“What?” he asks as he stands there with his mouth hanging open.
“You heard me—come on. Practice makes perfect, right?”
“Oh, babe, you know me. I’m a fucking perfectionist.”
That’s what I’m counting on. I know that if we’re going to get pregnant, it has to be now, because asking him to miss time during the season would be selfish. If it happens before we go back to Boston, then I’ll be happy, and if not, we’ll have a year of marriage under our belts and start trying next year.
Either way, heading off into the night sky with the roof down and the wind in our hair is a pretty good way to start off our night.