Melissa didn’t know what to say to that. She focused on her cone instead, on the cool tanginess melting against her tongue, on the sounds of the festival swirling around them.
A woman stopped in front of their bench, an older lady with white hair and a Redwood Hollow Festival Committee t-shirt. “Senator Brandt! Lovely to see you enjoying the festivities.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Addison. It’s a wonderful event, as always.”
“And this must be your family.” Mrs. Addison beamed at June and Lila. “Your daughter and granddaughter are just beautiful. The little one has your eyes, Senator.”
Melissa froze.
“Oh, I’m not—” June started, but Mrs. Addison had already bustled away, waving to someone across the path.
“What did she say?” Lila asked, focused on her ice cream.
“Nothing, sweetheart. She was just being friendly.”
She glanced at June before looking hastily away, the words settling into her chest like stones.Your daughter.As if June could be her child. As if the twenty years between them were that obvious, that insurmountable.
She was old enough to be June’s mother.
The thought made her stomach twist. Not quite shame—she had nothing to be ashamed of—but awareness. Sharp, uncomfortable awareness of exactly how ridiculous she was being, letting herself feel whatever she was feeling for a woman young enough to be her daughter.
You’re not feeling anything, she told herself firmly.You’re grateful. She’s good with Lila. That’s all.
But when June turned to her a moment later, cone in hand, sunlight catching the gold in her hair—Melissa’s heart flipped in a way that had nothing to do with gratitude.
The fireworks were scheduled for nine o’clock, and by eight-thirty the park had transformed. Families spread across the grass on blankets and lawn chairs, children waving glow sticks, couples tangled together in the gathering dark. The air smelled of popcorn and gunpowder and the lingering sweetness of cotton candy.
The three of them stayed beneath the oak tree, settled on the blanket, watching as the colors of the sky changed. Lila was wedged between them, her energy finally flagging after hours of parade-watching and ice cream and running through the festival booths.
“Ten more minutes,” June said, checking her phone. “Can you make it, Lila?”
“I’m not tired.” But her voice was drowsy, her head listing toward Melissa’s shoulder.
“I can see that.”
The festival sounds had softened around them—less shouting, more murmured conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere in the darkness. Melissa could feel June beside her, the warmth of her body in the cooling night air, the brush of her shoulder when either of them shifted.
“I love this,” June said quietly. “The waiting. Everyone looking at the same sky, holding their breath for the same thing.”
“It’s one of the few moments when an entire community is focused on the same experience,” Melissa agreed. “No divisions, no politics. Just people looking up.”
“Sounds like the opposite of what you do.”
Melissa considered the question. “I hoped it would be different. I wanted to help people find common ground. But politics is messier than fireworks.”
“But you keep trying.”
“I keep trying.”
June was quiet for a moment. “I admire that. The persistence. I’m not sure I have it in me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because when things got hard—in the kitchen, I mean—I left. I didn’t fight. I just… gave up.”
There was something in her voice, something raw beneath the casual words. Melissa wanted to ask, to push, to understand what had happened to make June sound like that. But Lila was between them, and the fireworks were about to start, and it wasn’t the right moment for confessions.
“Leaving isn’t the same as giving up,” Melissa said instead. “Sometimes leaving is the bravest thing you can do.”
