BONNIE AND DAR WERE sitting at the end of the dock at Bonnie’s parents’ lake house. Torch Lake stretched out in front of them, so blue it seemed impossible, unnatural, almost as if it had been dyed. They were going to the cherry festival in Traverse City that night, and Bonnie had worn a sundress for the occasion—white, decorated with a pattern of brilliant red cherries. She was slim, but her belly was just starting to round out, and it was more noticeable, sitting the way she was, with the dress tucked up underneath her.

“So,” she said. “You wanted a few days to sleep on it. It’s been a week. How about it? Augie—it’s got a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? It could be August, properly, but Augie for short.”

Dar had his socks and shoes off; his feet, accustomed to work boots, hung pale and hairless above the water’s surface. “I’ve been considering it,” he said.

“And?”

He tried it out. “August. My son, August.” He disentangled himself from her and leaned back on the dock, his hands laced behind his head. “My father’s name was Alexander.”

“I know. So?”

“Alexander is a good name.”

“You told me you and your father got in a fistfight when you were fifteen years old. A real fistfight.”

“It’s still a good name. My mother would be happy.”

“Your mother.” Bonnie snorted. “Well, there’s that.” She reached over and pinched his leg. “They close the streets off for the festival and they have music. Will you dance with me?”

“Hmm.” Dar had his eyes closed. “Maybe.”

“I’ll find someone else to dance with if you don’t.”

“You know none of those assholes will dance as good as me.”

Bonnie got to her feet suddenly and stood above him. One of her hands was resting on her belly, something he’d noticed she’d gotten in the habit of doing lately. She nudged him with her bare foot and then stepped over him, pausing momentarily to give him the briefest flash under her sundress, but when he went to reach for her she was gone, running up the lawn. He chased her, her white thighs flashing, dress swishing; it was a hundred yards to the house and she was fast, so that he barely caught her before the edge of the porch. He grabbed her around the hips and she shrieked and they rolled in the grass, laughing, until she was on top, straddling him.

“It’s not just the eighth month of the year. You know that, right? It also means respected, illustrious, venerable, worthy of admiration.” She took one of his hands in both of hers and slid it up under the hem of her dress so it rested on the warm mound of her stomach. “August,” she said in that way she had that brooked no argument.

With that settled, they went to the cherry festival street dance. He was twenty-six and she was twenty-one, and they had the very best time of their lives.