Summer's hands were folded over her stomach when I glanced at her, her eyes closed beneath big, black-framed sunglasses and head tipped against the window. It had been a positively silent hundred and fifty miles. "I'm hungry," I said. "Do you mind if I stop real quick? We're going to be early."

"I want to be early," she said. "I want to make sure everything happens the way it's supposed to. I want extra time."

I reached over and squeezed her knee. "We'll have plenty of time, Sum. I promise. I'll just go through the drive-through, okay?"

"Fine." She exhaled heavily moved her knee from under my hand, angling her whole body away from me. "Quickly please?"

"I promise we have plenty of time."

"That's not what I asked. I asked you to do this quickly."

"I will."

I pulled the car into the drive-through lane, coming to rest behind a mint green minivan. "It's going to be okay, Sum. I promise."

"It's been like two minutes, and you've made me three promises. Can you just stop? If you can't stop making promises, than just stop talking. I can't take it anymore. Please." Her voice was hard and sharp

"When have I ever broken a promise to you?" I asked, looking over at her. "When have I broken a promise to you, or not followed through on anything?"

She sighed and pushed her glasses to the top of her head, looking over at me. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's just bothering me, that you're calling this okay. It's not okay, Cohen. The only way I can even think about it, is to take a step back and pretend that it's happening to someone else. To pretend that it's not me, not you."

"But it is," I said. "It's happening. And it's happening because we're making it happen. Because we made it happen. We made a mistake. Now we have to deal with it. But I love you. And it is going to be okay."

As the van ahead of me finally moved forward, I pulled up to the squat red speaker and rolled down my window. "Welcome to the Burger Palace would you like to try our new guacamole burger supreme?"

"I'll just have a double bacon cheeseburger, a medium order of onion rings and a Coke."

"Is that all?" Came the scratchy, staticky voice of the drive-through attentdant.

I looked at Summer. "Do you want anything?"

"I can't eat before it, remember?" She sighed and pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes. They were so dark that I could no longer see anything.

"Right. Sorry." She sighed again and turned away again. "No thanks, that's all for us."

"$7.37 please pull forward."

I couldn't yet. It was still backed up. So I just rolled up the window and drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. We sat in silence for several minutes, not budging in the line. "For God's sake!" Summer yelled, throwing up her hands. "Could these fucking idiots be any slower?! Did we roll up to the fucking special education drive through? How fucking hard is it to throw a god damned cheeseburger on a grill and dump some onion slices in a vat of oil?! I could have done it six times by now!"

"Sum," I said quietly. "Hey, calm down. It won't be much longer."

"We haven't moved in like ten minutes," she snarled. I reached over and gently removed her sunglasses. Tears had gathered in those huge brown eyes, and she swiped at them angrily. "This is horrible!" She wailed. "I am horrible. We are horrible." She blinked at me and reached over, grabbing my hand. "I can't do this, Seth. I can't."

"We talked about this. Sum, we're nineteen. We can't not do this. What are you going to do? Keep the baby in your dorm room?"

"You're right," she said. "You're right, you're right, I know you're right." The minivan inched forward and so did I. "I would have made a really good mother," she whispered finally. "And you would have made a really good dad. With some work." She smiled, but it was sad. I reached over to tuck a piece of dark hair behind her ear.

"We still can, someday. We're just not ready."

A tear slid down her cheek. "I make really good peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Years of practice, lots of babysitting, and I finally mastered the ratio of peanut butter to jelly. My PBJs are perfect."

"You can make me a PBJ anytime."

"And I know how to do laundry. I wash clothes without staining them pink or shrinking them. The maid taught me so I don't ruin anything when I do my own clothes in August. I know how to change a diaper without making a mess."

"You're going to make an amazing mother. Really."

"I like babies, too. I like how they smell, and how they feel in your arms, and how it's a person who loves you no matter what, and who needs you."

"I love you no matter what, Summer. I need you!"

She blinked slowly at me. "It's not the same, Seth, you know it's not. A baby relies on you, it counts on you. From the moment of conception. We're already letting the kid down."

"We're not! We're not letting the kid down, there's not going to be a kid!"

"But there is," she sobbed. "There is a kid! A kid who we're about to kill! A kid who we're about to be late to kill! I swear to God if you don't get your food in three minutes, I'm getting out and walking to Fremont!"

"If I could pull out right now, I would, but I'm boxed in."

We were silent for a long time again, during which I was finally able to move one car length forward. I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and extracted a ten dollar bill, running it back and forth between my index and middle finger while Summer sniffled quietly next to me.

"I like Madison, for a girl," she said. "And Logan or Max, for a boy."

"Ella," I said. "Or maybe Emily. And Evan for a boy."

"They're all 'E' names," she said, smiling. I reached over and put my hand on her belly. "I like all of those." I let my foot off the break and we rolled forward a foot or two.

"I like Madison," I said. "Maddie." Summer nodded and I used my thumb to stroke her still-flat belly.

"I want to keep it," Summer said softly. "I know I can't. I know it doesn't even make sense, but I want to keep it."

"Summer, come on. It's not...logical. We're so young, we have school and lives. Do you want to be the girl who has to leave in the middle of Chem 2100 to breast feed? God! We've talked about this. I told you, I said if you want to do this, if you want to keep the baby, I'd be right there with you. But we made a choice."

"Like I would ever take Chemistry again," she muttered pointlessly.

"You know what I mean."

Finally, we pulled forward to the first window. "Thanks for waiting, $7.37," said the overweight, sweaty woman from under a grease-stained visor. She held out her meaty, damp hand and I placed the bill in it.

"$2.63," she said, shoving the change at me. I rolled the window back up. "We can't," I said again. I couldn't have a baby. I couldn't. I mean, I loved Summer more than anything, more than anyone, and maybe even wanted to have a child and a family and a life with her one day. But that one day was certainly not eight months in the future. Maybe eight years. But definitely not eight months. I had plans! Plans that did not include a squalling, squawking infant. Summer was only getting emotional. We'd discussed this rationally, knew that neither of us were ready for this. She didn't want to carry it to term, either. It was embarrassing. It would get in her way. And she was afraid that when it came down to it, when she had the baby, that she wouldn't be able to give it away.

"I know," she murmured hoarsely, barely able to get the words out. "I know it's the only thing that makes sense. I just didn't think it was going to hurt this much before they even take it out of me."

I leaned far over the center console and pulled her into my arms, her chest pressed hard into mine, her face hidden in the curve of my neck. Her tears were hot on my skin, her body trembling with pain. Her fingertips dug into the flesh of my back, grabbing at my tee-shirt, desperate for stability. I found myself crying too. Crying for Summer, who was so filled with love for the tiny peanut of life inside her that she could hardly breathe. I was crying for myself, for how I'd told myself I would do anything for her, but I couldn't keep her from hurting so much. For the child we'd created, dead before it even lived. For the parents we weren't going to be. For the way things had been, the way they'd never be again. For the guilt and shame and pain I hadn't allowed myself to feel until just now.

The car behind us honked, and I reluctantly released Summer, then reached out to grab my grease-spotted paper bag. I wondered what the Burger Palace kid must have thought, seeing the both of our tear-streaked faces, Summer still crying. I set it in my lap and turned back out into traffic. Summer's sunglasses were replaced, her head meeting the window once again as she turned away. But this time, when I put my free hand on her knee, she let it stay there, covering mine with hers and lacing our fingers together.

"56 miles to Fremont," she whispered, her breath puffing on the window.