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Yves smiled at his son. “You should laugh more often, Zed. It suits you.”
You could tell by his comment that the entire family agreed. It made me think of how often I’d seen Zeno chuckle or laugh in our short time together.
Did he not laugh in front of them?
When everyone turned back to the game, my husband whispered in my ear, “I once saw her wrestling a turkey in the barn with a pair of nunchucks for Thanksgiving when I was seventeen.”
It was my turn to laugh.
Warmth splayed over his features.
And that expression alone sobered me up, reminding me why I wanted distance in the first place. It was too easy to joke with him and get lost in our dynamics.
Noticing my shutters, Zeno’s jaw tightened and he glanced away.
I dug into my food with gusto and continued watching the game.
My sister-in-law cast me shy peeks and I could see her working up the courage to start a conversation. It was adorable, really, how she stumbled around me.
I drank water before beginning, “How are you liking St. Victoria?”
Éva beamed, delighted that I showed interest in her. “I really love it. My ballet teacher is very nice and the boys are much, much cuter than my boarding school in England.”
Zeno and Ben shot her timely glares.
“Of course they are.” I chuckled. “That explains your slight accent. I wondered about that.”
“Mamantells me you’re an author in secret.” Éva bit her lip. “M-May I ask when you started writing?”
I rarely talked about my writing, since it was a subject best kept under wraps in my home.
Yet here, in the presence of the De la Croixes, it seemed welcome, based on the way Céline’s eyes went wide with curiosity. Even the men were attuned to our conversation.
“I was your age when I started writing my first real novel.” I chewed my pasta. “It took me a year to write and another year to edit. I never planned to publish it, but my best friend Ella read my story and convinced me that the world needed to experience my art. The rest is history. I self-published my first book at nineteen and haven’t stopped since.”
“This is so cool!” Éva drawled with wonder. “Why do you use a pen name, though?”
I could lie, but there was no point. The De la Croixes already witnessed my family’s dynamics at my shitshow of an engagement party. I had nothing to lose. “My mother would not approve of me being an author. I created a pen name so she never found out. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just the boring principal of St. Victoria high school.”
“You’re not boring,” Éva said defensively. “In fact, I think you’re one of the most badass women I’ve ever come across. St. Victoria is so much more advanced as a high school because of all your ideas. The Girls in Leadership project you launched has helped so many girls grow in confidence and use their voices. You should be proud of yourself.”
The Girls in Leadership project was very close to my heart. I wanted young girls to feel empowered in a way I hadn’t when I was growing up. It started with weekly workshops in the school’s agora where we discussed the growing movement of feminism and the women who contributed to it. Our meetings always highlighted a prominent accomplishment from a ball busting woman who wasn’t afraid to challenge the status quo. I managed to grow this project to now include monthly seminars from Montardor’s very own leaders, women who were business savvy and had an appetite for leadership to show the younger generation that anything was possible if you put your heart and mind to it.
“Sometimes we don’t see our worth because we are so used to others dimming our shine,” Éva added with the wisdom of someone far beyond her years. “And I think you’re worth more than the word boring, no matter what yourmamanhas led you to believe.”
I was going to start crying in the middle of dinner. Swept with a wave of gratitude, I reached forward to squeeze her hand. “You are sweet for saying that, Éva.”
My sister-in-law smiled back, clutching my hand like she didn’t want to let go. “Can I read one of your books, if it’s okay with you?”
I stole a glance at Céline for silent permission. My earlier works were teen friendly, but my later works were heavy on smut. I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries by saying yes, even though I wouldn’t mind Éva reading.
“You will love her writing, Éva. Darla has such a magical way of weaving words.” My mother-in-law grinned at me. “I cannot wait to read more from you, Darla. You are fast becoming one of my favourite authors.”
That was an immense compliment and I struggled to digest her praise. It was all so new. “Thank you, Céline. You are too kind.”
“Can I read your books too?” Ben asked mischievously, trying to break up the emotional atmosphere.
I appreciated him for it, but I’d rather poison myself than let my brother-in-law read my works with all my raunchy sex scenes. “Non, Benjamin.”
