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 wasOlympique 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.”
“Iamhaving 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 alsotrulyrelaxed. These days, his laughter is unguarded, his life no longer ruled by duty or scandal.
