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He nods, tracing his fingers slowly over my stomach. “Yeah. I really do.”

“Okay, good, because I’ve gotten kind of attached to it.” I tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear and cover his hand with mine.

Sumner turns his hand beneath mine and links our fingers together. “Where’d Frankie come from?”

I shrug. “I’ve always liked the name, and Frankie Wells just sounds fucking cool.”

Sumner smiles. “It does.”

“And I already know the middle name.”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Yeah?”

“Jo.”

He looks at me. “For your mom?”

“Yeah.”

I’ve always known Mom was sixteen when she had me, but being pregnant has made me think about what that really looked like. At sixteen, I was still living under her roof, asking her for money, forgetting half the shit she told me to do, and thinking I was basically an adult because I knew everything.

But she had a whole-ass baby to take care of.

“I don’t think I really understood how young she was until now,” I say, rubbing my fingers over the back of Sumner’s hand. “How much she did for me when she was just a kid herself.”

His fingers tighten around mine.

“She had me, my dad took off almost the second she peed on the stick, and she still figured everything out. She worked, took care of me, made sure I had what I needed, and somehow didn’t murder me when I was a teenager, which honestly feels like a miracle.”

Sumner laughs, and I rub my thumb over his knuckles.

“So,” I say, looking down at my stomach, “Frankie Jo Wells.”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, considering it.

“Frankie Jo Wells,” he repeats, then looks back at me. “Yeah. I really like it.”

I smile. “Mom’s going to cry.”

“A lot,” he says, squeezing my hand.

“And then swear she isn’t crying while tears are running down her face.”

Sumner laughs. “That sounds about right.”

I grin. Well, that went way easier than I expected.

Sumner gives my hand a squeeze. “Okay. What about a boy?”

I untangle my fingers from his so I can roll onto my other hip, hauling the bottom of the pregnancy pillow between my knees once I’m settled. Sumner shifts with me and rests his hand against the side of my stomach again.

I’m a little more nervous about this one. Not because I think he’ll hate the name, but because there’s a reason behind it, and I’m curious how quickly he’ll figure out where it came from.

“Dane.”

Sumner considers it for a few seconds before saying it with our last name. “Dane Wells.”

“Dane Mark Wells.”