“He sounds like a great dad,” I say as Bo reaches down and pockets something from the sandy shore. “And I knew he lived in France, but I didn’t realise he was French.”
“Yeah, my mom was from here, and Dad is from a small town outside of Paris. They met playing in the same orchestra in Toronto and got married ten days after meeting.”
“You’re kidding.” I snort.
“Nope, just ten days at nineteen years old. They didn’t have me until ten years later.”
“That’s… that’s wild,” I say.
“My dad says the moment he saw my mom, he just knew. He took one look at her and watched the rest of his life play out.” Bo stops, a sweet, longing look in his eye as he smiles softly at me. I imagine he’s probably thinking of Cora and what could have been.
“You must miss her,” I say, meaning his mother—but the possibility that it could have meant either Cora or his mother isn’t lost on me. Sometimes the people who haunt us are still alive. I understand that too.
“Yeah,” Bo agrees, turning back toward the path. “But I was really young when she passed.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, matching his pace. “Do you remember much of her?”
“No,” he says plainly. “But Dad had a lot of stories and photos. He kept everything of hers—like her vinyl collection. Most of the records at the house were hers.” He stops, putting an arm out to block my next step.
I look toward the path ahead, expecting a skunk or something more nefarious to appear out of the bushes. But nothing does.
“Did you hear that?” he asks me urgently, his voice low. He spins, looking around us frantically.
“No?” I whisper-yell, leaning away from his floundering limbs. “What—”
“Shit, where is it?”
“What?” I ask, louder.
“I heard a goose.”
I stop abruptly, my shoes scraping against the stone-covered path. I stare up at him in disbelief, my lips parting into a grin that I have to stifle before it becomes a laugh. “We’re at a beach in Canada, Bo. You’re gonna hear geese,” I say, continuing to whisper for whatever absurd reason.
“They hate me.” Bo turns his head toward a sound over the water to our left, his shoulders up to his ears.
“They hate you…”
“They go for my leg every time. I don’t know if it’s because it’s shiny and they like that, or if geese are just little ableist fucks, but they’re always trying to attack me.”
I try to hold the laugh in. I really do. But I fail. Miserably. I burst. “Sorry, what?”
Bo bends to pick up a rock the size of his palm and waits to strike.
“You cannot use that,” I say, taking the rock from him and chucking it aside. Our fingers brush briefly, though by the way my heart thuds, you’d think the guy had pinned me to the nearest tree and ripped off my tights. Fucking hormones. “No geese murder today, my guy. I’m pretty sure it’s Canada’s most sacred law, and I’m not bringing the baby to visit you in prison.”
He hushes me, turning back toward the water and then in a full circle, like a bodyguard on watch.
I laugh at him, harder this time.
“Stop!” he whines, his own laughter breaking free. “It’s not funny!”
I shake my head, forging back toward Bo’s house. “C’mon,” I call, a few paces ahead of him. “I’ll protect you from any possible geese assailants.”
“I will throw you to them,” he says. “If it comes to it.”
“Only if you can catch me first.”
CHAPTER 17
When we got home from our beach walk, Bo took a call in his room while I got ready to go out. He was still on the phone when I left with Sarah, on a mission to get new art for my room and some lunch. And of course, because it’s thrifting, I found what I was looking for and many things I hadn’t known I needed.
Including a very cute rainbow stacking puzzle for the baby and a few bits and pieces for the living room’s mantel. Some framed watercolour art, a few pottery candle holders, some pretty candles for those holders, and one small turquoise shell frame that perfectly fits our ultrasound photo. That, I put front and centre above the vacant fireplace.
Bo didn’t seem to mind the new additions. When I placed the final item and stepped back to admire the mantel, I turned to find him standing behind me. He was leaned up on the wall, as he seems to be often, and smiling fondly. Not at me, but at that little photo in its new spot.
I figured it would be good to have the photo out somewhere. A reminder of why we’re doing this.
Afterward, I took the pile of comic books Bo had left out for me to my room and read for a few hours. And now, I’m about six comic books deep out of eight, and my stomach has informed me that it is time for dinner. Thus, began my spiral.
Sure, dinner sounds simple enough, but it is far from it. This is our first dinner under the same roof, and it seems to me that we’d be setting some sort of precedent with how tonight plays out. I have no idea what Bo does for meals. I’ve only ever seen the guy eat baked goods, crackers, or chips.
Does he only eat beige and brown food? Is he offended by vegetables? Does he like spicy food? What allergies does he have? Will I accidentally kill him if I use eggs, soy, nuts, or shellfish?
And is it presumptuous to cook for us both? Or would it be rude to just cook for myself? When does he normally eat dinner? Is it already too late? Too early? I haven’t left my room since four, so there is the possibility that he’s already eaten by now. Though I don’t smell anything wafting from the kitchen, and my sense of smell since getting pregnant is no joke. I’m like a bloodhound these days. People could use me to solve crimes. Decade old unsolved cold cases.
If Bo did eat without me, would I be offended? I don’t mind if we do our own thing, but we should probably establish what our routine will be, right?
Then, there’s also the matter of how we get the food prior to cooking. Do we grocery shop together? Separately? What’s most economical? Will our system change when I’m on parental leave and my income is slashed in half?
“Win?” Bo calls through my door, knocking twice in quick succession.
“Hmm? Yeah?” I say, trying to present myself as calm. It’s unconvincing.
“Are you hungry? I made soup,” he replies, opening the door a crack and taking a step inside.
I pull my hair off my neck and swallow, feeling a hot flush across my chest and neck. This is all too much. There’s too much we haven’t discussed. Expectations I don’t know about and will inevitably fail. Jack hated when I didn’t have dinner ready when he got home. He was strange like that… performing long-winded monologues about how society was set to work against women while continuously making me feel like I had to fulfil certain roles and expectations in our home. Everything about Jack was some sort of performance.
Is that what this is? Bo making soup? Is this some sort of… act?
“You okay?” Bo asks, his eyes bouncing around my face, his hand tight around the top of my door.
I release my lip from between my teeth as my knee begins bouncing. “Do you have any allergies?” I ask.