December 17, 1977 (continued)

Juliet holds out her hand to look at the ring. It's so simple and thoughtful and sweet. What in the world made him decide to get this in May? And what in the world kept him from giving it to her in June and July? She blinks away tears, and even through tears, the ring sparkles just so.

She wipes the tears from her cheeks. Maybe that's what's going to jar him into reality – her ability to cry at the drop of a hat. He'd come back, and she'd been so thrilled to see him alive, whole, here . . . and NOW. She'd just let the euphoria take over. Until reality set in. She'd been so scared that he'd stop just being happy to see her, and start figuring it out . . . this baby is real. This is real. Reality. Maybe when he watched her awkwardly try to slide into a booth (so she nixed that idea). Or definitely when he saw her naked (so she invited Miles back), or maybe now that she's weepy.

She looks at her beautiful, precious diamond ring, though, and remembers how he was with her last night, and decides that, no. No, he is well aware this is reality, and he's actually happy about it. He seemed so desperate for her to say "yes." Truth be told, she's ambivalent about the idea of marriage, anyway. Her parents were married, she was married, his parents were married . . . yeah, marriage in and of itself guarantees exactly nothing. But he seemed to need the encouragement, the solidity. And right now, she doesn't have the heart to tell him it probably doesn't matter. How are they supposed to get a marriage license? They can't actually get married. He's happy now. She can wait to tell him.

He hangs up the phone. "Gotta go get Miles for lunch," he informs her, coming close, putting his hands on her shoulders, then running his hands down her arms. She gets goosebumps.

"Mmmmmmmm," is all she can reply. Do they really have to go get Miles? Can't they stay here and spend the day in bed? Yeah, yeah, OK, awkwardness forgotten.

He kisses her on the forehead. "Now, what's a man gotta do to get some freakin' toast around here? I been on food rations for months, and all I want is a measly piece a' toast. Just last night I's askin' and askin', 'please tell me how this toaster of yours works,' but noooooooo. . . it's all 'Kiss me, James. Hold me, James. Make love to me, James.' Jesus! Can't a man just get a piece a' toast?"

She laughs before leading him to the kitchenette. She puts two slices in the toaster and shows him that the lever on the toaster won't stay depressed unless you put something heavy on it. "This vinegar bottle seems to do the trick." She depresses the lever and leans the vinegar bottle against it. "Or, you can just sit and hold it down yourself. I don't recommend that method. You do have to watch, just to make sure it doesn't burn."

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but they stand watching the toast.

A minute passes, and James says, "Uh, do you think maybe . . .well, it wouldn't be weird or nothin' if I, you know, talked to it?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, I tried that. God, one morning I was so tired and sick, and all I wanted was a piece of plain toast. This is before I figured out the vinegar bottle trick. I must've called it every curse word in the book. Flipped it the bird, too. No, talking to it doesn't work. Just put something heavy on it."

He crosses his arms, looks impatient. "I didn't mean the toaster, Braniac. I meant the baby."

"Oh!" She might cry again. Why did she doubt how he would take this? Why did she doubt him? "Of course you can," she says. She rubs her belly, right where she last felt an elbow or foot or hand or something. "Hey, baby," she coos. "Your daddy wants to talk to you." She looks up to James then.

"Jesus," he gasps. He runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus."

Great. She did it. Reality just set in. He's going to turn tail and run.

"God," he says. "Damn. This is real."

DING! DING! DING! DING! Yes, yes, it's real. Thank you for playing, and it's been nice knowing you. We have some lovely parting gifts. Here's a crappy piece of shit toaster. Have a nice life.

He's still leaning against the counter, though. Hasn't run out, leaving a James-shaped hole in the wall. He reaches out a hand, and she thinks he wants to hold hands, but he keeps reaching, sets his hand on the spot she just rubbed on her stomach. Ohhh-kayy. Stop worrying about him. He's here. He's staying.

"I, uh . . ." he looks like a deer caught in the headlights, though. "I . . .uh. . .don't got any remarks prepared or nothin'. I . . ."

"It's not like she knows any words, James. Just let her hear your voice."

"Her?"

"I don't know, I just think, maybe . . ."

He crinkles his nose. "What the fuck is that smell?"

She notices, too, and spins around, back to the counter. "Dammit. We let the toast burn." She uses tongs to remove to blackened, smoking, charred toast tiles. "Dammit," she repeats, dumping them in the trash.

