Chapter 22 #2
The house lights dimmed, such as they were, two fluorescents flickering overhead and the glow of iPhones snapping last-minute photos.
The principal hustled up, microphone in hand, to tell us how grateful she was for parent volunteers, for the community, for everyone’s patience during the last program when the projector melted.
The curtain shimmied open, and the ocean paraded out: starfish in orange onesies, a clownfish with swimming goggles, the world’s most solemn-looking jellyfish, and my own son in an explosion of neon blue and lime green, flapping his handmade fins like a soldier marching to war.
Finn beamed when he spotted us. My heart did an awkward thump that only seemed to deepen when Chase’s face softened, the weariness retreating entirely for that single, shining moment.
He clapped and laughed when Finn delivered his first line, all clear enunciation and gleeful finger-wagging about helping keep the reef healthy.
The crowd melted into the background. There was just Finn, owning the stage with his coral-eating face and his unrestrained joy, and Chase, grinning wide, so obviously proud you’d think Finn had invented the parrotfish.
Finn’s big scene was a speech about coral bleaching, that he had rehearsed approximately five million times.
“When it gets too hot, the coral gets stressed, and then we all have to work together to help.” He flapped his fins so hard he nearly upended the backdrop.
The audience giggled. He closed with a flourish, “The reef needs us all!”
And there it was. That ache in my chest—pride so fierce it almost stung, tangled with longing and something else sharper and lonelier.
I looked sideways at Chase again. His eyes were locked on Finn, and for a second, he wasn’t the architect with endless deadlines or the man I kept missing even when he stood beside me.
He was just there, wholly present and all in, for the kid in blue sequins.
It made my heart hurt for everything we still hadn’t said.
For the finale, Finn and the other fish swayed to a tune called “Swim, Little Fishies, Swim.” Half the class belted gleefully off-key. Chase snapped a quick photo when Finn struck his final pose—one arm up, mouth open in the world’s most ambitious coral chomp.
The curtain wobbled closed, applause filling the little space.
Eli gave a loud whistle, and Mom covered her ears and winced at him, smiling all the while.
I whooped, clapping until my hands stung, and Chase did the same.
For one reckless moment, I wanted to grab his hand and pretend nothing had changed.
Instead, I drew my arms in, that thin layer of awkwardness resettling.
People began shifting, stretching, milling for cookies at the back. Mom turned in her seat, caught my eye, and smiled wide. “He was spectacular, Harper. He was loving every second.”
I took her hand for a second. “Thanks, Mom. I’m just glad he didn’t trip over the jellyfish.”
We shuffled out of the cafeteria to wait for the victorious kindergartners to appear.
Chase stood stiffly at my side, our arms almost brushing yet a million miles apart.
Eli sidled over, Jules at his side, both sporting fresh programs and that slightly smug post-family-performance glow.
Eli looked me over with exaggerated seriousness.
“I can honestly say I’ve never seen a parrotfish sell it that hard.
Broadway could use that level of fin action. ”
Jules flashed a quick grin. “Who did his makeup? Because those scales were popping.”
The warmth of their teasing nearly covered the subtle, searching glance Eli sent back and forth between me and Chase.
I caught it and then made a show of fixing Finn’s backpack I had slung over my elbow.
The intuition in Eli’s eyes unsettled me—he saw more than he’d ever say, and he was smart enough not to say it here.
“Finn did a good job,” Chase said quietly to me, folding his arms as the last group filtered out.
“Yeah,” I answered, wishing my tone were lighter. “He really gave it everything.”
For a second, I thought we might manage a conversation with real feeling. But the distance yawned wide again, and we stood in the echoing space.
The door at the side of the stage banged open, and Finn catapulted out. He spotted Chase first and made a beeline, nearly colliding with a parent and a kid still half in costume.
“Chase! Did you see my big swim? Was I fast?” Finn’s face was alight with pure hope, cheeks flushed, costume tail swinging dangerously.
Chase bent down, putting all of himself into it for Finn. “Light speed, buddy. Nobody even came close. You crushed it.”
Finn preened, bouncing on his toes. “Did you see me do the flip?” He tried to demonstrate in the narrow aisle, tripping over a folding chair and righting himself with a laugh.
“I saw the flip.”
“The whole room saw the flip,” Eli added.
Finn’s eyes danced. “So now we can get cheeseburgers, right? You and Mom and me.” His face—so open, so bright with trust—made my throat ache.
There it was.
A silence even louder than applause, and my ache turned to a raw wound.
Chase’s eyes flicked to me, apology already baked in.
The veneer of grown-up busywork, of obligations settled onto his shoulders.
The spell of the play had snapped, reality shoving its way in.
“Buddy, I wish I could. We’ve got some inspections at the resort first thing in the morning.
I’ve got to make sure we’re ready. But I’m sure glad I was here tonight. ”
Finn’s hope was a live wire in my hands. “Finn, honey, Chase has lots of big projects, remember?” My smile was sugar and splinters. “But you and I can still grab those burgers on the way home, and you can tell me how you remembered all your lines.”
Finn’s smile wavered. He managed a valiant nod, the corners of his mouth folding down, then back up. “Oh. Okay.” He looked at Chase anyway. “But maybe you can come next time?”
Chase reached out, smoothing one of Finn’s wayward scales. “Definitely. Next time, for sure. You were great tonight. I mean that.”
Finn’s arms locked around Chase’s waist in a sudden, desperate squeeze. Chase hugged him back. Then he stood, already stepping away, voice rough. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” He pressed a quick kiss to Finn’s forehead, then offered me a look—half-plea, half-sorry.
“Drive safe,” I said, the words hollowed out.
He disappeared into the crowd. I pulled Finn into my side, biting down on my own disappointment. I could feel Mom watching and Eli’s quiet scrutiny. I made myself bright, glittery, parade-perfect for Finn—smiling, joking about bun-patty ratios, and carrying us both out into the sticky night.
But inside, all I could feel was that public sting, the jagged edge of not enough, the certainty that none of the conversations we needed most could happen in a cafeteria, under the lights, with everyone watching.
And if I couldn’t fix it for Finn, I’d at least make sure he felt loved, holding his small hand tightly in mine as we stepped out into the night.