Page 18 of The Girl with No Name

He kisses her on the cheek, and she cradles her stomach.

“This baby kinda feels like a Reed, now that you mention it,” Wendy deadpans, looking over at me. “Or maybe a Walker.”

“Woman.” He shakes his head. “It’s a girl.”

“Obviously it’s a girl. Those could be girl names. I’ve met a girl named Reed before.”

Dunn clears his throat loudly. “So, beers? Railfest? You ready to party this weekend? It's my last weekend of freedom before, well, you know—my eighteen-year sentence.”

Wendy rolls her eyes.

“Kidding, babe. Not really, though.”

“Dude, I told you. I can’t go this weekend.”

“We leave tomorrow morning.”

“I have work tomorrow. They’re bringing us back into the office.”

“What do you even do? Email nonsense?”

“Something like that.”

“Call in sick. Pull someFerris Bueller’s Day Offshit. I’ll pretend I’m your dad.”

I shake my head as I follow Dunn to the kitchen. He hands me a Miller Lite from the fridge.

“I told you I can’t go.”

“And I told you that’s bullshit.”

We cheers, clinking our beers together.

“I don’t even like country music.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, this isn’t country music. It’s Zach fucking Bryan. And the goddamn Red Lemons are playing.”

I laugh, thinking how well he and Jay would get along. “That’s what my friend at work said, too. I’m just not sure what it means.”

“It means that Zach Bryan transcends the genre.”

I google his name. “The first three recommendations that come up are from country-music blogs. Sorry, man. I just don’t like country.”

“You’ve never lived in the south, have you? You need to visit us in Louisiana again so you can become more cultured.”

“Does South America count? That’s south. And I lived on a farm in Bolivia. That’s the country lifestyle.”

We move out on to his back patio, facing the train across the street.

“No, you crazy Peace Corps volunteer. I’m talking about the American south, obviously. You really didn’t get anything out of it when you visited me down at Fort Polk, did you?”

“Look, I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. I can’t go to a music festival tomorrow. I have a job. I have responsibilities. And that’s the end of it.”

“Wait, you have a job? How’d you get here at four p.m., then?”

“I have some flexibility.”

“So be flexible tomorrow.”