Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LAURA
W hen I return to the dining table, Mom has escaped to the kitchen. Dad and Aunt Mei are staring at Antoine who’s focused on his food.
“Monsieur Yang,” Antoine says, lifting his eyes from the plate. “Do you happen to own an antique music box?”
Dad’s brows pull together. “Music box?”
For a brief moment, I’m just as bemused by the question as he is. Then I remember Pedro’s secret challenge. Wow. It sounds like Antoine is still working on it, even if the honeymoon is over.
That’s a good sign, right?
I think it is. It speaks to his tenacity and commitment to our marriage.
“Something you inherited from your parents, maybe?” Antoine turns to Aunt Mei. “A family heirloom?”
Dad and Aunt Mei shake their heads.
Mom pokes her head out from the kitchen. “Zhou, Mei, and I left China thirty years ago with nothing but determination to build a new life here.”
“Perhaps you acquired a music box here in France?” Antoine tries again. “Maybe in an antique shop, or a flea market?”
Mom and Dad exchange a scornful look.
“We don’t shop at flea markets,” Dad says. “My wife and I make enough to afford new things.”
I jump in. “Remember, Aunt Mei, when I was little, you sometimes took me to that thrift shop down the street? Maybe you bought a music box there and then forgot about it?”
“No,” she says. “I’d remember if I bought a music box.”
I rub my chin. “What if I bought one, and it’s packed away somewhere?”
Mom smirks. “And I’d remember if you came home with some old junk and insisted we keep it.”
“Old junk is sometimes worth millions,” Antoine points out.
“Maybe.” Dad shrugs. “But we don’t keep antiques in this house.”
“They only take up space and collect dust,” Mom explains, opening the fridge.
I turn to Aunt Mei. “Are you sure neither of us ever bought anything resembling a music box from that shop?”
“ Ma chérie, we went to that secondhand store for gear, nothing else.” She pats my hand. “I haven’t set foot in there ever since I’ve been making enough to buy new clothes.”
Mom returns to the living room. “The osmanthus jelly needs ten more minutes in the fridge.”
I seize the opportunity for a time-out. “Do you mind if I show Antoine around the apartment while we wait? Including my old room?”
My parents trade an amused look.
“Go ahead,” Mom says.
I rise from my chair and make a sweeping gesture around me. “This is the living room slash dining room.”
“It’s very neat and modern,” Antoine comments.
“This way.” I head down the narrow hallway and motion for him to follow.
The first stop is my parents’ minimalistic bedroom. Antoine looks around, but his eyes don’t linger on anything for long.
“Next,” I say, moving on.
The bathroom is spotless and sterile, a sea of white tiles and chrome fixtures.
Antoine barely steps inside. “No antiques in here.”
“You’re really serious about Pedro’s challenge, huh?”
“Oh yes, very serious.”
I continue toward the guest room. “This was my room,” I say as we step inside.
My stuff is gone. The walls are now painted beige, and the sofa bed is accessorized with four identical cushions. My customized desk was replaced with a nondescript side table.
Antoine scans the space.
I lean against the doorframe. “The walls were purple back when I lived here and covered with posters.”
“What posters?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Hmm.” He puckers his mouth. “No idea.”
“K-pop bands, silly!”
“Of course.” He smiles. “No antique K-pop music boxes?”
I smile back. “No antiques at all, unless you count my primary school trophies, which my mom probably threw out, anyway.”
“Shame.”
Next, I show him the kitchen, as antique-free as the rest of the apartment.
“Well,” Antoine breathes out, “it was worth a try.”
“Maybe the dessert will cheer you up.”
“I’m sure it will,” he says brightly.
I wouldn’t be so optimistic if I were you…
We get back to the dining table, just in time for round two of the enhanced interrogation. Somehow, Antoine survives it. The dessert doesn’t kill him, either, at least not right away.
By the time we’ve helped clear the table, my nerves are shot.
Antoine seems to have gotten over his disappointment about the music box. To my astonishment, it looks like he came through my family’s inquisition unscathed. If anything, he seems proud at how he didn’t OD on the Szechuan spice.
“Thank you for the dinner,” he says as we prepare to leave. “It was an unforgettable sensory experience.”
Mom doesn’t bother pretending to be flattered.
“Hmm,” Dad grunts and shuts the door.
Outside the building, we stop and stare at each other with a silent “what now?” The show wants us to live apart this week and sleep in our own beds. That’s exactly what we did yesterday, and the day before, after we returned from Sardinia.
Antoine looks around. “The outdoor diners are gone.”
“It’s almost midnight,” I point out.
“It’s dark.”
I shoot him a mockingly concerned look. “Are you scared of the dark?”
“I don’t like the idea of you riding the Métro home alone at this time,” he says, ignoring my taunt.
Will you come with me?
I don’t want to appear too eager, so I begin, “We aren’t supposed to?—”
“Fuck that.” He hails a passing cab.
We both get in.
He turns to me. “Your address.”
I give the driver my address, and the taxi peels out down the street. Antoine’s hand finds mine in the dark cabin. He strokes it in a way that holds an unambiguous promise of all the wonderful things he’s planning to do to me. Instantly, I’m lightheaded.
A tiny part of my brain wonders why he skipped the conventional “y our place or mine?”
But I’m already too aroused and too thrilled at the prospect of another night in his arms to dwell on such a minor thing.