Page 69 of Boomer
The air was full of watchfulness, the kind that only came from a child hiding just out of reach. Someone too shy, or too battered by the sharp corners of grown-ups, to come forward.
He’d seen it before. Felt it. Carried it. Kids didn’t hide without a reason, and coaxing a child out of silence wasn’t so different from breaching a door. You couldn’t just blast your way through. Not if you wanted them whole on the other side. You had to assess the frame. Study the structure. Pick the righttool. A pry bar when you needed a whisper. A charge when you needed a promise. Patience either way.
He crouched deeper, letting his voice go low. Calm. Like static fading. “Michelangelo was a genius. Not just a sculptor, either. Painter, inventor… he built entire spaces just to hold ideas.” His thumb traced the corner of the page. “I think he was ambidextrous. Switched hands when he painted the Sistine Chapel.”
That wasn’t true, exactly, but it was bait.
Boomer knew a young boy was listening.
This wasn’t about art. It was about offering sanctuary.
Ansel didn’t need a man asking questions.
He needed an island, something to climb onto while the tide around him settled. Michelangelo, of all things, was that convenient island. Grand enough to shelter in. Familiar enough to make the world shrink.
He waited. Waited just long enough for a small voice to carry from the other side of the chair. “He wasn’t ambidextrous. He was right-handed.”
Boomer smiled without turning. Just a small tilt of his mouth.
Gotcha.
Boomer straightened, blinking.
“Unless Michelangelo’s ghost is talking,” he said, “I’m either hallucinating or someone just corrected me.”
A boy, thin, pale, maybe seven, stepped out from behind the wide chair. His hair was a tumble of copper-blond curls, sticking out in every direction like it had been dried with a fan. He wore a paint-streaked T-shirt, bare feet, and a solemn, cautious expression that didn’t quite match the wild energy of his hair.
Boomer slowly lowered to one knee. “Hey there.”
The boy blinked. “You’re my aunt’s friend? You’re big.”
Boomer grinned. “Appreciate that. Means I’m doing okay on protein.” The boy took a tentative step forward, eyes flicking to the book still in Boomer’s hands. “You read this?” Boomer asked.
The boy gave a small nod. “I like sculpture.”
“I can tell. Not many kids your age correcting adults on Renaissance artists.”
A beat passed. The boy tilted his head. “You got it wrong.”
Boomer held up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. I make big holes in doors, not art.”
The boy's brow furrowed. “Aunt Taylor said you like explosions.”
“That’s me.” Boomer offered his hand. “Carter Finley. But my friends call me Boomer.”
The boy hesitated, then reached out, his small fingers curling around Boomer’s. “Ansel.”
Boomer’s hand closed gently around the boy’s. This was her nephew, the one she’d cried about, the one she’d wanted to make sure had all the space he needed to follow his heart’s desire. Boomer looked into those quiet eyes, gray, like smoke after fire and something in his chest pulled taut.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ansel.”
The boy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you here for her?”
Boomer swallowed. “I think I’m here for both of you.”
They sat together on the porch floor, sunlight spilling in around them, and for a while, they talked about marble, hammers, and the difference between fear and form. Boomer listened more than he spoke. He had a feeling that was what Ansel needed most.
Maybe…what he needed too.
