Years ago, before she’d started her own journey in the Cadillac, Gemma had hired a private investigator to track all of us from the junkyard down. When we’d had our latest book club virtual chat, she’d told us that she’d had the PI confirm Karson’s address, not wanting to send Clara to the wrong place. It was a good thing too since Karson had moved to a new town.
Elyria, California. A small town on the coast known for its surfing and loving community. Elyria.
All of us—Londyn, Gemma, Katherine, me—were excited for Clara. Karson had been the glue who’d held us together at the junkyard. He’d discovered it, made it a home, and kept that home safe for the rest of us. If he wasn’t doing well, if his life had fallen apart . . .
It would break our hearts.
Clara’s especially.
I’d cautioned her to expect anything, to be prepared for the worst, but she’d insisted it would be fine. She was eager to see him for herself.
“Bye.” She pulled me into one last hug, then got in the Cadillac.
My heart crept into my throat as the engine rumbled to a start and the wheels inched forward, picking up speed as she drove down the lane.
“She’ll be okay.” Brody put his free arm around my shoulders and tucked me into his side.
“I hope so.” As the Cadillac disappeared, I leaned into Brody’s strong body, using it for support. And yawned.
“What about Danny?” he asked.
“Boring.” I yawned again.
“What about Adl—”
“If you suggest Adler one more time, I’m going to the courthouse tomorrow and putting Parry, with an a, on his birth certificate.”
Brody frowned and let me go. Then he retreated with the baby into the house, passing the plethora of plants I’d added to the entryway. After some paint and colorful toss pillows and throws, this concrete house was coming to life. He carried the baby into the bedroom and carefully set him in the cradle at the foot of our bed.
“He’s five days old,” he said. “My son needs a name. Adler’s not that bad.”
“Look at him.” I tossed up a hand. “Does he look like an Adler?”
The name made me cringe. Probably because Brody kept suggesting it. If I actually thought he loved the name and was paying homage to his late grandfather, I would have caved. But even he didn’t like it much. It was just at the top of his mind.
Much like Parry, with an a.
Neither of them was the right name. None of the countless other options we’d debated were either. The baby name book that rested on my nightstand had a hundred pages dog-eared, but no matter what we threw out there, nothing fit.
Our son had arrived five days ago after thirteen hours of labor. He had gray eyes that I hoped would become Brody’s green. He had a mat of dark hair and the cutest nose on earth. He was the center of our universe.
And damn it, he had to have the perfect name.
“Come on.” Brody took my hand and pulled me to the bed. “We’re exhausted. Let’s just . . . lie down for a few minutes.”
“Why does he only sleep during the day?” I collapsed onto the mattress.
Brody did the same, facing me as we both relaxed into our pillows. He stretched one hand across the tiny space between us and took mine, bringing it to his lips before closing his eyes.
The black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest was fresh, as were his gray sweats. It wasn’t entirely fair that he looked gorgeous after a ten-minute shower. Meanwhile I’d taken a thirty-minute bath and blow-dried my hair in an attempt to feel human again but still looked like I’d been trampled over by a herd of dirty zebras.
“Brody?”
“Hmm.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.” Those words never got old. “Rest.”
I closed my eyes but my mind refused to shut down. This was the most exhausted I’d ever been in my life, but there was daylight beyond the blinds and my brain wouldn’t shut the hell up.
Name. We needed a name.
What kind of mother couldn’t think of a name for her baby? We’d run through the entire list of family names on Brody’s side and mine. None fit. Clara had already named August after our dad so that wasn’t an option.
Why couldn’t we come up with something? Why wasn’t it bothering Brody more? Didn’t he care about our baby? Didn’t he want to get this right? Clearly not if he could just lie there and fall asleep in five seconds flat.
“Brody.”
He didn’t stir.
“Brody.”
Nothing.
“Brody.” I yanked my hand from his grip and poked him in the ribs.
He gasped awake, snapping up to look at the baby. “What? What’s wrong?”
“We need a name.”
He groaned and face-planted into his pillow. “Aria, he doesn’t need a name this second.”
“What kind of parents are we that we can’t give him a name?”
“The indecisive kind.” Brody reached for me, inching close. Then with my hand firmly in his once more, he held it to his heart. “We’re the kind of parents who love him so much that we’re not rushing a decision he’ll live with his entire life.”
I sighed. “I hate it when you win our fights.”
“Were we fighting?”
“In my head.”
He chuckled and scooched close to kiss my forehead. “Sleep. I don’t want you worn out.”
“Too late.”
“Close your eyes.” The command was meant for me, but he obeyed it himself. Those eyelashes fluttered shut.
I counted sixty-three sheep and still hadn’t drifted off. “Brody.”
He answered with a snore.
“Brody,” I whispered.
Brody.
Like the man, I loved the name. It was pretentious and arrogant. It fit him perfectly because he was both of those things. And loving. Generous. Kind.
Never in my life had I felt so cherished than when I was with my husband.
Brody and I were married not long after he’d proposed. We didn’t invite anyone but Clara and Marty. August was Brody’s best man. Ron, a man who never stopped surprising me with his hidden talents, performed the ceremony on the patio at sunset.
No fuss. No party. No expenses besides my dress, and since Brody hadn’t been able to buy it for me thanks to our purchasing armistice, I’d bought it myself. A long-sleeve, ivory tulle gown with lace on the bodice and wrists. The empire waist had showcased my belly, not hidden it away. Three hundred bucks and a floral arrangement from my own shop.
With the sunset at our backs and Brody impeccable in a tux, it was the second most special day of my life, eclipsed only by the day our son was born.
Brody.
That was his name. Brody. After a father who had been fighting for him since the beginning. After a father who’d rather die than miss a day of his life. After a father who loved him and his mother with every beat of his heart.
“Brody.” I poked him again.
This time he just opened his eyes and glared. “Sleep.”
“I want to name him Brody, after you.”
He blinked, coming awake and shoving up to his elbow. “After me?”
“Yes. Brody Carmichael Jr.”
“Actually. He’d be the third. Dad’s name was Broderick.”