We still don’t have a name for the baby, but every night Trey and I toss out new options, and I kibosh his ideas and he nixes mine. I’m pretty sure we’re at the point where we’re blackballing the other’s ideas for fun. But soon, we’ll have to settle on names.

Meanwhile, my husband has landed a job at one of the best-known tattoo shops on Ocean Beach. He entered some of his designs in a contest, and he won his first award as an artist for a cherry blossom tree he inked on a woman’s upper back. He also learned to drive, too, and gave Robert an ulcer in the process, because it turns out Trey has quite a lead foot.

Trey’s better now behind the wheel, and I’ve told him that driving like an old man is much more appreciated by his wife and child. So, as we park at the doctor’s office for my thirty-six-week appointment, gently gliding the Honda into a spot, I pat him on the arm, thanking him for his “feathery touch.”

In the exam room, the nurse weighs me and takes my blood pressure, telling me everything looks good. The doctor listens for the heartbeat, and checks my cervix, then examines my hands, face and ankles for swelling.

“It can be a sign of preeclampsia,” she says in an offhand way.

“Oh. Do I have that?”

“I don’t see any evidence that you do,” she adds. “If you notice any unusual swelling, weight gain, or headaches, let us know and we’ll check you again.”

“Unusual weight gain beyond having to roll me down the hall because I’m so ginormous?”

She smiles briefly at my comment. “Your weight is perfect, Harley.”

Then she reviews the signs for Braxton-Hicks versus real contractions, and I make a mental note to look them up again later because how on earth will I tell the difference?

“Do you have any questions?”

I raise my hand, even though I’m the only one in the exam room. “Can I still have sex? It’s not going to break my water or anything, is it?”

She shakes her head. “You have a perfectly normal pregnancy, and sex won’t hurt you or the baby. So, by all means, enjoy yourself. It’s a great way to take your mind off the final weeks.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I went right up till the end for both my pregnancies. Just find a position that works for you.”

When I’m done, Trey’s waiting patiently in the lobby with other expectant parents, the fathers forming a motley crew of men—some middle-aged with bald patches, some sharp in their suits and ties, one in a blue button-down with a name patch from Bob’s Mechanics, and then my guy, with thick hair I love to run my fingers through, strong arms covered in ink, and that gorgeous face, sculpted cheekbones, and the scar that’s still as sexy to me as it was the night I met him.

My young, handsome, thoroughly in love twenty-two-year-old husband of mine. We are kids having a kid, and maybe some of these other parents think we’re a joke, but I know we have an unbreakable bond. We have a brave and crazy, a messy and honest kind of love. Eight months ago, I was terrified of how he’d react to the news, and I was petrified of having a kid. Now, I’m almost there, just a few more weeks until I’m a mother. A mother. It’s so huge, and so scary, and so amazing. I know so very little, but I know, too, that we have all the essential ingredients, and more—because we have Debbie and Robert by our side.

Somehow, this has become our life, born from the darkest of circumstances, bred from the painful pull of addiction, and even so I wouldn’t change a thing.

Trey closes the paperback he’s reading, stands up, and takes my hand. We head to the parking lot, and it’s still odd to get in a car, rather than to race down the steps to the subway. I buckle, grunting playfully as I stretch the seatbelt over my basketball, and then I turn on the satellite radio, tuning in to a Katy Perry song.

Trey rolls his eyes as he backs up.

“What? Not cool enough for you? Do I need to play the college alternative station?”

“You can play whatever you want,” he says. Then he pauses. “For the next four weeks.”

“Ha. So you’re only going to be nice to me till I pop?”

“Yup.”

He navigates out of the lot, and then backs onto the main drag, toward Ocean Beach. The sidewalks are crammed with tourists and locals, enjoying the late afternoon sun, high in the sky. Women in sundresses and men in cargo shorts wander in and out of the boutiques, bakeries and cafes.

I roll down the window, letting in the warm air. The station shifts to James Blunt’s Bonfire Heart, and I nearly shout. “I love this song!”

I turn up the music, and he slows the car as we reach a red light.

I start singing along, then look at Trey, rolling my hands, encouraging him to join in. “Days like this . . .”

“I don’t know the words,” he says.

I lean in closer. “Well, I know them all, because this song reminds me of you and me. Because—” I take a beat, and wait for James Blunt to sing my favorite line, then I join in, “You light the spark in my—”

Then I’m jerked forward, and there’s a loud crunch of metal against metal. Instinct kicks in, and I raise my hands to brace myself against the dashboard, but the seatbelt snaps me back in place, slamming the back of my head against the headrest, and sending a sharp, searing pain through my skull.

The car stops running instantly. My pulse is quickening and fear gallops across my skin, centers in my chest. My head pounds, and my heart races.

“Are you okay?” Trey’s face is pale, all the color drained out.

My hands go to my belly, and I nod. But I’m so shaken, and it feels like a firecracker is exploding behind my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he repeats, his voice etched with all the worry I feel. “Say something. Talk to me.”

“I think so. But my head hurts so much,” I moan, dropping my forehead into my shaky hands.

I’m vaguely aware that there’s a knocking on his window. Trey rolls down the window, and I hear a girl’s voice. “I’m so sorry for hitting you. I feel terrible. Is everyone all right?”

She’s so young, maybe a teenager, but I can’t even focus anymore, and the conversation lasts all of ten seconds, as Trey says, “Just give me your number. I’ll call you later.”

He starts the car, the engine rumbles to life, and he calls my doctor immediately.

“Yes, I’ll take her there now,” he says into the phone. Then he tells me, “They want you to go the hospital. To get checked out. Just as a precaution.”

His voice is calm and strong. He’s unwavering as he lays a hand on my thigh, and I simply nod, and close my eyes.

Within minutes, we’re at the ER, and my head is still bursting with pain, but I’m not bleeding, my water hasn’t broken, my husband isn’t freaking out, and my baby is kicking me. Everything will be fine.

He holds my hand the whole time as we wait to be seen, talking to me, reassuring me. Soon, a nurse with a clipboard calls my name, and brings me back to a hospital room in the ER. Machines bleat out sounds, and nurses and doctors shuffle quickly in and out of rooms.

“Is the baby okay?” Trey asks, as the nurse yanks the curtain around the bed.

“Well, let’s just see,” the nurse says, and hooks me up to the heart monitor, where we’re rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world: a loud, thumping heart. Soon, the obstetrician on call comes by, and after a quick exam, pronounces mom and baby perfectly fine.

“But let’s give her some Tylenol for that nasty headache,” the young doctor, so pretty she could be on a TV show, says to the nurse. Then to me, “And why don’t you go home and get some rest, sweetheart?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trey says, answering on my behalf .

An hour later, I’m feeling much better. I’m tucked in bed, and Debbie brings me a grilled cheese and chicken sandwich. I take a bite, and it’s delicious.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Seriously. The Tylenol worked, my head is better, and I don’t have any bruises or scratches or anything,” I say, holding up my arms for a display of all my scratch-less-ness.