“I was thinking about Blake Andrew.”

The sonogram room at Caitlin-Anne’s doctor’s office has one chair. Since her stuck-up mom Jeannie always comes with us to these things (even though I’m the one footing the bill, I apparently get no say in that), she gets the chair. I stand. I don’t like the woman even a little, but she is still a woman, and I guess I’m a gentleman.

I look at Caitlin-Anne. “Blake Andrew Fairfield?”

“No, silly—he’ll have your last name. He’d be a junior.”

Jeannie presses her hand to her chest like her daughter’s just found the cure for cancer. “Well, I think that’s a fabulous name!”

“Look, Cait, I’m fine with the last name and all that, but...don’t name him after me, please.” I run my hand through my hair, wishing I’d brought a sweater. The office feels freezing to me, even though both of them seem fine.

Caitlin-Anne rubs her belly, which is huge now. She’s due in three weeks. While she’s still pissed I didn’t propose to her and buy her a McMansion on the coast, she was mildly placated when her dear old daddy built her a suite on the side of their house, complete with a nursery. And her friends threw her a Paris-themed baby shower last week, so she’s got everything she needs. It’s just a matter of time.

I, meanwhile, still haven’t gotten used to the fact that she’s really pregnant with my kid.

“What man doesn’t want his son named after himself?” Jeannie clucks. “Timmy is a junior, you know.”

“That’s fine for your husband,” I tell her, “but I’m just not into the idea, okay?” I look at Caitlin-Anne and try to wedge her mother out of the conversation. “What about Declan, or—what was that name you pitched last time?”

“Brogan?”

Oh, God. “Right, right—Brogan. I mean, Brogan Andrew isn’t...bad.”

Caitlin-Anne looks at her stomach, stretched taut and shiny under the fluorescent lights. “I also like Bourne.”

I try not to make a face, but can’t help it. “Like...The Bourne Identity?”

They look at me like I’m crazy. “Bourne Fairfield is Timothy’s great-grandfather,” Jeannie explains, so much snobbery in her voice I want to slap her. I don’t—again, I’m a gentleman—but the temptation’s pretty strong. “He started our family’s railroad business from scratch, then renovated that train station downtown.”

“And he bought the Acre,” Caitlin-Anne adds. The Acre Hotel, a gilded monstrosity known for its high teas and rich history of pretending it was never actually a brothel, is the Fairfields’ pride and joy. They manage to work the fact they own it into every conversation when they first meet someone.

“Oh, uh...well, that’s a good name, too,” I offer. Honestly, she could say she wants to name the kid Bilbo Baggins and I’d go along with it, just to get her off this Junior kick. I’m not sure why it bothers me. It just does.

“You have time,” Jeannie says, waving her hand. I don’t know if she’s telling Caitlin-Anne she has time to decide, or to force me to change my mind.

“Ms. Fairfield?” The ultrasound technician pokes her head into the room. “Hi, how are you?”

“Good.” Caitlin-Anne adjusts herself on the table, getting comfortable. She shivers from the gel, then smiles when the wand presses into her skin and finds a heartbeat. “There he is!”

“Yep,” the tech laughs. “He’s got a good, strong heartbeat, just like last time. And here’s his head. Oh, there’s a hand!”

It’s kind of sweet, watching Caitlin-Anne watch the screen. She seems genuinely excited about motherhood. Even if it’s not happening the way she planned, with a giant ring on her finger.

Of course, the way she and her friends talk about the baby, you’d think she was getting a new puppy or purse, some accessory to flash around. The real test will be when the kid’s older. I think she’ll be a good mom, but can’t totally see it. Then again, who am I to judge? I can’t see myself being a dad at all.

“Blake, look!” She points to the screen. The baby’s hiding his face.

“Playing peek-a-boo,” the tech jokes, and everyone laughs. I have to force mine a little. Why doesn’t this feel amazing to me? Why doesn’t it feel real?

Jeannie says, “You know, he sort of looks like a Bourne. It suits him. Very classic.”

The tech makes a polite face, way better at hiding her true reaction than I was.

Outside, we hold the ultrasound photos up to the light and make guesses about who he’ll look like most. I lie and say he looks like Cait, but really, he looks like a generic baby. Anyone’s baby.

As soon as I get back to my place, I faceplant on the couch and let the life drain out of my muscles. All things baby exhaust me. I’m not sure how I’ll ever cut it as a dad. Maybe that’s why mine was so hands-off, after Mom died.

The fact I can even sort of understand disgusts me.

Mel lets herself in with her key that evening, waking me with a thump. She’s been moving in piece-by-piece the last month. I’m ecstatic, but it is hard to watch her mess invade my little world of order.

