Nayana
“I swear to God, if you name my godchild something horrible like Bartholomew or Gertrude, I will disown you as a friend.”
Gwen’s voice is so serious that I almost choke on my juice. I laugh and place a hand over my little bump on instinct, like I’m protecting the baby from threats. We’re curled up on the huge cream sofa in the cozy London apartment Leo arranged for me, legs tucked under us, a ridiculously cheesy rom-com playing on the TV and mostly ignored.
“You’re so dramatic,” I say, nudging her with my shoulder. “What if I like Gertrude?”
She narrows her eyes at me, her dark red lipstick making her glare look extra deadly. “You don’t. You like pretty names with vowels and vibes. Your baby is going to have a main-character name, and I stand by that.”
I giggle and lean my head
