The blanket was spread out in a patch of shade, far enough from the street to escape the worst of the crowd but close enough to see the parade clearly—prime viewing indeed. Melissa settled onto the soft cotton, tucking her legs beneath her, and June sat beside her—close, closer than strictly necessary, their shoulders almost touching.
“I brought snacks,” June said, producing a canvas bag. “Strawberries, cheese, crackers. And lemonade, because I don’t think you like soda.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve never once taken a sip of anything carbonated. And you made a face when Lila asked for Sprite at the restaurant last week.” June smiled. “I pay attention.”
Melissa turned that over in her mind, unsure what to do with it. People paid attention to her all the time—constituents, colleagues, reporters, opponents. But they paid attention to Senator Brandt, to the public figure, to the carefully constructed image she projected.
June paid attention toher. To the small things. The real things.
“Mom.” Lila tugged at Melissa’s sleeve. “I can’t see. There are too many tall people.”
“The parade hasn’t started yet.”
“But when it does, I won’t be able to see.”
Melissa considered the problem. The crowd had thickened around them, families and couples jostling for position along the parade route. Lila was small for her age, easily lost in the forest of adult bodies.
“Come here.” Melissa patted her shoulders. “Climb up.”
Lila’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.”
It took some maneuvering—Lila’s sandaled feet finding purchase on Melissa’s thighs, her small hands gripping Melissa’s hair for balance—but eventually she was settled on Melissa’s shoulders, legs dangling against Melissa’s chest. Melissa thanked her many hours of Pilates for her strength.
“I can see everything!” Lila crowed. “I can see the whole street!”
“Good. Now hold on.”
June was watching them with an expression Melissa couldn’t quite read.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“Nothing. Just—” June shook her head. “It’s nice to see you being just a mom. Less thinking, more being.”
Before Melissa could respond, music swelled from down the street—a marching band, drums and brass, the opening strains of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The parade had begun.
The next hour passed in a blur of color and sound. High school marching bands and vintage cars, local business floats and community groups tossing candy to the crowd. Lila squealed at the fire truck, waved frantically at the dance troupe, caught a handful of taffy that she insisted on sharing with June and Melissa.
By the time the last float had passed, Melissa’s shoulders ached from supporting Lila’s weight, but she couldn’t bringherself to regret it. The view from up there must have been spectacular—Lila had narrated the entire parade in breathless detail, pointing out every dog in a costume, every flag, every sequined baton twirler.
“Ice cream now?” Lila asked as Melissa lifted her down.
“Ice cream now.”
They found the cheerful Piper and Whisk booth near the center of the festival, selling mostly their signature cupcakes, but also offering a selection of homemade ice cream flavors. Once they’d decided, June ordered—strawberry for Lila, lemon for Melissa, something called “Summer Sunrise” for herself that turned out to be mango and passionfruit.
“Why am I not surprised that you prefer lemon?” June asked as she handed Melissa her ice cream.
“It’s fresh and clean. Unfussy,” Melissa said. “What’s not to like?”
“Very you.” June licked her cone, catching a drip before it could run down her wrist, and Melissa absolutely did not watch that tongue.
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Melissa said, forcing herself to sound normal and probably failing.
“It’s not. I respect people who know themselves.” June’s eyes met hers over the ice cream, bright in the sunlight.
