You Were Meant For Me by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page A

handing her back the phone. “What’s her name?” he then asked.
    â€œShe doesn’t have one yet. At the hospital they’re calling her Baby Doe, which is kind of cute since she does have big, dark doe eyes.”
    â€œBut you. What do you call her?”
    â€œI haven’t named her yet.”
    â€œEven in your own mind?”
    Miranda shook her head. “I won’t let myself until she’s at home with me. I just don’t want to be—”
    â€œDisappointed. I get it.”
    The conversation hovered at a crossroads. Miranda knew she could have gone deeper and said more about how much she wanted this child and how crushed she would be if she did not get her. Instead, she opted for something less soul-baring and more neutral about a photography exhibitionreviewed in the
New York Times
; had he seen it? It was all perfectly pleasant if not memorable; had she not been thinking so obsessively about the baby, she might have made more of an effort to connect.
    When the check came, Evan insisted on paying. Then he lifted the flowers from their vase and gave them, dripping slightly, to Miranda. As she took them, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I wanted to kiss you, but we’re in a public place and all.”
    â€œI don’t mind at all,” she said. No one had ever used
that
move on her before; it was both goofy and charming. Luke never, ever would have done such a thing. It was too bad that she didn’t feel more of a physical spark; Evan really was a nice guy.
    They stood in front of the coffee bar saying good-bye—Evan was headed to the subway and Miranda, to take care of a few errands—when suddenly Evan bolted toward the curb. Miranda was too surprised to be offended; where was he going? When he darted into the street, the reason for his erratic behavior became clear. There was a little girl—a toddler really—alone in the crosswalk, and the driver in the oncoming car could not have seen her over the windshield. But Evan had, and he yanked her out of the way to safety. Then he frantically gestured for the driver to stop.
    Miranda remained frozen in place while the rest of the scene erupted around her. The child had tumbled and rolled to the curb, where a woman, presumably her mother, fell over her, crying, “Haley, Haley, are you all right?” The driver honked furiously and then got out of the car; his face whitened when he saw what might have happened. Other cars stopped too; the honking and blaring intensified. Cell phones were whipped out; someone called 911.
    Miranda’s gaze remained fixed on the little girl. Her eyes were closed, and there was a vivid swipe of blood on her pale face. Then she opened her eyes, saw her mother, and began to wail. “Haley!” said the mother, who was weeping hysterically now. “Baby, you came back to me! You came back!” Someone comforted the mother, offering her something to drink, a coat to put over the child.
    After a few minutes, an ambulance pulled up, and two EMTs hopped out. “Was she hit?” asked one. He had a crew cut and a pockmarked face.
    â€œNot by the car,” Evan said. He was still panting, and he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “But I had to shove her pretty hard to get her out of the way.”
    The EMT looked over at the girl, whose sobs had subsided. She was now whimpering in the circle of her mother’s embrace. “She looks okay, but we’ll take her to Methodist to have her checked out.” He and his partner walked over. The mother got up from the pavement and allowed the EMTs to carry Haley to the ambulance. She was just about to climb in when she abruptly turned and ran up to Evan. “I can’t even begin to thank you,” she said, her voice cracking. “She would have been hit; you risked your
life
for her.”
    â€œHe