Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
LAURA
T he wedding reception is bubbling with exaggerated cheer. Glasses clink and laughter echoes through the room, but I’m as uncomfortable as I can be between the lights, the cameras, and Antoine’s blinding yellow tuxedo.
Antoine, on the other hand, seems just as detached as he was at the altar. The man hasn’t flinched all day. Not when we repeated the vows for the deputy mayor. Not when we kissed. Not even when I spilled champagne on his shoes. Whether it’s self-control or carelessness, his composure is impressive.
A production assistant standing next to the cameraman points toward my parents. She wants us to go talk to them.
Will we get a red card if we don’t?
Unfortunately, Antoine stands up and casts me an expectant look. I heave myself from my chair, and we make our way to my family’s table. The cameras follow.
When we reach it, nothing happens. My mom, dad, and Aunt Mei continue eating in synchronized disapproval. I clear my throat. Mom looks up at Antoine like he’s a two-headed alien who just abducted her daughter. Aunt Mei stabs her food with her fork again and again. Dad stares at Antoine with an expression so sour I have no doubt he’s hoping it dissolves my new husband into a puddle of fizzling yellow goo.
“Bonsoir,” Antoine says, his voice cool. “My name is Antoine Bellay. I’m thrilled to meet you.”
Dad keeps chewing. Mom’s eyes narrow at Antoine. Aunt Mei doesn’t even look up.
Lovely.
“What’s with the outfit?” Aunt Mei asks, waving dismissively. “You look like a banana.”
“Why, thank you!” Antoine inclines his head. “Mei, right?”
“What were you thinking dressing like that?” she piles on.
Dad jumps in before Antoine can respond. “What do you do for a living?”
My relatives lean back, arms crossed, eyes on Antoine.
“Monsieur Yang,” he begins. “May I call you Zhou?”
“No,” Dad grits.
“All right then, I’ll stick to Monsieur Yang,” Antoine says. “According to the rules of this game—I mean, this show—we’re not allowed to disclose our occupations until after the honeymoon.”
“How convenient!” Mom exclaims.
Antoine shrugs. “Not my rules, Madame Yang.”
“Are you ashamed of your job?” Aunt Mei asks him.
The question is obviously rhetorical, so Antoine doesn’t answer it.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Dad flashes a palm at me as if to say he isn’t done yet.
“Let me guess.” He sized Antoine up. “Bartender? Dancer? Gigolo?”
“Dad!” I snap.
“No, wait, I know,” he goes on, ignoring me. “Unemployed!”
“Dad, stop!”
Mom casts me a withering look. “You did this to yourself, Laura.”
“And let’s be honest,” Aunt Mei adds. “It won’t last. The sooner you end this farce and break up, the better for everyone involved.”
Antoine’s expression remains neutral, while I want to scream and crawl under the nearest table.
Someone speaks behind us. “Mind if I steal the happy couple?”
Gigi, Antoine’s brother’s fiancée, flashes my folks a dazzling smile. In her simple dress and tasteful acrylic earrings—kudos to the designer!—she looks like a Voici ad for affordable elegance.
Thank you, Gigi! I owe you one.
She points toward Henri, who’s waving at us from a few meters away. Antoine gives my parents and aunt a curt nod. I turn around, and we beat feet before they can throw more insults at us.
Henri, his tie loosened and a glass of wine in his hand, grins at his brother. “I see you survived the interrogation.”
“The Yangs are a tough bunch,” Antoine says with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
“Are you younger or older than Antoine?” I ask Henri.
“I’m his baby brother.”
Antoine scoffs, “ Baby . You’re thirty years old.”
“And you’re thirty-four. So?” Henri fires back before turning to me. “Anyway, what do you think of your husband’s tux?”
My husband’s . The word—the whole notion that Antoine is my husband, that I now have a husband—is too wild to wrap my head around.
Focus on the small talk, Gigi!
“It’s very yellow,” I say.
Antoine grins.
How can a man that looks so stern and distant have such an infectious smile?
“It’s very bold,” Gigi says diplomatically. “I like it.”
Henri turns to me. “Would you like to hear the story of how Antoine and I smuggled a cat into the house when we were kids?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“We found this stray in the park—scraggly little thing, but cute—and decided to keep it,” he begins. “Our dad hates cats, so naturally, we thought it was a brilliant idea to sneak it into the house.”
I cock my head. “Let me guess, he found out.”
“Not on the first day,” Antoine picks up the tale. “But then he started sneezing and crying, and that’s what made him suspicious. We didn’t know he was horribly allergic to cats.”
“So you got caught?”
Antoine nods. “The cat was rehomed within twenty-four hours.”
“First time I’m hearing this story,” Gigi says stroking Henri’s cheek.
They exchange a look of such tender complicity I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. Here’s a real couple, genuinely in love and planning to be married for a lifetime.
For a brief moment, no one speaks. The childhood memory hangs between us, sweet and easy. I want to ask more questions. About their dad and mom, about Antoine’s friends, but I decide against it. His parents didn’t come to the wedding, which most likely means they disapprove. I don’t want to press, especially not with the cameras pointed at us.
“Anyway, I wanted to congratulate both of you,” Gigi says to me and Antoine. “We’re rooting for you.”
“Oh, yes, big time!” Henri chimes in.
I peer into his eyes. He isn’t being ironic. Nor is Gigi. Yet, they don’t seem completely earnest, either. There’s a hidden layer to their words, some kind of inside joke or a reference I’m not familiar with. While I ponder this, the Bellay brothers and Gigi exchange a quick but eloquent look.
Hmm, what’s going on?