Still he said nothing. She held him, the warm breathing man, the sun on them both, the small waves pushing at the shore, their splish-splash, their gulp on the sand. She did not want to say anything more, either to convince him or to talk herself out of it. So she moved away from him and rolled onto her back, feeling pleasantly scorched by the hot sand.

But he threw his arm around her and drew her to him. And now his mouth was against her ear.

“Getting tubed is like being born,” he said.

“So you’re okay with it?”

“I’m stoked.”

“You’re always so down on other people’s kids.”

“This is not other people’s kids.”

Now she turned to him and held his face and said, “You’re happy.”

“It makes me feel young.”

“You are young.”

“When did you find out?”

“That week—when I was away.”

“What week? When were you away?”

He seemed to believe that she was teasing him. He had taken such pleasure in the news of the child that she didn’t want to break the mood by insisting he was mistaken about her not having been away.

Instead of contradicting him, she said, “I seemed to have morning sickness. I thought it was a bug. One of the nurses made me take a pregnancy test. ‘You hapai,’ she said. I still feel like a dog’s dinner sometimes, but it passes.”

“Imagine,” he said—he was looking past her, smiling at their baby. “People will think I’m his grandfather.”

“They’ll adore him. They’ll know his father is Joe Sharkey.”

“Little kids are amazing surfers. I started young. I’ve seen five-year-olds paddle out and catch a wave.”

He was still staring past her head, studying the water, seeing his child on the gentle wave that was bulging toward shore, the sort of wave a child might ride, planted on his board and shrieking with joy.

“Three-year-olds can learn to swim. These great athletes—they always started young. And you know, surfing saved me when I was miserable at school. It’s not a sport—it’s a life choice.”

Olive could feel his body tensed with excitement, the eagerness hardening his muscles. She’d been unprepared for it—she thought it was something she’d have to defend or argue for; but he accepted it, and it was more than acceptance. He had seized the thought, and he was already seeing a surfer, a companion, a friend, in a way that first surprised and pleased her and then alarmed her.

He was gleeful on the way home, nodding, seeing through the front window—what?—the child on a surfboard, a child in his arms, a little hero.

“It’s still early,” she said, to caution him. “Maybe six weeks. Anything can happen.”

“It’s going to be fine. You just need to stay healthy.”

“I’ll stop working nights.”