Forbidden French

I receive exactly one gift on Christmas morning, and it’s a note sent directly to my home via courier.

I’m fireside, in buffalo check pajamas, sipping spiked eggnog and wallowing at 8 AM, when my doorbell rings. The thought that it could be Lainey, here to pick up where we left off last night, is the only thing that gets me off the couch.

Unfortunately, when I open the door, I find a heavyset guy holding up an envelope.

He looks me up and down for a second, obviously unimpressed by my appearance. I know what he’s seeing. I accidentally caught my reflection in a mirror in the hall earlier and had to look twice: dark circles under my eyes, dirty hair, angry scowl.

“You, uh…” He squints as he reads from his iPhone. “Emmett Mercier?”

With his thick Boston accent, my last name comes out butchered.

“Mer-see-AYE,” I snip, to which he replies, “Like I could give two shits.”

And oddly enough, it makes me laugh.

I tip him well and close the door, studying the small envelope. Instead of opening it right away, I set it down and go to retrieve my eggnog. I drink as I stare down at where the envelope rests on the edge of my entry table.

Like I’m scared it’ll burn me, I flick it with the tip of my finger so it turns over. As I suspected there would be, embossed letters boldly stretch across the sealed flap: EED.

I swallow down the rest of my drink and decide it’s probably best to just get it over with. I don’t know why I’m putting it off.

I open it and withdraw a thick stationery card. There’s a single line of text written in small, looping letters.

I’ve called it off. You’re free.

I read it three times, trying to decide if it will catch new meaning if only I read it in a different cadence.

I’ve called it off. You’re…free.

I’ve called it off…You’re free.

I’ve called it off. You’re free.

None of them help.

The weightlessness I’d hoped would come from the declaration is absent. In fact, I feel like I might throw up.

Eggnog for breakfast will do that to a person.

EED are obviously Lainey’s initials. I know this is her way of calling off our old-fashioned fake engagement. I know I’m supposed to pop champagne and toast to my victory in this hard-fought war, only now, suddenly…I don’t want it.

Isn’t that hilarious.

It’s so funny I pour myself another round of eggnog. I’m good and drunk before 10 AM. I put on Christmas carols and sing, and when my voice gets tired and my stomach rumbles, I slip on some shoes and go out looking for food, only every fucking place is closed because it’s Christmas Day. I wander in aimless circles until I find a small Chinese food restaurant that’s open. The sign says takeout only. I go in to order, and an elderly woman hands me a menu and, with a no-nonsense tone, asks me what I want.

“What?” I ask, looking up at her with astonishment, tears suddenly clouding my eyes.

“What do you want?” she asks again, prodding my menu with her pen impatiently.

“The thing is…I don’t know anymore. I thought I did. I really fucking thought I did, only now I’m not so sure.” My brows crinkle with frustration. “Do you understand?”

She doesn’t understand.

She asks me to get out of her restaurant.

I’m relegated to the hot dogs they’ve got at a 7-11 down the street, the ones that have been rotating aimlessly on a greasy conveyor belt for the better part of a week. To finish off my fancy holiday meal, I grab a random American beer from the cooler, and then I go eat on the curb in the parking lot, trying to pick apart my feelings as best as possible.

This is…inconvenient to say the least.

An epiphany like this would have been great, say, twenty-four hours ago.

Now, it’s agony.

Even with copious amounts of alcohol addling my brain, I know full well this is not a simple case of wanting what I can’t have, or not knowing what I had until it’s gone, or simply being a stubborn asshole. It’s not even just a bad case of the holiday blues.

Even if I wasn’t abso-fucking-lutely sure of it already, my driver would be quick to remind me that my twice-weekly stalker episodes at Morgan Fine Art Gallery might prove that underneath it all, I have very real, very obvious feelings for Lainey Davenport. Of course I do. I always have. She pulled at my heartstrings even when we were younger. There’s a French expression for this: la douleur exquise, the heart-wrenching pain of loving someone unattainable.

I’m suffering the improbable possibility of pushing Lainey away over and over and over again out of some self-righteous need for independence, only to be given exactly what I want and despairing over it.

It starts to snow while I mope there in my pajama pants and robe, which feels apropos. I look down at my half-eaten hot dog, now covered in icy snowmelt. Zut.

My phone starts to ring, and I dig it out of my pocket. When I answer, Alexander tells me he’s been pounding on my front door for the last ten minutes.

I can’t even be bothered to add inflection to my tone. “I’m not home. I’m down the street.”

“Where?”

“Out on the curb.”

“You’re what?”

He thinks the connection is bad.

“I’m eating a hot dog.”

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not even five minutes later when his driver pulls into the parking space right in front of me, and my younger brother, the one I’ve dragged out of clubs, reprimanded, shaken sense into countless times in the past, looms over me in an Armani suit and a camel-colored wool jacket.

“You’re wearing your house slippers.”

I look down.

Huh. I hadn’t realized.

“Why are you sitting out here?”

“J’ai une peur bleue.”

I’m scared to death.

“Of what? Getting heartburn? Because if you finish that hot dog, you’ll be regretting it later. Believe me.”

