Page 58 of Blueline Baby

“There’s a Callum in Vancouver, and he’s the biggest rat in this league. He speared a guy behind the play in October and then hid behind a linesman like a child. I’m not naming my kid after a coward.”

“You can’t disqualify an entire name because of one man.”

“That is exactly how it works.” I pull into the parking lot next to her science building. “Russell’s still available. You haven’t fully said no to Russell.”

“I vetoed Russell the first time you brought it up,” she says, leaning over the center console to kiss my cheek. “You just choose to ignore me.”

She slides out of the truck, and just before she pulls the heavy glass door of the building open, she turns and waves at me.

I’d have signed my soul away right then. Which is more or less what I’m doing today, except the paperwork is a lease on a brand-new three-bedroom townhouse.

My original plan was to bring Chloe over tonight after her lab and ask her to marry me in the middle of the empty living room. That plan lasted about ten seconds, because that’s how long it took Lorelei to inform me that if I went through with it, she would personally break into my apartment, find my grandmother’s ring, and hold it hostage until I came to my senses. Then she asked me if I had ever actually met Chloe, which I decided not to answer. Then she made me drive her across town and spent four hours of my one day off walking me through an upscale furniture store. I learned there are at least nine different shades of the color white, possibly ten, and that I’m not allowed to have an opinion about any of them. Whatever I think should go in a nursery is also wrong.

Now I’m sitting on Chloe’s couch with her feet in my lap, watching her study while her dinner goes cold on the coffee table.

She glances up from her textbook. “What did you do today?”

“Nothing much.”

“Mm.” She goes back to highlighting her notes. “You’re lying to me. But I’ll let it slide.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m keeping a list. Someday you’re going to have to tell me all these things.”

She will absolutely collect on that list, too. She’ll pick some random Tuesday six months from now and recite every date and every bad lie back to me in chronological order, complete with sources.

I press my thumb into the arch of her foot and she drops her highlighter and moans.

“Okay, that’s not fair,” she says.

“You’ve been on your feet since seven this morning. Take a break.”

“I can’t take a break. I have a huge test on Thursday.”

“You’re brilliant. You’ll pass.” I switch to her other foot, and she gives up, letting her head fall back against the arm of the couch with a sigh.

“Eat something,” I tell her.

“In a minute.”

“Chloe.”

“I can’t stand the smell of anything lately.” But she sits up anyway, pulls the plate over, and manages about half of it while I keep a hold on her foot.

When she pushes the plate away, I turn and put my head in her lap.

“There’s nothing to hear yet,” she says.

“There’s plenty to hear.”

“Jack, that’s just my stomach growling.”

“Hey,” I say, louder, into her sweater. “Ignore your mom.”

She laughs and slides her fingers into my hair, scratching at my scalp, and for a long while I just lie there with my ear pressed against her. I could die happy exactly like this.

“I talked to my academic advisor today,” she says, quiet.