Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub

another stomping in a pond-sized puddle to his mother’s vocal dismay.
    If April showers really do bring May flowers, Manhattan will be one big blooming garden in just a few more days. The last three weeks have been nonstop soggy grayness, to the point where she could hardly get out of bed this morning.
    But of course she did, despite the fact that it’s a Sunday, because she spontaneously and stupidly made this brunch date with Gil.
    Why on earth did she have to go and call her first love?
    Because you’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, she reminds herself, holding her umbrella closer to her head as a wet gust tries to slip beneath it.
    It’s as though certain details, innocuous relics, of her past have been locked away in a dusty attic that she suddenly has the urge to explore.
    Is inexplicable nostalgia another bizarre pregnancy symptom, like the enhanced sense of smell Allison warned her to watch for?
    It must be. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be eating canned Spaghetti-os every day for lunch, just the way she used to back in elementary school. Nor would she have spent last Saturday night sorting through old photos while watching a Green Acres marathon on cable.
    And she certainly wouldn’t be reuniting with Gil Blaney on this gloomy Sunday—or ever.
    He sounded so surprised when she called the other night. Pleasantly surprised—but only after initially telling her to hold on a moment, then apparently closing the door to whatever room he was in. She heard the click, and realized that he wanted privacy to take her phone call.
    That bothered her. Was he afraid his wife would be upset? Maybe she shouldn’t have called him at home. In fact, she hadn’t even been sure she was calling him at home. She merely dialed the number he’d left with her mother.
    If he didn’t want her to call him at home because it might upset his wife, why would he have left that number? Why would he have left any number?
    â€œI just wanted to say hi,” she said with forced breeziness, trying to think of a reason to hang up quickly.
    But as those first awkward moments turned into what felt for all the world like a casual conversation between two old friends, she found herself relaxing. Relaxing to the point where she agreed to have brunch with him.
    She reaches the historic Flatiron Building and makes a left along Twenty-third Street, glad she picked this particular dining spot amidst the row of trendy bistros and bars across from the park’s southern entrance. He had mentioned a restaurant on the Upper West Side, but she stepped in and insisted on a place she’s frequented on business lunches, a place that isn’t the least bit intimate or romantic. That would be awkward, should the conversation lag. Better to be on familiar turf; noisy, bustling, familiar turf.
    â€œThat sounds fine,” Gil said, more accommodating than she expected—or remembered. “Is eleven okay?”
    â€œNoon would be better.”
    He laughed. “So you’re still calling all the shots. It’s nice to know some things never change. I’ll see you at noon.”
    She doesn’t expect to spot him the moment she steps in out of the dismal drizzle. She thought she’d have a moment to make herself presentable, to gather her thoughts.
    But he’s right here, sprawled on a seat by the door, his lanky legs stretched in front of him and one arm hooked casually over the back of the chair. Peyton pauses to take in the familiar posture, the upturned Kevin Bacon nose, the shock of sandy brown hair that betrays not a strand of gray.
    He looks up, sees her, smiles. “You look exactly the same, Runt,” he says, standing and crossing over to her.
    Runt. The word, his tone, the way he looks at her when he says it . . .
    Memories burst unbidden from the dim recesses of her mind. Fond memories.
    â€œSo do you, Gil. You look great.”
    He squeezes her upper arms, and she sees that up