“It’s a strong name,” he insisted.
“It’s a fruit.”
“It’s also a person’s name.”
“It’s mostly a fruit.”
He laughed.
Even then, there had been something fragile hidden in the sound. A faint catch in his chest that I had trained myself not to notice every time he smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “What about Cecelia?”
I turned toward him.
“Cecelia?”
“My grandmother used to sing that song with the name in it.”
“You told me your grandmother couldn’t carry a tune.”
“She couldn’t.”
“So that’s your argument?”
“It made you smile.”
I tried not to.
He won anyway.
“Cecelia,” I repeated.
At that exact moment, the baby kicked under his palm.
Mark’s eyebrows rose.
“You felt that?”
“She kicked you.”
“She approved.”
“That was not approval.”
“Strong approval.”
I placed my hand over his.
“Cecelia.”
This time, the name sounded different.
