25. Parentheses
Samantha
Sunday morning, Alexander wakes me by making love to me, then takes me to a lavish brunch at the Peninsula Paris.
The scenery is striking. The architecture is sumptuous. Tall, high-backed chairs upholstered in gold brocade, heavy red drapes cascading from the ceiling, and at the center of it all, a gargantuan buffet that seems endless.
It’s too much. Really too much.
I smile anyway, because I don’t want to be the one who breaks the spell.
I turn to Alexander, touched but slightly overwhelmed.
“You don’t need all this to impress me, you know.”
He bursts out laughing.
“Touché. But,” he adds with a small shrug, “I also wanted you to experience new things.”
That’s what moves me. Not the luxury. Not the spectacle. But the intention behind it.
He isn’t trying to dazzle me—he’s opening a door. Letting me glimpse his world, inviting me into it, one step at a time. So we savor this suspended moment, a brief parenthesis stolen from our respective worries.
After brunch, we head back to the apartment. We both get back to work.
Me, out of necessity—and also to manage my stress while waiting to find out what the school will decide at the start of the semester regarding my degree.
Alexander, because he doesn’t know how to disconnect.
I think work is almost a reflex for him. A refuge.
We’re side by side, yet each of us is absorbed in our own universe.
Around four o’clock, I take a break and watch him. He’s intensely focused, his brow slightly furrowed, fingers flying across the keyboard with near-nervous precision. Does he ever stop? Does he actually know how to rest?
I get up and walk over to him. He gives me a distracted smile, but his mind is still elsewhere, captive to numbers and charts.
I sit down on his lap.
I feel the exact moment he comes back to me. His eyes lock onto mine, his arms wrap around my waist, and suddenly I’m no longer a blur at the edge of his screen.
“It’s break time,” I say. “Want a coffee?”
“You sound just like Nina, my assistant.”
“I already like her,” I shoot back.
He smiles.
“I think she’ll like you too. She’s constantly giving me orders. Sometimes I feel like she thinks she’s my mother.”
I snort.
“I have a feeling she’s a great woman.”
“She is.”
“How old is she?”
The question sounds casual.
He raises an amused eyebrow.
“You’re jealous.”
“Not at all! I’m just… asking,” I protest.
He laughs outright—the jerk—before answering.
“She’s fifty. Three kids. You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart.”
My heart skips a beat.
Sweetheart.
He wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it… right?
Or maybe he would. Maybe it’s just a term of endearment, something he says without thinking.
I push the thought aside. Not now. I want to stay in this fragile lightness, enjoy the moment without dissecting it to death.
The days that follow settle into an unexpectedly comfortable routine. Alexander leaves in the morning, I paint all day, he comes home in the evening and we have dinner together. We talk about our days. He tells me about the progress on the algorithm, the latest user feedback.
MatchMapping’s new recommendation system is starting to win people over. Users talk about deeper conversations. Slower ones. More genuine.
The rumor hasn’t disappeared, but its tone is slowly changing.
I show him my paintings. He stops in front of each one, really taking the time to look. Sometimes he asks questions. Other times he stays silent—and in that silence, I know he understands exactly what I’m trying to express.
In the evenings, we sometimes watch a movie, curled up together on the couch. Other times, we simply stay there—me sketching, him working on his laptop. Our silences are just as comfortable as our conversations.
It’s simple.
Easy.
Natural.
And that might be what scares me the most.
The ease with which I’m getting used to him. To us.
Because I know that the more I settle into this happiness, the more painful it will be to lose it.
*
My phone rings on the morning of the 24th. I answer, still half-asleep.
“Hi Sam, we’re downstairs. Do you have time for a coffee?”
I recognize Andrew’s voice immediately. I get up, cross the loft to the intercom, and look at the camera screen.
My heart jumps.
Andrew is there. And, slightly behind him, my mother.
“I’m coming,” I reply, my throat tight.
I leave Alexander a quick note—he’s still asleep—and head down to the street. The cold December air hits me.
Andrew hugs me warmly. My mother, meanwhile, presses two awkward kisses to my cheeks. A mechanical gesture, devoid of warmth.
She never knew how to be affectionate. When we were children, Andrew and I were left with a nanny while she spent her days organizing receptions and galas, striving more to be an irreproachable wife than a loving mother.
