Chapter 25
Tara
Marisol’s birthday at Mi Tierra is a full-blown family takeover.
Papi closed the restaurant early.
We pushed all the tables together under the strings of papel picado that fluttered in the air conditioning. But the family is spread out, having a blast. Someone’s spilled beer on the floor, the lights are low and golden, and Tio Diego is already leading a loud round of Cielito Lindo with his band.
Tia Camila claps along with the beat, her bracelets jingling, while Mama dances with Marco.
Marisol is glowing. She’s turned 21, so she can legally drink, and she certainly is.
Papi is behind the counter with a beer in one hand and a ladle in the other, shouting for everyone to try his new salsa recipe that “will cure heartbreak and hangovers, guaranteed.”
Lies!
It’s chaos—glorious, noisy, beautiful chaos.
I love being home—and find it healing.
It’s been a few weeks since Paris and losing my career, but thanks to their unconditional love, I am feeling better.
The Louvre, improbably, got back in touch—asking if I’d like to return to Paris.
Right. I told them, “Non, merci.”
Cece later told me that Gustave had been asking about me, and that she’d taken great pleasure in telling him to go fuck himself. I didn’t even ask what he said in return.
I am not sure if Gustave reached out. I don’t want to know, either.
I blocked him at the same time I did Aubert. He’d messaged me, kind and concerned, and that had taken me down a bad path. I can’t deal with anyone from that world—not yet. My wounds are still raw. My heart, still broken.
Healing will take time. Smiling without effort will take time.
For now, I’m faking it…until I make it, whenever that is.
“Come on, Marisol, it’s perfect—you must see that,” Luis insists, standing proudly beside his creation. A wildly lopsided pinata shaped like a margarita glass, complete with a crooked lime wedge on the rim.
Marisol squints up at it, tequila glass in hand. “Luis, it looks like a cocktail that got into a bar fight.”
Luis grins, unbothered. “It’s abstract. Art doesn’t have to be pretty. Am I right, Tara?”
“Of course!” I say in mock agreement.
Marisol snorts. “Well, congratulations, Picasso. It’s definitely….” She takes another slow sip of her drink, eyes narrowing in mock appraisal. “Weird.”
“Good.” Luis beams like she’s validated his entire artistic career. “Weird is the new perfect.”
Tia Camila chimes in from across the room, waving a tamale, “Only in this family would we have a drunk pinata and call it art.”
Then, accidentally, Luis hits a light fixture with the pinata stick, and Marisol laughs so hard, she sprays tequila over everyone around her.
Laughter erupts and fills the whole restaurant, drowning out the hum of the city outside.
For once, I almost forget Paris.
I almost forget him.
Until…I see him.
He’s standing beyond the glass door of the restaurant, framed by the string lights.
He’s in a tailored navy suit. Crisp white shirt. Hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looks like he’s stepped out of a magazine—and into the wrong universe.
For a second, I think I’ve drunk too much, so much so that I’m hallucinating.
But then the door opens, and he walks in.
Papi is the first to notice. He walks toward Gustave, drying his hands on a towel. “The restaurant is closed for a private event.”
Gustave clears his throat. “Bonsoir*…ah…buenas noches*. I’m looking for Tara.”
Everyone turns. The music dips. A ripple of whispers moves through the room like a wave.
Marisol’s jaw drops. “Ay, dios mio.” She’s seen pictures of him, so she knows.
I walk on unsteady legs to Gustave. “What are you doing here?” I hiss.
“Tara, I—”
“Get out,” I cut him off.
“Mija.” Papi puts a hand over my shoulder. “Aquí cuidamos a los invitados*.”
Papi studies Gustave for a long, silent moment, then gives him a pleasant smile. He puts his towel on his shoulder, and holds his hand out. “I’m Juan Gayarre. Tara’s father.”
“Gustave de Valois.” He shakes my father’s hand. It’s completely incongruous to see him here in my world.
