W
e’re seated at a back booth in a restaurant bustling with the local demographic. A.k.a. wealthy people who also appear to exist in
classy athleisure. A lot of Lululemon and L.L. Bean. Basically, who I want to be when I grow up and have more expendable income.
It’s a red-brick interior, with art hanging from a wooden rail around the restaurant that seems to be done by local artists, all for sale. There are mismatched chandeliers throughout, repurposed from old baskets, it would seem. It’s very cute.
“No menu?” I ask, glancing around the table.
“You can order anything you want. Even ketchup in a cup if you’d like.” “What? What sort of restaurant lets you have a free-for-all?” I ask,
admiring the expensive-looking stroller at the table next to us. I always feel a little shame for longing after such nice things, but I still do. I think it’s a consequence of growing up with hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. Sometimes, I just want to blow money on things for me. Especially the
magenta, teal blue, and green anorak that a woman at another table is zipping up as her family prepares to leave.
“Your eyes are everywhere right now,” Bo says, grinning. “What are you looking at?”
“Oh, just… coveting.”
Bo snorts. “How biblical.”
“Maybe this is why I’ve never had money. The powers that be know I’d blow it all. But it’s justified if I spend some of my new disposable income on stuff for the baby, right? Like that stroller? Because that’s truly beautiful.” I tilt my eyes to the left, signalling for where Bo should look.
“You know, we always say the baby, and I keep wondering if we should name them. Like a nickname, maybe, until we find out the sex and give them a permanent one.”
“I’d like to give them a fairly gender-neutral first name, I think. And I think I’d like to be surprised too?”
“Haven’t we had enough surprises?” Bo asks, his head tilting with a crooked smile.
My stomach rumbles, pulling my focus. “So how do we order if there’s no menu? Do we wait here or go up to the counter?” I ask.
“He’ll be out in a minute,” Bo says flippantly. “So we’re not finding out, then?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Of course. Whatever you want.”
“Are there any names you’ve always liked?” I ask.
Bo tilts his head, appearing deep in thought with his bottom lip pouted. “No, but there are definitely names I don’t like.”
“Oh, same. No exes or school bullies. No cringey television show characters. No shitty coworkers or mean customer service reps.”
“That last one was very specific,” Bo says, pouring two cups of water from the bottle left on the table.
“Brittany from Staples knows what she did.”
“Family names?” he asks. “What was Sarah’s mom’s name? She was special to you, right?”
“Marcie, and yes, she was. But I’d have to be careful there. My mom always felt a bit jealous of how close Marcie and I were. They were best friends, but I think my mom might feel left out if I was to use Marcie as a name.”
“What’s your mom’s name?” Bo asks, then winces. I feel it too, the discomfort of being so involved with someone and not knowing a whole lot about them. “Maybe one of these evenings we should write out a family tree or something.”
“Her name is June.” “That’s a beautiful name.”
“It’s my middle name,” I say, glancing around for our waiter. “What’s yours?”
“I have two. Robert Hugo August Durand.” I go entirely still. “August?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s the month my parents met.” August.
Yes, my heart sounds. That’s right.
Marcie passed away in August. Sarah made a comment about the baby arriving then to make the month less sad. And my mother and I have a
month in our name. So it’s possibly the perfect name. It would honour each of us. Bo, his parents, me, and mine.
“I love August,” I say.
“August,” Bo repeats, pressing his lips together as he nods, a smile overtaking his face. “Did we…” Bo sits straighter, his expression beyond smug. “Did we just name our kid?”
“August,” I whisper to myself, testing it aloud again.
“It should be illegal to be so good at this shit,” Bo says confidently. “August… It feels right, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I agree, smiling. It can’t be that easy, right?
“There they are!” a familiar, boisterous voice calls from the kitchen door across the restaurant. I immediately look up to find Kevin bouncing over to us.
“Kevin?” I ask Bo, smiling widely as I stand to greet him. “It’s his place. Get ready to eat everything you can.”
Kevin wraps me in a big bear hug before setting me down. “I’ve heard we’re on a mission for ketchup, my dear.”
“When did you—” I start to ask Bo, but then my stomach rumbles again. “Actually, I think the baby changed its mind. I just want cheese. All of
it.”
