Chapter 31
Tara
“Idon’t know if we approve of this,” Papi says, his hands waving to encompass Gustave and me as we come into the kitchen.
“Of what?” I ask breezily, leaning into Gustave, who looks out of his depth, facing the parents of his girlfriend after a night in her bed in their home.
“When you’re living under our roof, mija, you can’t bring just a man to spend the night,” Mama chimes in.
Gustave straightens, looking properly chastised. He doesn’t yet realize my parents have the weirdest sense of humor. “Estrella, I apologize. I didn’t mean to—”
I groan, cutting him off. “Oh my God, Mama, please! You have a man in your bed, why can’t I have one in mine?”
Gustave blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind. His mouth actually falls open.
Then my parents completely lose it.
Papi bursts out laughing first, clapping his hands together. “Ay, dios, we really wanted to keep it going, but it’s too hard!” He chuckles, turning toward the stove. “I’m making breakfast!”
Gustave exhales, his shoulders relaxing as I start laughing, too.
“And for the record,” Mama adds, her tone far too casual, “you both made so much noise getting in last night that I think the whole street knows Gustave spent the night.”
“Mama!”
“What?” she says innocently. “It’s good for business. People love romance.”
Papi agrees, “Sí, we’ll call it Mi Tierra: Where Love Happens. Maybe we’ll make it a special on the menu.”
I bury my face in my hands. Gustave chuckles softly beside me, slipping an arm around my waist.
“I like your parents,” he whispers.
“Obviously!” I mutter. “They’re plotting my humiliation.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s endearing.”
Mama pours two mugs of coffee and slides them across the counter toward us. “Eat, drink, and stop sneaking in through my hallway like teenagers. You’re adults. Act like it.”
“Yes, madame,” Gustave says with a polite nod.
“Madame,” she repeats, smiling slyly. “That makes me sound old.”
He inclines his head. “Estrella then.”
“Better,” she says approvingly. “Now sit, both of you. Breakfast first, then you can go be scandalous somewhere else.”
I meet Gustave’s gaze, the soft curve of his smile, the quiet warmth in his eyes, and the world is right again.
We’re back together. It’s messy and unexpected, and nothing about it makes sense. But then he laces his fingers through mine, and my parents bicker about something, and I realize it doesn’t have to be perfect.
As the days progress, the strange situation we’re in—Gustave living in LA and me working at the Getty—takes on a sheen of normalcy.
We do things like a normal couple. We go out for dinner on the days he has off from the restaurant and has no meetings.
We watch movies with my parents. We spend time at his suite in the Ritz.
And, obviously, we go to a Lakers game with Aubert, who is excited beyond measure to join the crowds roaring at the Arena.
Purple and gold lights flash, and music pounds through the speakers. Even before the game starts, Aubert is halfway through a hot dog, ketchup on his cheek, wearing a Lakers jersey that says James 23.
“Mon amour”—Gustave’s voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd—“is it normal for people to scream at a giant cartoon taco?”
I slap his shoulder playfully. “Oh, please, soccer fans are way crazier than basketball ones. And that giant cartoon taco is the taco cam!”
He looks up at the Jumbotron, where people are dancing and chanting “TACO! TACO!” as if their lives depend on it. His jaw tightens in polite disbelief. “In France, we’d never—”
“We absolutely would,” Aubert shouts over the noise, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Remember that time in Marseille? Papa, the fans lit flares in the stadium and tried to smuggle in a goat wearing the team jersey!”
Gustave pinches the bridge of his nose. “That was Olympique de Marseille, Aubert. They are…exceptionnels*.”
Aubert laughs so hard he spills his soda. “You mean completely insane.”
I nudge Gustave’s arm. “See? Compared to that, a dancing taco is high culture.”
He shakes his head slowly, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Mon Dieu, I have truly crossed into another world.”
“Welcome to Los Angeles,” I say, raising my foam finger.
When the camera sweeps past our section, Aubert leaps up, waving both arms, shouting, “LET’S GO, LAKERS!”
And I, since I am such a good sport, wave my foam finger like a maniac as Gustave sinks into his seat. I elbow him lightly. “You’re supposed to look like you’re having fun.”
“I am having fun,” he says smoothly. “I’m observing modern American rituals. It’s…anthropological.”
“You’re adorable when you lie.” I lean in close enough for my hair to brush his cheek.
He looks at me somberly, the humor melting into something softer. “You’re happy,” he says in wonder, as if it’s a discovery.
“I am,” I admit. “Are you?”
He takes my foam finger and puts it on his own hand. It looks ridiculous, all six-foot-three of him, dignified as a marble statue, with a giant yellow finger that says #1 FAN.
“Papa, you look amazing,” Aubert wheezes, snapping a photo of his father and me.
Gustave glares. “You will pay for this.”
“Worth it,” Aubert announces.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes. Aubert’s already posted it on his social media.
The caption reads: Guess who’s a Lakers fan now? #TeamDeValois
Gustave sees it and groans. “Mon fils, I look like a moron.”
It’s a testament to how far he’s come. In the past, he’d have completely lost it that he, who represents the de Valois name, is corrupting it.
“Too late,” Aubert chirps. “It’s got fifty likes already. Maman follows me, you know.”
He sighs, pretending to be long-suffering, but his hand finds mine anyway, fingers warm and sure. “I am surrounded by children.”
I nudge his shoulder, smiling up at him and whisper, “Should I start calling you daddy?”
He gives me a heated look. “Non, mon amour. Not if you ever want to have another orgasm.”
The buzzer sounds. The Lakers win. The crowd explodes. Confetti rains down. Aubert jumps up to high-five strangers.
Gustave looks at me through the chaos, a little dazed, a little undone, but also truly relaxed. These days, his laughter is unguarded, his life no longer ruled by duty or scandal.
“What?” I ask him.
“Just us.” He kisses me. “Just family. Just a ridiculous foam finger and a damn good night.”
* Exceptional (French)