“Heather, no one should have a kid so it can support them in their old age. That’s one of the worst reasons in the world to have a baby . . . almost as bad as having a baby to save a broken marriage. People are supposed to support themselves. Are you and I going to support our parents in their old age?”

“God no,” I say, shocked at the idea.

Cooper reaches out to take my hand, then gives it a squeeze. “So you see? There are no guarantees. We could have kids, and they could turn out like Cassidy Upton or, worse, Gary Hall.”

This is another thing I had never before considered . . . that Jack, Emily, and Charlotte might turn out to be total and complete assholes.

“This is true,” I say. “But they could also turn out to be like us.”

“Heather,” he says, “need I remind you that we hate our parents’ guts?”

I burst out laughing. “But our parents suck. We don’t.”

“Look.” He squeezes my hand again. “I’m happy the way things are . . . happier than I’ve ever been in my life. If having a baby will make you happy, then that’s fine, I’ll have a baby with you. But I’m also fine—more than fine—with being . . . what do they call it again? Oh, yeah. Child free.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you only saying this to make me feel better, because the odds against me ever being able to conceive without medical intervention are so huge?”

“ ‘Never tell me the odds,’ ” he says.

Relieved, I squeeze his hand back. “That’s the worst Han Solo imitation I’ve ever seen,” I say. “But thank you.”

A tightness I haven’t even realized I’ve been feeling seems to lift from my shoulders, and tears have filled my eyes. I’m not sure if they’re tears of joy, sorrow . . . or relief.

It doesn’t mean I’ve turned my back on Jack, Emily, and Charlotte, I realize. If they happen someday, that’s great. But the pressure of them having to happen someday or I’ll somehow be incomplete or a failure is gone. And that feels almost as good as when Gary Hall took the muzzle of that gun away from my head.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Cooper says. “I think I have a pretty good idea how this is going to go, and if you think I’m going to let you adopt every misfit toy you meet in Fischer Hall, you’re nuts.”

“They aren’t toys,” I say, pulling my hand from his and furtively wiping the tears from my eyes. “They’re young adults who only need positive role models and some guidance and direction in their lives. And room and board in exchange for twenty hours of work at the desk or in my office.”

“Well, whatever they are,” Cooper says, “we’ve got more pressing things to worry about right now. Like what are we going to do about Miss Mexico?”

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” I say. “I already checked online, and there are a million Spanish flamenco dolls like her that I can buy for about seven dollars. But I decided I’m not going to replace her.”

“Oh yeah?” He’s reaching into the nightstand drawer again—for the remote, I assume.

“I’m going to let Miss Ireland have a little breathing room,” I say. “I think Miss Mexico was giving her an inferiority complex.”

“I think they should do a docu-reality show about you,” Cooper says, placing a small blue velvet box on my lap. “And call it Freaky Doll Collectors.”

I stare down at the box. “What’s this?” I ask suspiciously.

“Open it and see,” he says.

I open it. It’s an oval sapphire on a platinum band, with a cluster of tiny diamonds on either side.

I glance from the ring to his face and then back again in astonishment.

“I-it’s . . . it’s the ring from that antique store on Fifth Avenue,” I stammer, feeling myself turning red. “H-how did you know I wanted it?”

“Sarah told me when I called the office one day looking for you,” he says. He looks pleased with himself. “You weren’t picking up on your cell. And it’s not the ring from that store on Fifth Avenue. I went to the store on Fifth Avenue to look at that ring. Do you know how much it cost?”

I feel absurdly let down. “Oh. A lot, I’ll bet.”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he says. “That ring was fake, costume jewelry. I went to my friend Sid who works in the diamond district—legally, by the way—and I had him make you an exact replica, but with real jewels, on a real platinum band—”

I inhale, shocked. “Cooper,” I say. “You shouldn’t have. It’s too much! It’s too fancy.”

“No, it isn’t,” he says firmly. “You should have more fancy things. Put that on and tell anyone who asks that we’re engaged. I want everyone to know, especially my family. And we’re not eloping, not anymore. After you get done billing the pants off Cartwright Records Television for my services, we’re going to be able to afford a wedding at the Plaza. How many people do you want to invite? More important, where do you want to go for our honeymoon? What dolls do you need to add to your collection? Paris? What about Venice? How about—”

I fling my arms around his neck, holding him so tightly that he finally says in a strangled voice, “Heather, you’re choking me,” but I don’t care, because I’m so happy, I never want to let go.