It’s midnight and I’m making out with Lizzy because the Knicks have won (tomorrow will be a new excuse, a new reason, a new ringing of bells) and Joey is tugging at both our shirts saying we have to go to Smithfield to watch the kick-off for Türkiye and Australia. Lizzy laughs and says, “I feel like this day needs just one more thing,” and then she pauses, touches her stomach, and looks up at me, a look of soft wonder crossing her face. I furrow my brows. It can’t be. My mind drifts to my future child time-traveling back from the future to meet us and wondering if tonight will be a night of one shark jumping the other. 

“Come on, guys,” Joey says. “I want to see Nestory Irankunda. I hear he’s —“

Joey’s voice is drowned out by celebratory honking, cars swerving towards the sidewalk so the driver can high five those passing by, and thirteen different speakers playing “Empire State of Mind,” “New York New York,” and fireworks that leave me feeling like I want to shake all of their hands.