Page 161 of Maybe You

“We got ice cream,” Annie says excitedly. “A pigeon ate Finn’s, and I shared mine.”

“With the pigeon?” I ask and widen my eyes teasingly.

She giggles, lets go of my hand, and twirls, so her skirt sparkles in the sunlight. “No, Daddy. With Finn.”

I smile. “That’s my girl.”

“We had vegetables and chicken strips for lunch,” Mom tells me. “Clean plates all around. The ice cream was a bribe.”

“And we rode the carousel five times and Gramma almost got sick,” Annie says. “And I can hang upside down on the monkey bars.”

“You’ll have to show me tomorrow,” I say, and she executes another twirl.

“Thanks for having them for the day,” I tell Mom while I ruffle Finn’s hair.

She smiles at me softly before her eyes move over the kids. “Anytime. You know it.”

I nod and smile, too.

“Okay, you three,” Mom says and claps her hands. “Gramma is going to take off, but I’ll see you all on the weekend, okay?”

“Pops has a birthday,” Annie sings in her own, made-up tune. “Pops has a biiiirthdaaaay-ay-ay.” After a little bit, Finn joins in with his own mix of real and made-up words.

Mom taps Annie’s nose and smiles. “That he does. Don’t forget the birthday card we drew, okay?”

“I won’t,” she promises solemnly.

We say our goodbyes, I throw my bag over my shoulder, hoist Finn up on my hip, and take Annie’s hand in mine. I give Mom a kiss on the cheek, we all wave to her, and then we start to walk.

Annie keeps filling me in on everything that’s happened while I was away. Finn’s head gets heavy on my shoulder, and his breathing turns even. I press a kiss on the top of his head. Annie’s small hand squeezes my fingers.

And all the while, we walk. Through the early evening streets. Toward home.

Our house is a 150-year-old wagon shed in the West Village. We weren’t looking to move at the time, but Wren happened upon it one day in all its derelict glory and fell in love. He got very quiet for a few days while he chewed over it and then took me to see it.

I can’t say I was impressed at first, but Wren walked around on the headache inducingly ugly linoleum floors and between the illogical maze of walls generations of somebodies had put up over the years, and the more he saw, the more intense the feverish look of longing in his eyes got.

He so rarely asks for anything.

We put in an offer the next day and spent the next two years living on a construction site because it was our home and Wren wanted to do as much as we could ourselves.

I unlock the front door, and we head inside. Annie rushes into the house, still singing. Finn is dead to the world, so I take him upstairs and put him to bed. He doesn’t even move a muscle. If experience is something to go by, he’ll be out until morning.

I slide my palm over his cheek and press a kiss on his forehead before I quietly close the door behind me.

“Did you wash your hands?” I ask once I get back downstairs.

“With soap and everything,” Annie says and sends me one of her toothless smiles. She managed to somehow get rid of most of her front teeth all at once and has been the hero of her preschool class because of the advanced spitting capabilities it gave her. Her teacher was not impressed.

“What do you say we order in tonight?”

She nods, so we do just that.

Two hours later, she’s tucked against my side in her bed while we read about Beezus and Ramona.

“I think I have this book memorized by now.”

I look up at the amused voice, and my heart does a flip in my chest at the sight of my husband leaning his shoulder against the door frame.

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