Page 160 of Butterfly Effect

Indi and I stare in awe as she trails off, singing the lyrics to Daft Punk’s “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” and doing the robot in her seat.

Whenever she loses the plot like this, we don’t interrupt, and she usually circles back to it.

Sometimes, I wonder what’s going on in her head because, from the outside, it seems like a dozen hamsters run in their wheels at different paces. Or maybe I can’t keep up.

“Anyway,” she returns. I expect more of an explanation about her plan, but it’s left hanging. “Oh! Sorry, my brother’s calling. Talk to you guys later!”

“She’s something else.”

“Tell me about it.” Indi adjusts the claw clip in her hair with a single hand. “Hold on.” She leans forward, this time pulling Akhila into view. “Hi, Masi!”

“Move your big head; it’s casting a shadow on her!” Cute aggression wins, and I gibber nonsense at the milk-drunk, sweet angel. “There’s my cutie baby.”

“I need to burp her but wait…” She tilts her ear toward Akhila’s mouth. “She wants to tell you something.”

Indi intermittently tugs on my niece’s tiny chin so her mouth moves as if talking, using a high-pitched tone for a baby voiceover. “Gabe Masi, if you don’t tell Wade Uncle you love himverysoon, I’ll make sure to have a naaaaasty diaper blowout every time you hold me.”

“Gross.” I frown.

“Do it! Or else!” Akhila commands.

“I love you, kid, but you’re kind of a dictator.”

“And don’t you forget it!” With that threat, her eyes close and head lulls.

Indi turns Akhila onto her shoulder and pats her back at a rhythm. She raises an eyebrow. “You heard what she said. When you love someone, you tell ‘em. I don’t make the rules.”

Wade and I wait for Doug as he stops to investigate every fallen tulip petal along the Rideau Canal’s path. Their peak bloom has passed, and the colors have faded, but even in the early morning air, there’s a brightness between us, a warmth shared in our clasped hands.

It’s the perfect moment.

Say it, Finch. Three little words.

Doug whines.

“You hungry, buddy?” Wade rubs the top of the golden retriever’s head. “Me too.”

“Me three.”

“Hear that, Dougie?” Doug woofs back softly. “We gotta get our girl fed before I take you back to your parents.” Dimples flank his upturned lips. “There’s a bakery I’ve been meaning to try.”

The smell of coffee and fresh-baked goods wafts past as we approach the door.

“Here it is.”

“A cafe namedFreckles?” My eyes narrow at the storefront’s window signage. “Is that why you brought me here?”

“Maybe,” he says through a smile. “It’s cute, right?”

I try not to give him the satisfaction, but it’s impossible. My comeback doesn’t match the heat on my cheeks or the width of my smile. “You’re so cheesy.”

He opens the door with a bow. “After you, m’lady.”

I step through.

Baskets of various breads line the back wall, baguettes alongside loaves of rye, and brioche. A selection of croissants, pain au chocolat, and eclairs are organized in neat rows. Mille-feuille, madeleines, cream puffs, various tarts, and macarons join non-traditionally French items: donuts, Danishes, and cupcakes in a glass encasing.

“Figured I’d bring you somewhere you understand the French language.”

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