"Hey, Blondie," he starts, and she can tell by the way he's stretching out the vowels that whatever comes next is going to be delivered in the extra-hick voice he uses to make fun sometimes. "I realize I ain't edumucated or nothin', but don't ya think the solution is to get a new fuckin' toaster?"

"I guess," she mumbles. Doesn't he know? This isn't permanent. They can't stay here – now – forever. It's 1977. This is temporary. They're going to get back to their right time. They are. After the baby comes, after Dharma says it's safe to go back. They aren't staying here forever. They just can't. She says, "Well, what about Fruit Loops for breakfast? I have Fruit Loops."

He agrees. "Quick, though," he says. "I'm ready to go back in there." He tilts his head in the direction of the mattress. She giggles at him like a teenager, and like goofy kids they down their Fruit Loops. They giggle their way through their crunchy sugar and milk.

He reaches the bottom of his bowl first, tilts it up to drink the sugary fruity milk, sets it down, and drops his spoon back in with a clatter. "Magically delicious!" he claims.

She finishes her cereal, shaking her head. "That's Lucky Charms."

"Whatever. Let's go." He stands, reaches out an arm to help her up, pull her toward him and maneuver her into the other room. Not like him to miss a pop culture reference. Clearly his mind's elsewhere. He's kissing her neck, and no no no no, she does not mind that he got his cereal ad lines mixed up.

If she'd known how much time she'd be spending down on this mattress, maybe she would've gotten an actual bed. But, like the toaster, this is temporary. This is make-do. Otherwise, her baby's going to graduate from high school right around the time she graduates from medical school.

They're more than twenty minutes late getting Miles for lunch. He's sitting on a bench outside the Dharma building, with his arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. When they stroll up, he over-obviously checks the face of his watch.

"Sorry," James says. "Lost track of time."

"Fancy that," Miles replies.

"But check it out," James says, holding Juliet's left hand out to Miles.

"Well you finally fucking did it," Miles says, making Juliet wonder exactly how often James and Miles discussed this while they were stuck on the Island. Miles smiles at her and offers a hug, which she accepts. "Congratulations," he says, genuine and sweet. Then he turns to James and they do an awkward handshake, back slap, hug thing.

"Why can't you two just hug each other like normal people?" she asks.

Miles shakes his head vigorously while James answers, "Don't want to seem gay or nothin'."

"Right," she says. "Good point. I'd see you hugging Miles and that's exactly what I'd think. You two are idiots, but I'm glad you're back." She links arms with both of them, feeling, for once, totally, unequivocally happy. For now, this instant at least, it doesn't matter that it's 1977.

She takes them to a burger joint just off campus, and marvels again at their appetites. They talk more about what happened, what Miles and James were doing when the flash went off, the people who were killed in "The Incident," as Dr DeGroot has been calling it.

An hour later, the guys are groaning, bellyaching about not being able to eat another bite while occasionally munching on fries. "Well, listen, this has been great, but I'm gonna get out of your hair," Miles says.

"It's fine, Miles," Juliet says, and not because she needs him as a buffer, but because she worries about how lonely and isolated he must feel. "We can go to the movies or something." James nods agreement.

"OK, I wasn't gonna say anything," Miles says, holding up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Buuuuuutttt . . ." he stretches the word out.

"Just say it, Enos," James commands.

"You two are fucking gross," Miles admits. "OK? And it's cool, I get it, you got catching up to do and yada yada yada, but it's gross, and I've had enough." He scoots back his chair and stands up, dropping a wadded up paper napkin on the table. "The way you keep looking at each other and holding hands, and like touching and rubbing each other . . . disgusting." He sticks a finger down his throat, fakes a gag. "So I'm gonna give you your space." He turns to walk away and is a few feet from the table when he turns back around. "Not too much space, though. I'll call tomorrow."

He's out the door when Juliet turns to James. "I don't think we're too gross," she smiles at him.

"I don't care," he says. "And, let's get outta here quick, or, hell with it, I'm just gonna fuck you right here in this restaurant."

Her eyes widen at his crudeness. She ducks her head, glancing around to check that no one heard him.

He's laughing to himself. "Ahhhh," he says, taking her hand, smiling big. "Glad to know it still gets your goat when I use that word. You know I wouldn't keep doin' that if it didn't bother you so much." He keeps laughing.

"It's so crude," she says.

"Well, then let's get outta here like I said, or it's gonna get a lot cruder."

