Page 50 of All Our Nevers

“So nice to meet you, Amelia. What are you doing here with this guy?” he jokes, and I immediately love him.

“I’ve been asking myself that all night,” I say. “Between the style and the kisses and the name, you must be from France.”

“You are correct. Fortunately, I can talk to myself about how much I hate this job and no one understands. T’es française aussi?”

“Non,” I reply. “Mais je parle un peu. D'où venez-vous?”

Guy titters a laugh. “Pas besoin d'être si formel avec moi, chérie. Je suis de Marseille—tu y es déjà allée? Tu parles très bien.”

I try not to preen at the compliment, when really my French is not that good. “Ah merci, mais c’est pas vrai en fait. Et non, je n’y suis jamais allée, mais peut-être un jour. Tu as déménagé aux Etats-Unis pour ce boulot? Ça va bien?”

“Bah pfft,” he says, very Frenchly, “ces couillons ne comprennent rien au droit.”

I laugh at the audacious comment about his coworkers who are in this very room with us. Beside me Owen looks like he’s in the Twilight Zone.

“J’ne dirai rien.”

Guy shoots a quick glance at my companion. “Mais ton mec… il n’est pas le pire.”

I mimic him, eyes flicking to Owen’s for a moment before I agree. “Oui, tu as raison.”

At least five full minutes pass like this, the two of us chattering away merrily in French—me making occasional, embarrassing grammar mistakes, Guy pretending not to notice—and Owen standing next to us like set dressing. I’ve just decided I would genuinely like to be friends with this man when some other lawyer joins the circle, saying, “Sorry to cut in, but Guillaume I was wondering if I could pick your brain on something for the Ford case. Do you have a sec?”

“Sure,” Guy replies in English, then turns back to me, rounding out our conversation with a bright white smile that sparkles next to his dark umber skin. “You will get my phone number from Owen, yes? We will be in touch?”

“Absolutely.” I lean in for more cheek kisses before sending him on his way.

Owen looks like he just woke up from a trance. I try to communicate with him through my eyes—we’ve seen Sophie and Andy do it enough times that you would think we’d have the technique down by now—but no luck. The results are four raised eyebrows and zero comprehension.

“Amelia,” he says through what’s quickly becoming his signature gritted-smile, “we still don’t have drinks. Let’s go get something.”

His hand finds my lower back again, warm and solid against the smooth fabric. The line for the bar snakes around several high tops.

We step into it and Owen’s hand winds farther around my waist, pulling my ear towards his lips to ask, “Is this okay? Because I have several questions for you, girlfriend.”

To a passer-by it would look innocent enough, an intimate but work-appropriate moment between a couple.

“Mhm.” I nod, generic closed-mouth smile back on my face.

“First of all, why didn’t I know you speak French?”

“You never asked.”

The huff of air from his nose skitters down my neck. “Do I have to name every world language individually and ask you about your fluency? Do you have any more up your sleeves?”

“Nope. Just English obviously, Italian kind of, and French a bit.”

“What do you mean Italian kind of and French a bit? You speak Italian too?”

“Certo che parlo Italiano. Mia nonna è nata lì.”

He shakes his head, the roughness of his beard just barely grazing my cheek. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“Yes,” I clarify. “My dad’s family is part Italian, and his mom lived with us when we were little so she taught us.”

“And how do you speak French so well? Are you part French, too?”

“What are you, auditing my ethnicity?” I look around the room to assess whether any eyes are on us, whether we need to keep up this ruse of intimacy. We do. I shift slightly closer as I say, “My dad is Italian and Spanish, my mom is French and Greek. It’s a real American melting pot over here. But culturally we’re really just Italian.”