“Are you going to watch the whole show?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. Because last year I fell asleep and missed the finale and Mom had to carry me to the car and she said I washeavy, which is rude.”
“You were heavy,” I say.
“I wasgrowing.”
More fireworks. Blues and whites and purples. Aidan provides running commentary on each one, and Paul listens. At some point, Aidan leans against Paul’s arm the way kids do when they’ve decided someone is safe—boneless and trusting and complete.
Paul doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just sits there with my son leaning on him and fireworks going off overhead and an expression I can’t fully read in the dark but that looks a lot like a man realizing his world just got bigger.
Millie has put down her book. She’s watching the sky with her chin on her knees. Jenna is laughing at something Finch said, her shoulder bumping his, and Dawson is catching Piper’s hand in the dark when he thinks nobody’s looking.
The finale starts—rapid bursts of gold and silver and red, the sky going bright as daylight for seconds at a time—and Aidan falls asleep.
Just like that. Mid-firework. One second he’s narrating, the next he’s out cold against Paul’s arm, mouth open, ribbon from the crab races still clutched in his fist.
Paul looks down at him. Looksat me.
“He’s asleep,” he says.
“He does this.”
“During the loudest part?”
“Especially during the loudest part. It’s a skill.”
Paul glances between Aiden and the fireworks, then back at me. “I can carry him,” he says.
“You don’t have to?—”
“He’s asleep on my arm. I’m already involved.” He pauses. “Unless you’d rather?—”
“No.” I say it too fast. “No, that’s—thank you.”
The fireworks end. The crowd applauds. The beach starts the slow shuffle of families gathering blankets and coolers and sleeping children. Harold pats Paul on the shoulder as he walks past, says nothing, keeps walking. The loudest silence of the evening.
Paul stands up and shifts Aidan onto his shoulder with careful steadiness. Aidan doesn’t wake up. His head lolls against Paul’s neck, and the crab racing ribbon dangles from his limp hand.
We walk back to the marina. Jenna and Millie ahead of us, the teens having split off—Dawson walking Piper home, Finch heading to his house with a wave that made Jenna go quiet. The dock is quiet. The festival noise fades behind us.
Paul carries my son down the dock. Past theoffice. Past his boat. All the way to my houseboat, where he ducks through the door and carries Aidan down the hall to his room and sets him on his bed with the care of someone handling something fragile.
He pulls off Aidan’s shoes, puts the crab ribbon on the nightstand, and pulls the blanket up.
I’m standing in the doorway watching this, and I can’t breathe.
Paul straightens up and turns around. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you’re about to say something and then decide not to.”
When did he learn to read me like that?
“Thank you,” I say. “For carrying him.”
