I laugh, but it’s a wet, choked sound. “Stop, Nathan. I already married you, you big sentimental goon. You don’t have to try and make me more in love than I already am.”

“But I’m going to. Or try, at least. Every day.”

I cling to him, nuzzle kisses just under his beard. “Have you thought about names?”

“Yeah. It’s a girl, and her name is Leanne Belle Fischer. B-E-L-L-E. Leanne for Lisa’s middle name, and Belle in honor of Adrian.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

“It’s not. But, if it is by some chance, Robert Thompson Fischer.”

Robert, for Adrian’s middle name, and Thompson, for Lisa’s maiden name.

“Perfect.” I look up at him. “You’re really certain it’s a girl?”

“I know it.” He smiles down at me. “She’ll have my hair and your eyes.” He traces a finger over my temple. “You like the names? I’ve been thinking on ’em for a while.”

“I love the names. They’re exactly perfect.” I try the girl name out loud. “Leanne Belle Fischer.”

“We can talk about it more if you’re not sure.”

I shake my head. “No.” I kiss his cheekbone, and then his lips. “Nathan, Nadia, and Leanne Fischer.”

I took his name. He told me I could keep Bell if I wanted, but I knew part of moving on and starting a new life was taking his name when I said, “I do.” I knew it’s what he would have wanted. Adrian, I mean.

There are still days where I miss him. I wrap the blanket he bought me around my shoulders and I sit on the dock, and I remember him, and I let myself miss him, let myself think about him. Nathan recognizes it, and gives me that space. He has his days, too. I see it in him, and I give him that space. He usually goes for a hike in the woods, spends the day out there by himself, and when he comes back his eyes are clear and his lips once more hold that smile that so lightens my heart.

Our wedding was just him, me, Tess, and a justice of the peace, out here on the dock. And by justice of the peace, I mean the county sheriff, with whom Nathan is good friends. We had a small ceremony, just the essentials of I love you and I vow and I do, and then we went into town and spent the evening with our adopted community, celebrating.

What else could you ask for?

Nothing, I think.

“One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten!” He’s holding my hand, counting out the seconds as I push.

When he gets to ten, I gasp for breath and let myself cry a little, moan, whimper, and his hand is there, in mine, letting me squeeze it until I’m sure I’ll break it.

He wipes sweat off my forehead, kisses me. “You’re doing great, honey. Just a little more.”

“I can see the crown!” the doctor says, from down between my legs. “All right, here comes a contraction. Ready, mama? Push!”