“Hey,” she says, thanking me as I take a box from her. “How was the ultrasound?”

“Good. Baby’s healthy, all that.”

“Yeah? Did they estimate his weight? Aw, did you see if he has any hair?”

My mind’s a depressing blank. I know the tech said all those things and more, pointed them out, and labeled them on the sonogram photos, but I can’t even pretend I remember.

Instead of fumbling for an answer, I pass Mel the sheet of duplicates the tech printed for me. She smiles her way through each one, studying the baby like it’s her own.

“You’re amazing,” I whisper, lifting her hair off her neck, kissing her perfumed skin. “Through this whole thing, you haven’t once seemed jealous, or mad, or…anything.”

“This is your son, Blake. It’s incredible.” She turns her head and kisses me back. “It’s not ideal, obviously—I still wish Cait didn’t have to be in your life—but a baby’s always a blessing.”

“You sound like your mom.” I laugh as she elbows me away.

Deep down, I can tell she’s not totally okay with everything. How could she be? This isn’t how things are supposed to happen. She should be the one having my baby, and not when we’re both barely twenty-two. But, as she frequently reminds me, it is what it is. All we can do now is wait, and try to figure things out along the way.

We start dinner together, the way we do most nights: she makes the salad while I make the entrée, both of us bumping past each other and vying over utensils, joking the whole time.

“Too much dressing?” she asks, like she always asks, and shoves a leaf of lettuce in my mouth.

“Little more.” She grabs the bottle and shakes another teaspoon into the bowl.

While we eat, I tell her about the name fiasco at the doctor. “I mean, Brogan and Bourne are definitely not the names I’d pick, but that’s her right, I guess.”

“It’s your right, too.” Mel cocks her head, setting down her fork with a bite of ravioli still on it. “You get just as much say in what he’s named as Caitlin-Anne does.”

“Hey, as long as it’s not Blake, Jr., I’m fine.”

Her nod is slow, patient, but I don’t fall for it. I’ve got one hell of a question coming my way.

“Can I ask, why don’t you like the junior idea?”

I shrug and stuff my mouth with more food to stall. “It’s kind of egotistical, isn’t it? Naming a kid after yourself?”

“I don’t think it’s egotistical unless you’re doing it to be egotistical,” she says simply. “To me, it’s like...passing something down. A legacy.”

“Well, the kid will have plenty of Fairfield legacy passed down to him.” I don’t mean to sound as sarcastic as I do.

“And what about yours?”

“She says she wants to use my last name.” I grab my wine glass and drink half, barely tasting it. “We’ll see. I have a feeling Cait’s dad won’t let that slide.”

She’s watching my wine glass, not me. “Still,” she says, “it’s not like Blake is a bad name. Or Andrew.”

“Can we talk about something else, please?”

“How would you feel,” she asks, ignoring me, “if it was Blake James Foster, or Blake Lucas Foster, or something? Your first and last name, but not a junior?”

I consider this. “Okay, I guess.”

“And what if it was James Andrew Foster, or even Blake Andrew Fairfield?”

“No,” I say. “Don’t like it.”

Mel smirks. It’s her “well, there you go” face, so I brace myself for the fact she’s apparently won a battle I didn’t even know I was fighting. “Sounds like you just don’t like Andrew as the middle.” Her voice softens; she glances up at me from underneath her bangs. “And I think I know why.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks. “Why’s that?”

“Because it’s your dad’s middle name, too.” I watch his face for any change, a giveaway of some kind. A subtle twitch at the corner of his eye confirms it.

“Maybe.” He finishes his wine and pours another glass, close to the rim, then tops mine off without asking, even though I’ve hardly taken a sip. “Is that a bad thing?”

I want to say yes, but know that’s a guaranteed way to make Blake shut down. As hard as it is sometimes to make him talk about the baby, it’s almost impossible to get him talking about Patrick. These six months together have been, all things considered, pretty perfect—which is kind of the problem. Shouldn’t he be grieving his dad? Or at least open to talking about him?

“Not...bad,” I say, finally. My hesitation was enough to make him moody; he sets his fork down and clears his throat, jaw set. “I just think it’s worth exploring.”

“Exploring.”

“Yeah, you know, analyzing your feelings and—”

“There’s nothing to analyze. My dad wasn’t a good dad. He doesn’t deserve to have any part of his name anywhere in my name.”

I wait for him to catch his mistake. “You mean, your son’s name.”

“Either.”

Great, I think, there go the walls. Right on schedule.

“Forget it.” I grab my wine and follow suit: half the glass, gone in a single sip.