It rains that afternoon, and it's just perfect, and again, she stops, for a little while at least, caring that it's 1977. For now, it doesn't matter. Their afternoon in bed (or, well, on mattress) together. More catching up, details of the computer system in the hatch, tales of her birthday and the Queen concert she skipped. Then periods of not talking and loving and listening to the rain. No, for now it doesn't matter what year it is.

She's dozed off, then wakes to find him staring at her again. He strokes her hair and smiles at her. "I think I got it," he says.

"What's that?" she asks, sleepily.

He moves his hand from her head to her stomach, and far from feeling awkward about it, she's growing (heh) to really, really like that feeling. She hates herself for ever doubting him.

What he says sounds something like "Doodle doodle doodle doodle," and maybe she's still asleep. No. No, she's not asleep, he's singing. There's some kind of familiar melody in his "doodles."

He sits up, and then bends over to sing right into her stomach, and, OK, yeah, this is a little awkward. Is she supposed to be looking at him? Just lying here? What's she supposed to do with her hands?

She allows herself to get distracted, though, trying to figure out what this is he's singing.

She's got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain

He's singing softly, sweetly, and that . . . that is so familiar. What is it? He reaches the chorus, and

Whoa, oh, oh, sweet child o' mine
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, sweet love of mine

He sings. Well. Well, isn't that sweet? Except. Really? Really? Guns 'N Roses? That's the best he can come up with? For one thing . .. well . . . Guns 'N Roses. How is that appropriate? Although oddly, almost perfectly, fitting for him. But for another thing . . . it's at least ten years before that song is released. And for a third, she's pretty sure this song was for Axl Rose's girlfriend, not his daughter.

She's getting ready to splutter some version of all this, leading with the sheer inappropriateness of singing Guns 'N Roses to your unborn child, when . . knock, knock, knock, the baby rhythmically taps from inside. Juliet giggles, and instead of a lecture on proper kid songs, she says, "Keep doing that, I think she likes it."

"Really?" he asks, amazed.

She puts his hand on the spot where the tapping was. "OK, do it again," she instructs. He does, and . . . there it is again. Her baby likes Guns 'N Roses. Great. Maybe she takes after her father . . .

After a bit, James stops singing. He looks up at her, smiling like he's proud of himself (and maybe he should be). Maybe now's the moment to tell him. Tell him they can't get married.

He rolls over on his stomach, pushes himself up on his elbows to look at her. He leans over to rest his forehead on hers. She should tell him, but she's a little addled. His shoulders and arms when he's holding himself up like that . . . mmmmmmmmmm. . .

"I love you," he says, rubbing at her temples with his thumbs. She should tell him. "Most of my life has been pretend," he continues. "And I wish . . . I wish . . . I wish this could be real, but, uh, well, we can't get married. I don't think we can get a license."

She has to turn away so she doesn't laugh in his face.

"What's so damn funny?" he demands.

She turns back to kiss him. "I was working up the courage to tell you the exact same thing."

"Yeah?" he asks. "You're OK with that?"

"I haven't had a whole lot of experience with real marriages that work out. So, yeah. I don't see why a pretend one can't be just as good. Better, in fact."

He swallows. "OK, then," he agrees. "I just wish . . . I'd like something in my life to be real for once." He looks away.

"Hey," she pulls his face back. "Hey. We're real, right? This? Us, here, now? That's the important thing." It never ceases to amaze her, the encouragement he needs sometimes. But, remembering how skittish she was last night, how the doubt crept back in this morning . . . it amazes her, too, the encouragement she needs, and he gives. Boy, they both got themselves messed up but good somewhere along the line.

"Yeah," he says, smiling. "I just wish . . ."

She puts a finger to his lips to silence him. "When we get back to our right time."

A look of confusion crosses his face, followed by . . . resignation? Sadness? She's acutely aware that she's the one who has a life to go back to. Out of encouraging things to say, she lifts her head to kiss him, deeply. That does the trick, for now at least.

December 19, 1977

They're doing this for Miles. That's what she's telling herself. Doing it because he insisted. Not because she wants it or because James needs it. NO, all for Miles. Keep telling yourself that.

"If you're going to pretend to be fake married, you ought to actually get fake married," he said yesterday. "Gotta tell your kid something. I mean you need an anniversary, right? And what about all your Dharma buddies?" he turned to Juliet. "I mean, you can lie and tell 'em you went down to City Hall, but really, you oughta do something."

She and James groaned, demurred, said it was a dumb idea. Miles kept at it, though, and truth is, it's not really a bad idea, and with the "Doing it for Miles" excuse, they're all in.