I don’t believe she’s vain or cruel. She’s simply a woman perpetually seeking her husband’s approval. It happens.
To please him, she was always more tender with Kristel, her stepdaughter, than with her own children.
I learned to live with that reality, swearing to myself that I would never neglect my own children to beg for a man’s love.
And then there’s Andrew. When our father tried to stop me from studying art, he was the only one who stood up for me. Thanks to him, my father eventually gave in.
“You look like you’re doing well,” he says as we walk toward a café.
“Because I am.”
He smiles, genuinely happy for me. It makes everything easier.
We sit by the window. The moment I sit down, my mother attacks.
“How could you do this to your sister?”
I tense. Andrew turns sharply toward her.
“Mom! If that’s what you came to say, there was no point in coming at all.”
She bites her lip, offended, and looks away. A heavy silence settles. I stare at my coffee cup. What could I possibly say that would change anything? Nothing.
Andrew breaks the silence, pulling a small package from his bag.
“I have a gift for you.”
I open it carefully. Delacroix: Horses and Felines. Watercolors, drawings, paintings. The reproductions are stunning. Exactly the kind of book I love.
“Thank you, Andrew. It’s perfect.”
In return, I hand him the package I brought: a watercolor of Montmartre I painted for him. Since he moved to Lyon, every Christmas, every birthday, I give him a view of Paris. A café, a bridge, a stranger in the street. A piece of home.
“It’s beautiful, Sam,” he says, studying it closely. “I’ll hang it with the others.”
For my mother, I found a pair of antique earrings I’d discovered in an antique shop. I chose them with her in mind.
“Thank you, Sam. They’re very pretty,” she says in a falsely warm tone.
Then she hands me an envelope. Three one-hundred-euro bills.
“Thank you, Mom.” I say, closing the envelope. Because that’s what you say.
My voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears.
The rest of the coffee passes in distant politeness. When they leave, Andrew pulls me into a tight embrace.
“Have a wonderful holiday—and give Alexander my love.”
My mother settles for a mechanical kiss.
I watch them walk away, with that familiar bitterness: some things will never change.
When I get back to Alexander’s place, he’s sitting in front of his laptop, a mug of coffee in hand. My entire body relaxes at the sight of him. It’s crazy how, in so little time, he’s become the center of my universe. My anchor. My safe place.
He looks up, his face lighting up.
“Hey. How did it go?”
I set down my coat and step closer.
“My mother gave me three hundred euros.”
I say nothing more. He understands.
He closes his laptop and pulls me into his arms. Tight. For a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know. But I’m sorry anyway.”
I stay there, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heart.
My God, how I love this man.
“Hot chocolate?” he suggests. “I have my mom’s special recipe.”
“I’d love that.”
I watch him prepare it. Milk. High-quality chocolate. A pinch of cinnamon. A hint of vanilla. He heats it gently, whisks it, pours it into two large mugs. Then, with an almost childlike smile, he pulls out a bag of mini marshmallows.
“You remembered…”
“I remember you loved it. And that you had to wait twenty seconds before drinking.”
My heart tightens. Yes, he remembers.
We settle in front of the fireplace. I curl up against him, mug in hand. The silence is soft, soothing.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For being you. For being here.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
That evening, we have dinner just the two of us. A gourmet meal ordered from a Michelin-starred chef. Candles. A sparkling Christmas tree. Paris glowing beyond the bay windows. I love everything about this evening. The simplicity. The intimacy. Just us.
After dessert, Alexander comes back with a package.
“I wanted to give you your gift tonight.”
I unwrap it slowly and discover a 12-inch iPad Pro, with stylus and keyboard. I’m speechless.
“So you can look for inspiration anywhere. And draw whenever you want,” he says.
Tears well in my eyes.
“You’re crazy…”
I kiss him, overwhelmed.
“It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received. Thank you.”
In turn, I hand him an envelope. A race car drawn in black ink. On the back, a card: High-performance driving course.
“You remembered…”
“Yes.”
His smile is worth all the gold in the world.
That night, when he makes love to me, everything is different. It’s both tender and passionate. As if every gesture were saying: I see you. I choose you.
And in the darkness, entwined, I understand that happiness isn’t about grand gestures.
It’s this.
These moments.
This certainty of being chosen.
Again. And again.
At least, that’s what I believed.