Page 127 of The Goal

A lactation expert stopped by an hour ago to teach Sabrina the propertechniques for breastfeeding, and our daughter has already proven how she’s better than every other baby alive, because she latched on right away and suckled happily at her mom’s breast while we both watched in pure wonder.

Now she’s full and sleepy and lying half in Sabrina’s arms, half in mine. Never in my life have I felt more at peace than in this very moment.

“I love you,” I whisper.

Sabrina stiffens slightly. She doesn’t respond.

I suddenly realize that she probably thinks I’m talking to the baby. So I add, “Both of you.”

“Tucker…” There’s a note of warning in her voice.

I instantly regret opening my mouth. And since I don’t particularly want to hear her say she doesn’t love me back or make excuses about why she can’t say it, I paste on a cheerful smile and change the subject.

“We really need to pick a name.”

Sabrina bites her lip. “I know.”

I tenderly run my thumb over our daughter’s perfect little mouth. She makes a sniffling noise and stirs in our arms. “Should we tackle the first name or the last name?”

I’m hoping she picks the former. We haven’t even discussed first names because we’ve been too busy arguing about the James-Tucker dilemma.

Sabrina surprises me by saying, “You know…I guess James-Tucker isn’t a terrible idea.”

My breath hitches. “James Tucker.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, I mean, that should be her name—James Tucker.”

“Are you nuts? You want to name her James?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Why not? We can call her Jamie. But the birth certificate will say James Tucker. That way she’s equal parts both of us, without the hyphen we both seem to hate.”

She laughs and leans in to kiss our baby’s perfect cheek. “Jamie… I like it.”

And that’s that.

33

SABRINA

Little James is in the back of the truck. The nurse waves to us from inside the foyer. I have a bag full of free shit sitting at my feet. Tucker’s hands are on the steering wheel. But we’re not moving.

“Why aren’t we moving?”

Tucker swings his bloodshot eyes toward the backseat. “We have a baby in this truck, Sabrina.”

“I know.”

He swallows hard. “This is fucked up. We shouldn’t be allowed to leave the hospital with a kid. I’ve never even had a pet before.”

I shouldn’t laugh at Tucker’s misery. In fact, it sort of hurts to do anything but sit in a still, slightly reclined position. But his frustrated, somewhat terrorized expression is so unlike him that I can’t stop a giggle from escaping. I cover my mouth to muffle the sound, having learned quickly in the forty-eight hours since the delivery that sleep is a precious and all-too-scarce commodity for new parents.

“I love that you’re the one freaking out. Start the car, Tuck. The family behind us wants to leave.”

He twists to peer through the back windshield. “They already have two kids. Let’s follow them home.”

“Let’s not.”

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