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Kipp rolls his eyes when I give him a victorious smirk.
“Théodore?” my grandpa says.
“Hi, Papa. I’m here with my friend, Kipp. Kipp, my grandfather, Luca.”
“Hello, Kipp,” my grandpa says. “It is very nice to meet you.”
His English is a little more stilted and formal than my grandma’s. He speaks the language well, but he grew up in a community of almost entirely French speakers. My grandma, on the other hand, was bilingual from the time she was young. Same as me and Cameron.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Kipp says, smiling at my phone in between bites of his pasta. “I have to ask, was Teddy as adorable as a baby as he is now?”
My grandpa laughs, pleased, as my grandma answers. “Oui. You should have seen his cheeks. So pinchable.”
Kipp’s eyes trail down my body, landing on the side of my ass. “I don’t doubt it,” he says, bouncing his eyebrows.
“Behave,” I mouth.
He draws what I believe is supposed to be a halo above his head.
“Mon chéri,” my grandma says, “you should show him your photo album.”
“Oh, yes. Teddy, you should,” Kipp agrees.
“Maybe another time,” I say, shaking my head as Kipp pouts. “Papa, how’s the garden this year?”
My grandpa launches into a rundown of their vegetable garden as Kipp and I finish our meal. It doesn’t surprise me how at ease Kipp is while talking to my grandparents, but it does make me wonder about his own family.
After my grandma grills Kipp about his job in software development, to which he happily answers her questions, our conversation wraps up.
“It was so nice to meet you, Kipp,” my grandma says. “We’ll have to talk again soon.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Kipp says, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink.
My grandpa gives his love in French, I return the sentiment, and then it’s my grandma’s turn.
“Bisous,” she says.
“Kisses,” I reply.
When I end the call, Kipp gives me a smile. “Bisous means kisses?” he asks.
I nod. “It’s how we say goodbye. It includes a kiss on the cheek if we’re together.”
“That’s really nice,” Kipp says, expression soft and yet almost sad. I’m guessing, based on what he’s said of his parents, they don’t have something similar. “So, your name is Theodore.”
I hum, collecting our dishes. “It is.”
Kipp grabs our glasses, following me around the island and into the kitchen. “And chéri? What’s that?”
“It’s an endearment, like darling or beloved. Or,” I add, clearing my throat, “sweetheart.”
Kipp is quiet for a moment before saying, “Your grandma called me that, too.”
“Yeah. She’s always been like that,” I explain. “Warm and maternal.”
He helps me load the dishwasher before leaning against the counter. “You call them Mom and Dad, right? Maman and…”
“Papa,” I fill in, nodding. “Yeah, I do. Because they basically are. They raised me and my brother from the time I was one and a half.” When Kipp’s face falls in sympathy, I explain, as succinctly as possible, “My parents died in an accident. No one’s fault, really. But my grandparents on my dad’s side took us in. I never knew my mom’s family. She met my dad in Canada while on a study permit. Her parents didn’t approve of the marriage.”
