The sky becomes peach sherbet, and we eat strawberries and dark chocolate caramels that Wallis has somehow kept from melting most of the day. On the main stage back at the Capitol, the drummers and the fifers and the military chorus get going; we hear wisps of their cadences, but mostly the classic Springsteen mix from the portable radio of the group immediately to our right. Evening arrives, and the frieze of Lincoln’s temple is lit, and the columns, and the worn, resolute face of the man himself.

We take turns telling stories, walking through memories, filling each other in on parts of our lives the others have missed. Wallis has her legs flung over Bo’s lap, and on her ankle he is tracing intricate designs with his thumb.

I snuggle further into Atlas, grateful for where this world has spun us. He is dressed, as is his patriotic duty, in a plain white polo and navy blue shorts; he’s even brought his red Nationals cap. I know what’s under that hat, a mind that is thoughtful and generous and inquisitive and reliable.

Who are we kidding? I should also add—

I know exactly what is under those shorts.

Because he and I both agreed that we’d wasted too much time apart, and threw ourselves into making up for it. Considering those first hours and nights together, I’ve felt myself wanting to call the thing between us easy. But that is the wrong word. Because, yes, waking up tangled, laughing, sharing a slice of toast and a bathroom mirror, his breath on my neck and his hands in my hair, all that is as comfortable as a dance to a familiar song. But there is also something so stupefyingly rare and fragile about finding your person and choosing them for forever.

The night is finally dark enough for fireworks, and the hundreds of people around us on the Mall start to straighten, expectant. Any second now.

Cricket takes this opportunity to clear her throat, then, once she has our attention, she says, as matter-of-fact as one can be, “This is going to make a good last scene in my book.”

Wallis and I don’t closely resemble each other, but catch us at the right moment, and you’ll see our expressions are often identical. Cricket looks between us and simply shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve been approached by a few agents, one of whom I actually like. She thinks I might have a book proposal in me somewhere. I’ve been journaling, as you know. And with Daisy off telling her story, I thought it’s high time I tell mine.”

“A book, Mom.” Each word of Wallis’s might’ve been its own sentence.

“Don’t look so dumbfounded. I wrote for the Vassar Miscellany,” Cricket reminds us. “I read The Elements of Style.”

“Amazing achievement,” says Atlas, beginning to clap.