Chapter 29 Let Me Go Wake Him Up!
“Yes.” The man’s eyes flicked to Pete, then back to Andrew. “An extra one for the big man”— a small tilt of his chin toward Pete—“ and one for you.”
Andrew’s mouth opened, closed. He reached toward the bag. “You don’t have to—”
“I insist.” The scooper’s tone was gentle but final. He slid the bag an inch closer across the marble. “Please.”
A beat. Andrew’s shoulders loosened. The smile that followed was quieter, more real.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Andrew glanced sideways. Pete stood very still, staring up at the scooper like he’d just witnessed magic.
“What do we say?”
Pete’s voice came out small, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”
The man leaned forward just enough, elbows on the counter, smile warm enough to melt the display case.
“It’s nothing. Just be nice to Dad, okay?”
Pete nodded quickly, cheeks pinking.
Andrew pulled his debit card from the slim leather wallet. The man took it, tapped a few keys, swiped, handed it back with the receipt folded neatly on top.
“Thanks, man,” Andrew said again, quieter this time.
“It’s nothing.” The scooper waved it away, already wiping the spade clean.
Andrew passed one of the vanilla cones to Pete. The boy’s fingers closed around it reverently. He took the first lick before they even reached the door— long, careful, eyes fluttering shut for half a second at the cold sweetness.
The bell chimed again as they stepped back into the late-afternoon light. The street smelled of warm stone, exhaust, someone’s perfume drifting past. Pete walked beside his father, licking steadily, cone already glistening at the edges.
They’d gone maybe twenty paces when Andrew spoke, voice casual but deliberate.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?”
Pete’s tongue paused mid-lick. He shrugged one shoulder, eyes on the melting rim. “I don’t know.”
“Think.” Andrew nudged him lightly with an elbow. “Let’s do something fun for you before we go back to the States.”
Pete’s brows drew together. He took another lick, considering. Then, tentative:
“Hmmm… what about the museum?”
Andrew didn’t hesitate. “The museum is fine.”
Pete’s head snapped up. “Really?”
“Yes, son.” Andrew’s smile was soft, steady. “That’s why I asked.”
The boy’s entire face ignited. Eyes wide, mouth open in a delighted O. He bounced once— sharp, joyful— on the balls of his feet, vanilla smearing the corner of his lips.
“Thank you, Daddy!”
Andrew laughed under his breath, the sound low and fond. “You’re welcome.”
They kept walking. Pete licked faster now, almost bouncing with each step, the extra cone swinging gently in his other hand. Andrew carried his chocolate cone in his right hand, left hand once again finding Pete’s, fingers threading together without either of them seeming to notice.
The sun was dropping behind the rooftops, turning the street a warm honey-gold. Somewhere nearby a busker started playing “La Vie en Rose” on an accordion— slow, unhurried, the notes floating above the murmur of voices and the click of heels on stone.
Pete looked up at his father, chocolate-vanilla smeared across his chin like war paint.
“Do you think they have dinosaurs in the museum?”
Andrew’s mouth quirked. “I think they have much better than dinosaurs.”
Pete’s eyes grew impossibly wider. “Better?”
“Mmhmm.” Andrew squeezed his hand once. “Wait and see.”
Pete grinned— full, unguarded, teeth slightly crooked at the front— and attacked his cone again with renewed enthusiasm.
Behind them, the ice-cream shop’s rose-gold light spilled onto the sidewalk in a perfect rectangle. The scooper watched them go for a moment longer, then turned back to the counter, humming the same tune the busker was playing, soft enough that only the tubs of gelato could hear.
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The memory snapped shut like a shutter clicking, and Pete’s eyes flew wide in the soft morning glow of the bedroom. His heart gave a quick, eager thud. The iPad he picked back up from the bed slipped from his fingers onto the duvet with a muffled thump. He was already moving before the screen went dark.
“Daddy said we’re going to the museum today!” The words burst out of him, bright and loud enough to bounce off the high ceilings. “Let me go wake him up!”
Bare feet slapped the wool rug once, twice— then he launched forward. The bedroom door stood half-open; he shoved it wider with both palms and darted into the hallway.
The apartment breathed Paris luxury even in silence: long corridor of pale oak parquet, walls the color of fresh cream, recessed lights still dimmed for the early hour. A tall vase of white peonies on the console table trembled slightly as Pete rocketed past, petals quivering like they felt his excitement.
He skidded at the first corner— socks he’d never bothered to put on last night let him slide an extra foot— then caught himself with one hand flat against the wall. A small framed print of the Seine at twilight rattled against the plaster. He didn’t care.
Another hallway opened ahead, shorter, lined with closed doors. Dad and Aunt Amelia’s room was at the end. The double doors were painted a soft dove-grey, handles gleaming brushed nickel. Pete’s breath came fast now, chest rising and falling under the oversized T-shirt he’d slept in.
He reached the doors at a full run, grabbed both handles, and pushed them inward in one sweeping motion.