Mom recovers first, her face breaking into a delighted smile. "Victor! Bienvenue! Come in, come in! You must be freezing!"
She ushers him inside, already asking about his coat and whether he wants coffee or wine or "maybe something stronger?"
Victor catches my eye as he passes, flashing me a rare smirk, and suddenly my heart is beating an uncomfortable rhythm against my ribs.
Amelia appears at my elbow. "He came."
"I can see that."
"He said no. But he came anyway."
“Yes, Amelia, thank you. I have eyes.”
"That's not fake, Harper."
I watch Victor let Mom fuss over him, watch him shake Dad's hand, watch his curious saline-gray eyes wash over my childhood home, my gut tightening.
"No," I admit quietly more to myself than Amelia. "It's definitely not."
15
TOWN CAR CONFESSIONS
VICTOR
Two hours later, I sit in the back of my town car with Harper, trying to process the fact that I just spent Sunday dinner with her family.
It's 7:45 PM now, and the November night has already fully settled over Queens, the temperature dropping to thirty-five degrees while we were inside—a light rain starting to fall about an hour ago.
And beside me, Harper sits in the G-wagon’s spacious back seat. Still beautiful. Still wearing the soft sweater that smells like her mother's kitchen—cinnamon and butter and warm conversation.
As for me, I’m still processing.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been around family—any family, that is.
My own back in Chicago barely qualify, and it doesn’t help that Jean-Luc and Céline Beaumont treated me like one of the gang.
Jean-Luc made terrible puns. So many puns.
About everything.
The tourtière was "to-die-for" (his words, complete with finger guns).
When Margot's husband Philippe finally arrived, Jean-Luc announced he was "just in time to be late."
And Harper’s mother Céline tried to feed me until I physically couldn't eat another bite, then offered dessert anyway. "You are too skinny," she'd declared in her French-accented English. "Harper, you must feed him better!"
And Amelia. God.
The youngest of the Beaumont had shown me Harper’s and my wedding memes. All of them. Including the one that superimposed our pixelated faces onto a Mario Kart game with the caption "Married Speedrun Any%."
"That one has two million views," she'd said proudly, showing me her phone.
Harper had buried her face in her hands. "Please stop."
"Never. This is my contribution to art."
It was chaos. Overwhelming. I’d found myself smack dab in the middle of a family dinner where everyone talks over each other and there are at least three conversations happening simultaneously and you're never quite sure if the yelling is affectionate or an actual argument.
