Graham was looking at her with an expression she did not entirely understand. It was not pity, which she would have hated. It was something more like recognition — like a man who has been walking alone at night down an empty street and suddenly hears, ahead of him, the sound of another person's footsteps.
"Your brother's a priest," he said slowly.
"Yeah."
"So when you said 'eventually'—"
"My mother says it. About grandchildren. 'Eventually.' Like it's a place. Like it's a town in Indiana we're driving to."
Graham started to laugh. He tried not to. He put his hand over his mouth and his shoulders shook, and Gina stared at him, outraged, and then she started laughing too, and she threw a gumdrop at him, and it bounced off his glasses, and he caught her wrist before she could throw another one.
They stopped laughing.
His hand was around her wrist, very lightly. Her pulse was going under his fingers. The single strand of white lights blinked on the tree by the window, and snow was falling past the glass onto Belden Avenue, and someone in the apartment below was playing a Johnny Mathis record, and Gina thought, very clearly, the way you think things in the second before a car accident: Oh. Oh, no.