“Come, come,” Papi urges. “It’s Marisol’s birthday! I’m sure we can find you something to drink and eat.”
“Papi,” I blurt out. Is he out of his mind?
“Mija, the man has come all the way from Paris. We’re not going to turn him away. That’s not who we are.”
“That’s who I am,” I mutter.
And that’s how Gustave de Valois, Count of Parisian salons and patron of the Louvre, steps into Mi Tierra, my family’s little restaurant on Cesar Chavez Avenue, where the special of the day is always love with extra salsa and complete craziness.
The room hums with barely contained curiosity.
Tio Diego strums a dramatic chord on his guitar and belts, “Tara, el príncipe francés ha llegado*!” The band plays some ridiculous tune to go with it.
Marco, who’s turned an empty table into a drum, thumps a beat, grins, and adds in English, “One whose ass we want to kick.”
Laughter explodes around the room—half-joke, half-warning.
The music ramps back up, and the pinata sways as Luis gives it another experimental whack while some of the kids clap.
Someone calls out in Spanish, “That French man…he’s too clean. We gotta get him a sombrero or something.”
“Or an apron,” Marco adds. “Make him earn his supper.”
Mama slaps Marco on the back of his head and steps forward. She holds out a hand. “I’m Estrella Gayarre. Tara’s mother.”
He shakes it. “Gustave,” he murmurs and then adds in that charming French accent, “I can see where Tara gets her beauty.”
Mama raises an eyebrow and then turns to the others. “El hombre es encantador*.”
“Tanto que le bajó los calzones a Tara*,” Tia Camila says, giving Gustave the stink eye.
I hold up a hand. “He understands Spanish,” I call out before someone else starts to discuss my panties.
Right then, someone says, “Qué guapo*.”
Gustave purses his lips. He’s torn between obvious discomfort and amusement.
Papi hands him a beer. “You drink this. No fancy wine here.”
“Muchas gracias*.” He takes a sip like it’s a sacred oath.
“If you want wine, you come to my wine bar,” Tio Diego says. It sounds like a challenge. “We have some good Spanish Crianza that will beat the pants off your French stuff.”
“And if you want to show your muscles, you come to our construction site,” Marco throws out.
I want to bang my head against a wall.
Seriously, my family can be a bit much.
Marisol comes up to stand next to me, her hand on her hips. “You have some cojones* on you, showing up like this.”
Marisol!
“I have no choice,” he says, eyes lingering on me. Then he turns to Marisol, unleashing his full-wattage grin. “Happy birthday.”
She beams and chuckles. “I can see why you went for him, hermana.”
The earth should swallow me now! I mean, what the fuck is the point?
The last time I saw him, he told me to leave Paris. He broke me with words I still can’t forget. Now he’s standing in the middle of my family’s restaurant, surrounded by tamales and tequila and music, looking at me like I’m the only person in the world.
The music picks up again, and Tio Diego starts another song. Tia Camila pulls Marisol onto the floor to dance, and soon everyone is clapping and singing along. Everyone except Gustave and me.
Gustave’s eyebrows rise. I follow his gaze to Marco, who is breakdancing—inexplicably—and doing it terribly.
“Why are you here, Gustave?” I ask wearily. I’m tired. Exhausted. I’ve been thinking about this man day in and day out, and now he’s here, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“To apologize.”
“Otra canción, Tio*!” Marisol shouts, all but drowning out his words. “One for the lovers!”
Tio launches into a slow cumbia, and the rest of the band follows.
“Tara….”
The sound of my name on his tongue, here, surrounded by all this love and noise, breaks something open in me.
“Not here.”
“D’accord*.”
* Good evening (French)
* Good evening (Spanish)
* Here we take care of our guests (Spanish)
* Tara, the French prince has arrived. (Spanish)
* The man is charming (Spanish)
* So much so that he charmed her panties off. (Spanish)
* How handsome (Spanish)
* Thanks a lot (Spanish)
* Balls (Spanish)
* Another song, Uncle (Spanish)
* All right (French)