I turned my head to him. “Not immediately, of course.”

By the dashboard lights, I saw him grin at the road as he murmured, “Of course.”

I shut up and looked at the street.

We drove in silence for a while before Joker asked, “How many you want?”

“How many what?” I asked, purposefully obtusely, scared, what with him already taking on one child (who, incidentally, was not his own) that this was way too soon for us to be talking about future children.

But more scared it would scare him.

Joker didn’t play my game.

He gave it to me straight.

“Me. Four. That includes Travis. And I don’t give a shit what they come out to be.”

I wasn’t breathing right when I turned again to look at him.

Therefore, it sounded funny when I asked, “You want four kids?”

“Including Travis.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“This goes the distance, you good to push out three more?” he asked.

I was good to push out seven more (okay, perhaps that was slightly overstating it).

“Yes,” I croaked.

He squeezed my hand. “Good.”

I stared at him.

Then I blurted, “All I ever wanted was to be a wife and mom.”

I watched him grin at the road again before he teased, “Shocker. No burning desire to be a grocery store clerk?”

“I lost my sister when I was six,” I whispered, and his hand tightened again in mine but this time didn’t loosen. “My mom when I was seventeen. Losing half my family, I know it can slip through your fingers so easily. So all I ever wanted was to spend every waking minute of my day taking care of my husband and my kids.”

Joker said nothing but the air in the cab was far from light.

I swallowed, thinking I read his thoughts, and looked back to the windshield. “It’s lame. I know. I should want to be a graphic designer or bank president or something.”

“Most important job in the world.”

I looked back at him.

“Not one fuckin’ thing lame about that,” he stated firmly, his hand still holding mine tight. I watched as he lifted it to his lips and brushed them against my knuckles. I was breathing strange again when he dropped our hands back to his thigh. “Not one fuckin’ thing.”

“Well, now, I kinda wanna be a stylist,” I shared.

“Then do it,” he said. “We’ll get you there. You want part-time and the rest of the time family, that’ll happen. You want full-time, whatever. Days where you didn’t get what you want are done, Carrie.”

“I can’t take night classes with my work schedule,” I told him.