“She’s getting heavy.”

“She is.”

He started singing again.

I stood by the window with my hand in my pocket and the edge of the receipt pressing into my thumb.

At nine forty-five Julian poured the last of the Cabernet into the crystal glasses we had gotten for our wedding.

He handed me one and raised his.

“To the next twenty years,” he said.

“To the next twenty.” I clinked my glass against his.