“I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “Don’t be.” She ran a hand over her belly. “Remember when we did those exams in ninth grade? My IQ is above average, so I think the baby will be fine.” “I meant I’m sorry he is out in the ocean, risking his life.” “Oh. I’m not,” she answered airily. “All he does when he’s around is watch football, drink beer, and complain I don’t fulfill my ‘womanly’ duties. Team Ocean all the way.”
