“Want to see my room?”
“Sure.”
Finn leads the way to the bottom of the stairs, where he points at my Converse sneakers. “No shoes on the upstairs carpets.”
“Oh, of course.” His father has him well trained. I kick them off then follow him up to his bedroom, which unlike the rest of the house explodes with colour. The walls are papered with drawings: vibrant dinosaurs, rainbow dragons, stick-figure scenes, and what appears to be a very ambitious attempt at painting the view from his window. It’s chaotic and joyful and absolutely perfect.
At least Lachlan hasn’t imposed his bland, neutral taste on his son’s space.
“This is amazing. Did you do all of these?”
Finn nods proudly and launches into enthusiastic explanations of each piece. He’s just pointing at a yellow cloud with four legs and telling me, “And that’s Gus, of course,” when Gus himself lumbers into the room, one of my shoes dangling from his mouth. He comes over to me, tail swishing as if to say, “Look what I found!”
“Um... thanks, Gus. Can you, uh, put it back now?”
He just looks at me, shoe still clamped in his jaws.
“Gusisallowed in your room, right?”
“Of course. He’s part of the family. And Ithinkit’s fine for your shoe to be in my room, as long as it’s not on your foot.”
That logic seems watertight to me.
We spend the next bit looking through Finn’s books and building a small Lego spaceship, with Gus supervising from his spot on the rug (still guarding my shoe). Finn peppers me with the kind of questions that make perfect sense in a six-year-old’s head but would sound mad coming from anyone else.
“What’s your favourite dinosaur?” he asks, carefully attaching a Lego wing.
“Hmm. Probably a Triceratops. They look friendly but could definitely handle themselves in a fight.”
He nods approvingly. “Good choice. If you could live on any planet, which would you pick?”
“Well, not Venus. Too hot. Maybe one of Jupiter’s moons? What about you?”
“Saturn. The rings would be like having a giant playground in the sky.”
I’m just contemplating this delightfully weird reasoning when I catch sight of his clock. “Uh-oh, how did that happen?We’re two minutes late for ‘outdoor play, weather permitting’. And weather is definitely permitting—it’s gorgeous out there.”
I stand, brushing stray Legos off my jeans. “So, Finn, any playgrounds around here?”
“Aye. Down by the seafront, near the Lighthouse Café.”
“Oh, I know that place. They do very good coffee.”
“And top hats!”
I frown at this. Top hats? Yesterday Finnhadlooked adorable in his school uniform, but surely a six-year-old in a top hat is a bit much, even for British people?
“You like to wear . . . top hats?”
Finn dissolves into giggles. “They’re not actual hats. It’s a marshmallow with chocolate on the bottom and a Smartie on top.” He licks his lips. “They’re so good.”
“Oh. Well, the schedule doesn’t say anything about a morning treat... but it also doesn’t say anything about not having a morning treat. And it is the first day of your summer vacation. Got to celebrate a little, am I right?”
“Aye!” Finn grins.
I wink at him, then look down at Gus, who’s finally abandoned my shoe in favour of following our conversation with the intense focus of someone hoping the word “walk” might come up.
“You coming too, Gus?”
