I was in high school when I first found out I had a penchant for choosing names. I was the youngest cousin in a big Catholic family, and our extended family was growing by leaps and bounds. After one too many accusations of “name theft” and watching a handful of family members fight over “the good names,” I sat down and made a list. Then I made another. I dispersed them to all my pregnant cousins, who then referred me to their friends and colleagues and their extended families. After a while, I started charging. First it was twenty-five dollars per name, then fifty, then a hundred as it became more involved. By the time I was out of college, I’d turned my little side hustle into a full-fledged business—helping expecting parents all over the country come up with the perfect monikers.
Seraphina and Jake exchange watery-eyed looks, their hands clasping.
“Adeline Iris,” she says, slowly, letting it linger on her tongue.
“Adeline Iris,” he repeats.
“We love it.” Seraphina turns back to the camera.
“Awesome, that’s what I like to hear,” I say. I throw a celebratory fist in the air. “Ready for name number two?”
“I don’t know if you can top Adeline, but we’re ready,” Jake says, leaning closer to the camera.
“All right, next up we have . . . Ivy Cate Dybeck,” I say. “Again, we’re carrying that long i sound in the first and last name, and we’ve got Cate with a c as a classic but modern middle name. Also, Cate is a nod to Jake’s grandmother, Catherine. I don’t tend to match syllables with first and last names, but I’m making an exception here because visually, Ivy is a shorter name, and I think that, overall, it’s a strong contender.”
“Ooh, I really like that,” Seraphina says to her husband. “I don’t know which one I like better . . .”
“Before you get too attached to Ivy Cate, let me put number three out there,” I say.
Jake nods, and Seraphina rests her cheek against his rounded shoulder as they wait.
“Violet Evelyn Dybeck,” I say. “Violet, Evelyn, and Dybeck both have the short e. Violet catches the vintage charm you both wanted, while Evelyn is a nod to Eve, Seraphina’s mother’s middle name. Violet and Evelyn both share the v sound, which is a bonus combination.”
“Those are . . . wow,” Jake says.
“We love them all,” Seraphina echoes.
These are the moments I live for—the home runs.
“I don’t know how we’re going to choose.” Jake runs his hands through his thick dark hair, turning to his wife.
“We have three more weeks to decide.” She rubs her round belly. “God willing.”
“Pro tip? Keep an open mind,” I say. “Wait until you meet her. You’ll know instantly if she’s an Adeline, an Ivy, or a Violet.”
Seraphina draws in a deep breath and gives me a grateful smile. “Thank you so, so much, Anneliese. We’re not creative at all.”
Her husband chuckles.
“We’re accountants, and we think in numbers and logistics, and trying to come up with the perfect name for our little girl was just . . . not in our wheelhouse,” Jake continues for her. “We’re so glad we found you.”
“Aw, anytime, guys. I’m just happy that you’re happy,” I say, giving a quick wave over the webcam. “Take care, and don’t forget to send me her birth announcement! I can’t wait to find out which one you go with.”
In my pre-Donovan prime, I used to charge $1,500 for three names, which included hours of research and a handful of meetings to narrow down final options. People would pay those kinds of prices in Chicago, where most of my business came from word of mouth, and I had a monthslong wait list.
As it turns out, Arcadia Ridge doesn’t have the same cutthroat baby-naming demand. Most of my business these days comes from my Etsy shop, where I’ve had to slash my prices to book clients, and I’m lucky if I garner enough business in a month to keep the lights on in this house and a full tank of gas in my Prius.
I end the video conference and flip to the last page in my notebook—the one reserved for my personal favorite names . . . the ones I was saving for us. Perfect monikers that are forever bittersweetly tainted.
Donovan and Anneliese Byrne had such a ring to it with all those n’s. I planned on continuing the pattern, and Don promised I could have free rein when it came to naming our future children. He said names were my thing and he’d be remiss to veto a single one that I found to be perfect.
It was always the little things.
From the moment we met, I’d never come across anyone so charming, so observant, so willing to do whatever it took to put a smile on my face. He wasn’t like the other guys I’d wasted my twenties on—the ones who would ghost me after a string of amazing dates or match with my friends on dating apps despite insisting we were exclusive. The ones who spent more time in the gym than anywhere else and thought that going over their newest bench press record made for fascinating dinner conversations.
From the start, Donovan was different.
He was one of a kind.
He wasn’t too much; he wasn’t too little; he was just enough.
He wasn’t overly chatty—only speaking when he had something important to say. Silence never bothered him. He didn’t have to constantly fill the space with meaningless sound, though he was a huge fan of leaving me little love notes in unexpected places or showing up with flowers for no reason at all. Surprise date nights were his specialty. He also respected the concept of personal space. He wasn’t constantly touching me twenty-four seven, but he’d never miss an opportunity to steal a kiss or sweep my hair from my cheek or brush against me with a hug in passing while I was cooking dinner or uncorking a bottle of wine for us. He never dominated the TV—taking interest in my shows, even if they weren’t necessarily his favorites. And he was dynamite in bed—like he intuitively knew how to work my body without any guidance.
Being with him was easy and effortless. I’d never clicked with anyone the way I clicked with him—which is why six months in, he was proposing, and I was packing up my apartment, and we were moving to his hometown to renovate his childhood home and start our life together.
It’s been challenging these last few months—reconciling the Donovan I fell for with the con artist he truly was. Nothing adds up, nothing makes sense, yet at the same time it does.
He played me like the love-drunk fool that I was.
A hot thread of embarrassment traces through my veins, the way it does anytime I think about him for too long.
I close the lid of my laptop and trek to the kitchen to heat up a frozen lasagna for lunch, the kind that smells better than it tastes but only costs ninety-nine cents. While I wait for my ancient microwave to do its thing, I walk to my room and change out of the blouse I wore for the video call and into an old T-shirt with a hole at the hem and a stretched collar. The unparalleled comfort of worn-out clothing is the only luxury I have these days.
The microwave dings, and I go back, twisting my hair into a messy pile on top of my head along the way and mentally mapping out this week’s renovation schedule. But something catches my eye on the way—an imposing shadow by the front door.
Gasping, I jump behind one of the pillars in the front hall, peeking out just enough to find a masculine figure standing on my porch.