It’s as cute and quaint as I remember it, yet nerves dance in my belly, but they don’t perform a graceful ballet. It’s more of a stomp-march. The heavy feeling persists as I worry about seeing my mother again. My father works constantly, so it’s debatable whether he’ll even be home.
As the car rumbles up the rock-strewn road, a slender figure stands in front of the white house with chipped paint. Years of winter weather gusting off the river gave it a beating. A second figure joins the first. They’re stiff and unsmiling. Mère and Père.
Connor brings the car to a stop. “I take it the Berghiers aren’t known for their warm welcomes.”
“Are you referring to when we first met?” I ask.
His lips lift with amusement. “Though it turned out okay. I think this will too.”
I’m not so sure. My hand rests on the door handle. “Did you feel like this when we arrived at the cabin?” I ask, gazing through the windshield.
“If you’re feeling numb, then yes. If you’re feeling nervous, then no, but I’m here for you.”
I let out a sigh. “More like somewhere in between. It’s like fizzy bubbles from soda when they go up your nose?—”
He chuckles.
“Trepidation and a little bit like I’m eighteen all over again.” I sense I pressed rewind and am reverting to the girl I was when I left.
“Has it been that long?”
“It’s been that long,” I confirm.
“Just think, after my visit, I came out the other side better. Stronger. So will you.”
Connor exits the car first, walks around to the passenger side, and helps me out. We walk hand in hand to greet my parents.
My mother gives me a surprisingly warm hug. My dad pats me on the back.
They ask, “Is this your bodyguard?”
I laugh and translate.
Connor smirks. “You could say that.”
I explain that I’m his coach from Blancbourg and he’s a football player for the Boston Bruisers.
He looks like he wants to say more, but holds back because even without the language barrier, their expressions convey a lot. Relief and wariness. Joy and anger. It’s hard to tell. Connor was right. The Berghiers don’t necessarily wear their emotions on their sleeve.
They invite us inside for coffee. Even though I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, being back here doesn’t feel like home. It’s oddly formal and stiff, but not like the etiquette that I teach. It’s almost like I never lived here. Like I’m a stranger.
Connor remains a warm and friendly but protective presence. He sits upright and minds his manners. No kicking his feet on the table and rocking back in his chair.
After my mother brings coffee and biscuits, I tell my parents what I’ve been doing. When my aunt and uncle come up—Giselle’s parents—they exchange bitter words. My mother has always been jealous of her sister for finding her way out of farm life and making a new one abroad. Not that anyone needs to leave to be successful. Some people are meant to spread their wings and fly, while others do better remaining in the nest. Connor and I are fliers, survivors, and success stories in our own ways.
I tell them about our trip to the United States and camping—I leave the part out about my visa expiring and not being allowed back in Concordia. Every few minutes, I catch Connor up so he’s not lost in the conversation. He cuts in a couple of times, adding details for me to translate.
My parents are noticeably aloof and don’t warm to him at all. Perhaps I should explain to them what Connor means to me.
What does he mean to me?
His copper eyes meet mine and I melt a little. His lips are lifted in a friendly smile as he makes an effort to endear himself to Dauphin and Henri Berghier.
Good luck, buddy.I tried for eighteen years and couldn’t pull it off.
But that aside, Connor is my future and I hope that I’m his.
We’re relaying the story of when we crossed over the rapids, which, looking back, is a funny and fond memory of me crawling across a log, when the front door opens.