This morning, Miles and James went out with her credit card, and returned with dress slacks and shirts, candles, flowers, a cake, and golden wedding bands.

"Quick question: You guys not worried anymore if I think you're gay?" she remarked as they hauled it all in to the apartment.

"Shut up, Juliet," Miles commanded.

She held up a packet of lace doilies. "What are these for?"

"They're to put pieces of cake on," James said, snatching them from her, looking chagrined. He added, "I'll spend tonight makin' sure you don't think I'm gay."

No doubt. She's probably had more sex in the last three days than she did in four years of undergrad. Some combination of reconnection, hormones, and free time. Whatever it is, it's been amazing.

So they're doing this for Miles. Standing here in the crappy apartment with the mattress now pushed against the wall. Miles lit candles. They're just going through this for him. Sure they are.

"All right, Oda Mae, you got us here, now what?" James demands.

"You could just give each other the rings, but I think you should say something. Like vows or something."

James shifts uncomfortably. "I dunno. I . . . I . . ." he rubs his face. "I . . ."

"Juliet could go first," Miles suggests.

"Oh, no, I don't know," she whispers.

"Yeah," James agrees readily. "Come on. Please? I just . . . gotta get my courage up or somethin'."

She looks at Miles, who is grinning and nodding encouragement. James squeezes her hands tighter. Well, OK. OK, if they're going to have a fake wedding, there might as well be something to it.

"Uh . . ." she starts. The guys wait. Miles starts cycling his right hand, indicating "hurry up."

"Hold your horses, Miles. I want to get this right. OK. OK. Here goes." She turns to face James directly, holding both hands. "OK. Back when you all first crashed, if you'd have told me that we'd end up here, in 1977, getting pretend married, having a baby . . . I'd have said the 1977 bit was the most likely to occur." James rolls his eyes. "I read your file, James," she continues, and he looks away. She tugs his hands for him to look back at her. "I read your file, and now I know you, and you are not your file." She looks deeply at him, and repeats. "You. Are. Not. Your. File. And if I have to spend the rest of my life convincing you of that, then I will. And I'm glad you're giving me that opportunity. I love you."

There. Perfect, if I do say so myself, she thinks.

"I love you, too," James responds.

Miles clears his throat. "Ring," he prods. Right. She puts the ring on James' hand. "Your turn, buddy," Miles says.

James reaches in his pocket to pull out a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolds it, and Juliet looks down to see his neat, precise handwriting. "Hold up," she says. "You wrote something? You knew he was going to ask us to do this? You tricked me into going first?"

He shrugs. Miles says, "I think the word is conned. He conned you into going first."

James ignores them, though, and starts reading. She notices he's got sweat on his forehead. He's scared to death. God, she loves him. He clears his throat and begins.

"I consider myself a good judge of character. When I first met you, I thought you were a cold-hearted, uptight bitch." He puts on a jokey voice. "Turns out I was right."

If this were a real wedding with guests and champagne and toasts, all the guests would have politely tittered at that line. Instead it's just Miles, and instead of a polite laugh, he looks at Juliet and says, "Yeah, that's what I thought about you, too."

She purses her lips in response.

James clears his throat again. He ignores Miles and Juliet both and continues. "So I'm glad that I got to know that the reason you acted the way you did is because of how much you loved your sister. That kinda love . .. that you'd do anything for someone you love . . . it, uh, I never knew anyone like that before, and I'd say I'm the luckiest guy in the world, except I think now that my kid is gonna be the luckiest person in the whole world, to have that kinda fierce love from before it's even born. And I hope that I deserve it, too."

Then he exhales heavily, and finally looks at her. He's pale and sweaty, like he might pass out, so she holds on tighter to his hands. "And, uh, I think you're hot," he says, of course, because he's not too comfortable with honest sentiment, and she's just lucky he didn't say something crude.

Miles doesn't have to remind him about the ring. He slides it on her finger.

Miles says, "Well, by the power vested in me by absolutely no one, I guess I can say you guys are officially fake married. Congratulations. Now kiss. But not too gross."

And they do.

Now for my quarterly plea for reviews. PLEASE! I am having a super-stressful week, and it will be nice to be distracted by my email dinging with reviews. If you don't have anything to say about the chapter, even just tell me your favorite chapter or SOMETHING! (I feel like a public radio pledge drive. Review now and I won't beg for reviews for another 10 chapters at least!)