Inspiration hits suddenly. “Do you have Lainey’s phone number?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Let’s hold off on making any important phone calls for now. You’re not in the best state, frère.”

Fine.

“Why were you at my house?” I ask.

“Where else would I be on Christmas Day?”

“I once found you in bed with three women on Christmas Day.”

He smiles, not the least bit embarrassed.

“What can I say? Some years are better than others.”

I roll my eyes and lift my hand so he can help hoist me up off the snow-covered ground.

“Have you talked to Father yet today?”

“He’s on a plane back to Paris, no doubt cutting us both out of his will.”

I shrug. “It was worth it.”

He leads me toward the waiting car and ensures I get into the back seat without knocking my head on the doorframe. “I’m only kidding. He’d never cut you out of his will. To him, you’re the second coming of Christ. He only puts so much pressure on you because he sees so much of himself in you. It’s eerie, really. The older you get, the more you take after him.” He shudders. “I can’t bear the idea of there being two of him.”

“I’m not so similar to him.”

He barks out a laugh like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“You should see it through my eyes.”

I look out the window as the driver pulls away, looping around the block and making the short trip back to my house.

“What would you have done if you were me? In all of this?” I ask, peering back at him.

He looks over at me with a look of sincerity. There’s no humor behind his gaze, no mirth as he states simply, “I would have happily married Lainey.”

I frown. “Because of Father’s insistence?”

“Because Lainey is a fucking catch and I’d be lucky to have her in my bed every night.”

In seconds, I have him by the collar. Jealousy rages through me, assisted strongly by all that eggnog and beer. I’m shoving his face up against the window so that his cheek is comically squashed against the glass.

“Jesus, let go of me, you idiot.”

“Don’t fucking talk about her like that.”

“Like what?! You’re ripping the collar of my shirt—this is Gucci! Goddammit, one of the buttons just ripped off.”

“She’s not for you,” I bite out like some incensed crazy person.

“You’re a madman!”

He’s half pissed, half amused as he grabs me by the forearms and shoves me off him once and for all.

“It’s Christmas,” he says as he straightens his shirt and collar. “And you’re paying for that button, by the way.”

“Ah, allez vous faire foutre, Alexander.”

“We’re here,” says the driver, looking back at us in the rearview mirror, completely unfazed. It’s like he’s witnessed two brothers brawling in his back seat so many times it’s boring at this point.

Once we’re inside my house, Alexander tells me I need a shower. I tell him he needs to leave. He ignores me and heads to the kitchen to make himself comfortable. I go to my room and tear off my pajamas so I can wash away the stench of beer and hot dog.

By the time I’m dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, damp hair and all, Alexander is peeling potatoes in the kitchen with my linen chef’s apron tied around his waist.

He arches a brow at me as he continues his work, asking me in French, “Why were you out eating that food when you have a fully stocked fridge?”

“I didn’t feel like cooking, and I wasn’t aware that you knew how.”

“I had to teach myself after I left St. John’s. It’s not like Maman would have ever taught us.”

I snort. “She’s never cooked a day in her life.”

“Exactly. Now, are you going to help or just stand there?”

I head for the refrigerator. “Chapon? Or poularde? My housekeeper went to the butcher for me yesterday. She was going to prepare a whole meal, but I told her not to bother.”

“Let’s cook both.”

Sheesh. “Who all are you planning to feed?”

“The two of us. Jonathan and Emelia, the lovebirds, are in California visiting family. I can’t be bothered to worry about Maman and Ignacio, and poor losers that we are, we have no one else to consider.” He shrugs. “We’ll have leftovers.”

He starts to slice the potatoes with a mandoline, dropping them immediately into a simmering pot that’s filled with milk and garlic. He’s preparing one of my favorite dishes: Gratin Dauphinois. Already, the kitchen smells divine.

“What about that woman you were attached to at your house a while back?” I ask. “The one in your kitchen I thought I’d have to pry you off of.”

He furrows his brows as if genuinely perplexed. “I don’t even remember who you’re referring to.”

Of course he doesn’t.

I start gathering what I’ll need to cook the chapon: fresh herbs, an onion, garlic, butter, lemons, sherry, and salt and pepper. Alexander and I spend the better part of the day in the kitchen cooking and listening to some of our favorites: Edith Piaf and Jean Sablon. We stave off our appetite with cheese and wine, enjoying two bottles of my vintage Chateau Margaux red blend.

At the end of the day, we have a good meal sitting at my kitchen table. When he’s finished, Alexander sets down his fork and knife and leans back in his chair to sip his wine.

I feel him studying me, and yet I ignore him, finishing off my food.

Still, he persists.

“What is it? You look as if you’re trying to solve all the world’s problems in that head of yours.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve let you get away with sulking all day because I didn’t want to rock the boat, but now I’ve had too much wine and I don’t give a damn if you plan on rearranging my face just for bringing her up. What will you do about Lainey?”

I take my time sitting back and dabbing my mouth with my napkin while he stares at me expectantly.

I shrug. “The way I see it, there’s only one option that would bring me happiness.”

I go back to eating, but he waves for me to get on with it.

It’s simple, really.

“Marry her.”