13. Solenne #2
I watch Summer negotiate fiercely for an extra juice box. “It is nice.”
“Do you remember our first date?”
The question catches me off guard. I glance at him, trying to read his expression.
“The restaurant closed two years ago,” I say. “I walked past the building last month. There’s a phone repair shop there now.”
“I was so nervous. I spilled water on the tablecloth three separate times.”
“I remember.” A small smile tugs at my mouth despite myself. “And you told the waiter you loved spicy food. You spent the whole meal reaching for the water.”
“You swapped plates with me.”
“Mine wasn’t spicy. You looked so relieved.”
“You’re a better person than I am.”
“I’m aware.”
He laughs, looking down at his lunch. I pick a crumb from the table so I don’t have to keep looking at him.
“I’ve been thinking about that night,” he says, more quietly now. “About the man I was before my father died. Before I became someone who always had somewhere else to be.”
“Valentin…”
“I’m not trying to use the memory to cancel out what I did. I know it doesn’t work like that. I just…” He looks at Summer, then back at me. “I want to be that person again. The one who made you laugh. For her sake. And for yours, if you’ll let me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. The honest truth is that I want him to be that person too. I want to believe he can be. But wanting and believing are different things, and I’ve spent six months learning not to trust hope.
Summer has finished eating and is showing Miss Patricia her journal beside the next table when a peacock crosses the path. She retreats to my elbow, deeply indignant.
“Mama. The peacock bit me.”
I immediately crouch down to her level. “What? Where? Show me.”
She holds out her arm, which appears completely uninjured.
“I don’t see anything, sweetheart.”
“It tried to bite me.” She amends this with the reluctant honesty of a child who knows she’s been caught exaggerating. “It came very close. With its beak.”
Miss Patricia appears behind her. “The peacock walked near her and she got startled. No contact. I was right there.”
I examine Summer’s arm anyway, checking for scratches or marks. Nothing.
“It was very scary,” Summer insists.
“I’m sure it was. Peacocks can be intimidating.”
“They shouldn’t be allowed to walk around. They should be in cages.”
“They live here. This is their home.”
Summer considers this ethical dilemma with the gravity it deserves. “Then they should have signs. Warning signs. That say ‘peacock might come close to you.’“
“That’s actually a reasonable suggestion.”
“I know.” She returns to her lunch with the satisfied air of someone who has solved a problem.
Valentin is watching us with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just…” He shakes his head. “You handled that perfectly.”
“It’s not hard. She wasn’t actually hurt. She just needed to feel heard.”
“I know. But watching you do it…” He trails off, then finishes quietly. “I should have told you more often. How good you are at this.”
I don’t know what to say to that either.
So I just nod and turn back to the table, where Oliver has returned from the bathroom and is asking whether peacocks could beat tigers in a fight.
The afternoon passes in a blur of exhibits and bathroom breaks and the constant cheerful chaos of twenty small children experiencing wonder.
By the time we load back onto the bus, even the most energetic members of our group are flagging.
Summer claims the window seat and falls asleep against me before we’ve left the parking lot. Across the aisle, Oliver has the window seat beside Valentin and is showing him something in his zoo journal. Marissa sits directly behind them with her daughter.
I watch Valentin examine Oliver’s drawings with genuine interest, asking questions about the animals, praising the details. He’s good at this when he pays attention. When he’s fully present instead of mentally somewhere else.
He asks Oliver which drawing is his favorite, and the boy starts turning back through the pages. There is no hurry in the way Valentin listens. I lean my head against the seat and let myself watch.
Summer shifts against my shoulder, murmuring something in her sleep. I look down at her zoo journal, which has fallen open to the last page.
She’s drawn all the animals we saw today, scattered across the paper in a riot of color. Penguins. Lions. Giraffes. The peacock, with an angry expression and the word BAD written in wobbly letters beside it.
And in the corner, three figures. A small one with yellow hair. Two taller ones on either side.
She drew us again. All three of us.
When I look up, Valentin is watching me. His eyes flick to the journal, then back to my face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
A little later Oliver falls quiet, his journal shut in his lap. Valentin’s eyes close too. With his head resting against the seat and Summer’s star still on his forehead, he looks so unlike the man in those fiesta photographs that I forget to look away.
When the bus pulls into the school parking lot, Marissa taps his shoulder and the chaos of unloading begins. Parents are waiting at the curb, children are reuniting with belongings left in cubbies, Miss Patricia is counting heads and checking names off her clipboard.
I unbuckle Summer gently, trying not to wake her fully. She blinks at me with sleepy eyes.
“We’re back?”
“We’re back. Time to go home.”
Valentin appears beside us, helping gather Summer’s things. Her backpack, her journal, Bunny, tucked into the open top of her backpack.
“Thank you for today,” I tell him. “For being here.”
“Thank you for letting me be here.” He hesitates. “Same time Thursday? For her regular afternoon visit?”
“Same time Thursday.”
He nods and steps back, giving us space. I carry Summer to my car and buckle her into her seat, where she immediately falls back asleep.
When I look back at the school, Valentin is talking to Oliver’s father, who apparently did make it for pickup after all. The orange vest is still on, bright against his dark jacket.
The star on his forehead catches the sun as he nods at something Oliver’s father says. I consider warning him.
Then I get into my car.
That evening, after dinner and bath time and the lengthy negotiation that is Summer’s bedtime routine, I’m sitting in the living room with a cup of tea when my phone buzzes.
A photo from Valentin.
He’s clearly in his hotel bathroom, looking into the mirror with an expression of resigned amusement. On his forehead, exactly where I spotted it earlier, is a glitter sticker in the shape of a star. Gold foil, slightly crumpled, stuck firmly to his skin.
The caption reads: How long was this there?
He’s only just found it. I picture him walking through the hotel lobby like that, politely greeting people with a gold star above his eyebrows.
Another text arrives. The man at reception congratulated me. I thought he meant the school trip.
Then another. You knew. You definitely knew.
I’m laughing before I can stop myself. Out loud, alone in Odette’s living room, laughing at my husband’s glitter-covered forehead.
I type back before I can overthink it. You looked very official. Like zoo royalty.
His response is immediate. You could have warned your king before he walked through the lobby.
I stare at my phone, still smiling. Until tonight our messages have been addresses, times, things Summer needs. I haven’t had to choose whether to answer something that was simply meant for me.
I told him it was too late. I meant it when I said it.
Tonight, with his ridiculous photograph on my screen, I wonder whether too late has to mean impossible.
I don’t send him that thought. I save the photograph and put my phone down.
For once, it’s his fault I can’t stop smiling.