“Probably avoid the soft cheeses, though,” Bo says, holding up a finger before using it to scratch his ear. “You know, anything unpasteurised.” I stare at him funny. “It was in the baby book… no soft cheeses.”
Kevin turns to me, eerily calm. “If you want me to, I can have him removed.”
“He’s probably right. He’s much better at pregnancy than I am.”
“Well, all the safe cheeses will be yours. Are we thinking of a cheese board? Cheese on pizza? Cheesy sandwich? Pasta covered in cheese?”
“Oh, definitely pasta.”
“Tomato sauce? That good enough to satisfy the ketchup craving too?” “Yes!” I sway from side to side. “It’s not too much trouble, right?”
“Not at all,” he says, pulling out my chair. “You two lovebirds talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be back with that and…” Kevin points to Bo.
“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” Bo answers. “Got it.”
“He called us lovebirds,” I whisper when Kevin disappears out of view. “Did he?”
I nod, watching the woman next to us pick up her baby out of the aforementioned stroller and tuck them close to her chest. She bounces while shushing the baby, holding them against her with one hand as she forks her salad with her other.
I try to visualise whether I’ll be able to do such a thing, my hand subconsciously rising to my shoulder.
“You okay?” Bo asks, his voice soft and low.
I shake myself, lowering my hand. “Sorry… I’m fine.”
Bo looks toward the same table, the small baby in the woman’s arms, and back to me. He purses his lips and nods, letting his head hang between us. “I’m worried that our kid will be really into sports, running or soccer or something, and I won’t be able to keep up.”
I detach from my haze and snap back to focus. “What? No. Bo, you’re working on a prosthesis that hardly fits, and you’re still doing great. Soon you’ll have one that works much better, and you’ll be able to run or do
whatever you want. Plus, you kick with your right foot, not your left. Even if we come against barriers, we’ll figure it out.”
“I’m worried they’ll be embarrassed, though. That their dad is different.” “No, they’ll be our kid. They’ll have empathy and kindness and—” I stop
myself, noticing Bo’s proud smile. “Go on…” he says teasingly.
No, I don’t think I will.
“You were saying?” he asks, a cheeky smile tipped into his glass of water.
“Were you tricking me into talking to myself just now?”
He nods, his shoulders lowering as he places his elbows on the table and hunches forward. “Maybe…”
“How did—how could you tell? I—”
“You frowned when she picked up her fork the second time,” he interrupts.
I look away, feeling far too perceived for my liking. And yet a piece of me is grateful for it. It’s so much easier to communicate insecurities when you don’t need to communicate them at all. Isn’t that all we ever want? To be seen and heard? Validated, even when we’re not able to ask for it.
“Well, it’s different for me. It’s not the same.” “How so?”
“Think of all the expressions there are just for moms. ‘She’s going to have her hands full!’ Or ‘you’re going to need an extra set of hands!’” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “It’s intimidating. There are a lot of things I can barely do for myself, let alone for someone else. I mean, you’ve seen me with buttons.”
“We’re going to find solutions though, right? We’ll make it work. Like you said, we’ll figure it out together.”
“Yeah, I know,” I agree, though I can hear how unconvincing I am.
“As capable as you think I am, it’s far less than how capable I think you are,” he says, argumentatively. “Maybe what we lack in limbs, we make up for in enthusiasm and wits. Who else do you know that could go swimming, launch a business plan, and name a baby all before lunch?”
It’s a late lunch, though, to be fair. “We did most of those things together, so I can hardly take credit.”
“And that’s what we’re going to keep doing. Working together. That’s the whole point of this.” He gestures between us. “Isn’t it? Being a good team?”
“Yeah,” I agree, a little more convincingly.
“Win, Bo, and Gus are gonna take over the world,” he says in an obscenely dramatic, theatrical voice.
“Gus? Seriously? They’ve been named for less than ten minutes, and they already have a dorky nickname?”
“What would you prefer? Aug? That’s not a name. It sounds like the sound someone would make after stubbing their toe.”
I roll my eyes, smiling toward my lap.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Bo says arrogantly. “Admit it. You love it.”
I sigh out. I don’t know if I love it, or if I just love that he does. “I do. It’s cute.”
“Damn right.”
“If our food doesn’t arrive soon, I’m going to eat my other hand,” I say, unfolding my napkin.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bo says exaggeratedly. “You can eat mine. It’s far bigger.”
