From my peripheral vision, I see the woman’s face turning red. She snaps her magazine, crossing and uncrossing her stout legs in growing agitation.
Naz and I fake glare at each other, both of us trying not to laugh.
He says, “No, you can’t go wherever you want. I’m the father. I have rights.”
I produce a dramatic teenage groan, flopping back in my chair and sighing. “You’re not the boss of me, man. And I’m not going to let this baby get in the way of my dreams, you know? I mean, I’m seriously considering putting it up for adoption. Who needs this kind of commitment? Babies are a drag. Hey, is there a bar nearby? I could really use a martini.”
The woman sucks in a sharp breath, rustling her magazine into a flurry. Luckily, the receptionist calls us in to see the doctor, because otherwis
