ve been body snatched or recently concussed as she dumps the popcorn into a serving bowl.
Then, without a word, she grabs the bowl and walks right past me, robe swishing dramatically as she heads into the living room.
I follow. Obviously.
She settles onto the couch and pulls a blanket over her lap. I flop down next to her, careful not to knock the popcorn out of her hands. That would be fatal.
“Truce?” I ask.
She offers me the bowl. I take that as a yes.
We sit in silence for a minute, crunching as she points the remote at the television. Then, because I’ve lost the ability to leave well enough alone, I clear my throat. “So for real. Do you want kids someday?”
Her hand pauses mid-reach for another kernel. “Are we still hypothetically speaking?”
“No,” I say. “This is me asking you for real.”
She sighs. “I don’t know. I used to think Ididn’t. Then I was sure I did. Now I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.”
She eyes me warily. “Doyou?”
I’m awesome. “Yeah. I think I’d be good at it.”
She shakes her head, but her smile lingers. “You’d really want all that? Sleepless nights? Diaper blowouts? Sippy cups leaking in your car?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say quietly. “Eventually.”
Her face softens.
“Not because I want to tick some box, or because I think I’m supposed to. I like the idea of building something with someone. A family. It’s what my parents have,” I say. “They’re still together after.”
She glances over, eyebrows raised. “A rarity these days.”
I nod. “Met in high school. My dad was a total dipshit—still is—and my mom swears she only went on a date with him because he only stuttered when she was around and she thought it was adorable.”
“Is he tall too?”
I shrug. “Nah, I’m the beast in my family. My brother Parker is tall but not as tall as I am.” I puff out my chest as I brag about my height. I pick up a kernel and toss it into the air, catch it in my mouth. “They fought, sure. Sometimes loud. Sometimes not talking for days. But they always showed up for each other. Always chose each other again and again.”
She leans her head against the back of the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I didn’t really grow up with that—I feel like my parents never spent time together because they were always working.”
I let that sit for a beat. “That sounds lonesome for a kid.”
