“Yeah… not my best work.”
“How did he take it?”
“Um, not great,” Bo says in a higher pitch than usual, some humour returning to his features. “He reverted to his native tongue to call me every name in the book, then got the first flight out. He stayed with me for three months after the surgery. I couldn’t have gone home without his help. I don’t know what I would’ve done, actually.”
“He sounds like a great dad,” I say as Bo reaches down and pockets something from the sandy shore. “And I knew he lived in France, but I didn’t realise hewasFrench.”
“Yeah, my mom was from here, and Dad is from a small town outside of Paris. They met playing in the same orchestra in Toronto and got married ten days after meeting.”
“You’re kidding.” I snort.
“Nope, just ten days at nineteen years old. They didn’t have me until ten years later.”
“That’s… that’swild,” I say.
“My dad says the moment he saw my mom, he just knew. He took one look at her and watched the rest of his life play out.” Bo stops, a sweet, longing look in his eye as he smiles softly at me. I imagine he’s probably thinking of Cora and what could have been.
“You must miss her,” I say, meaning his mother—but the possibility that it could have meant either Cora or his mother isn’t lost on me. Sometimes the people who haunt us are still alive. I understand that too.
“Yeah,” Bo agrees, turning back toward the path. “But I was really young when she passed.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, matching his pace. “Do you remember much of her?”
“No,” he says plainly. “But Dad had a lot of stories and photos. He kept everything of hers—like her vinyl collection. Most of the records at the house were hers.” He stops, putting an arm out to block my next step.
I look toward the path ahead, expecting a skunk or something more nefarious to appear out of the bushes. But nothing does.
“Did you hear that?” he asks me urgently, his voice low. He spins, looking around us frantically.
“No?” I whisper-yell, leaning away from his floundering limbs. “What—”
“Shit,where is it?”
“What?” I ask, louder.
“I heard a goose.”
I stop abruptly, my shoes scraping against the stone-covered path. I stare up at him in disbelief, my lips parting into a grin that I have to stifle before it becomes a laugh. “We’re at a beach in Canada, Bo. You’re gonna hear geese,” I say, continuing to whisper forwhateverabsurd reason.
“They hate me.” Bo turns his head toward a sound over the water to our left, his shoulders up to his ears.
“They hate you…”
“They go for my legeverytime. I don’t know if it’s because it’s shiny and they like that, or if geese are just little ableist fucks, but they’re always trying to attack me.”
I try to hold the laugh in. I really do. But I fail. Miserably. I burst. “Sorry,what?”
Bo bends to pick up a rock the size of his palm and waits to strike.
“You cannot use that,” I say, taking the rock from him and chucking it aside. Our fingers brush briefly, though by the way my heart thuds, you’d think the guy had pinned me to the nearest tree and ripped off my tights.Fucking hormones.“No geese murder today, my guy. I’m pretty sure it’s Canada’s most sacred law, and I’m not bringing the baby to visit you in prison.”
He hushes me, turning back toward the water and then in a full circle, like a bodyguard on watch.
I laugh at him, harder this time.
“Stop!” he whines, his own laughter breaking free. “It’s not funny!”
I shake my head, forging back toward Bo’s house. “C’mon,” I call, a few paces ahead of him. “I’ll protect you from any possible geese assailants.”
