Our lives have changed so much in the past months.
After she finished the Getty project, Tara moved to Paris. She’s at the Louvre, back with Cece, though Jean has moved to London, working at the National Portrait Gallery.
We live in my apartment. I offered to buy something larger, quieter—perhaps outside the city—but Tara insisted we stay. We love the rhythm of the city, its noise, its pulse, its endless surprises. And when we need a pause, we escape—to Los Angeles, to Pommard, to wherever curiosity leads us. Tara’s wonder, her hunger to see and feel everything, has opened doors I never knew existed. Because of her, I’ve found the courage to keep stepping through them.
“Mon amour, that night we ended up at a suite at my hotel.”
“I didn’t know it was your hotel.”
“Now you do.”
Her brows lift. “Are you saying that we will be spending a night there again?”
My heart beats faster. “Oui.”
“And will I have three orgasms as I did that night?”
I laugh. She makes me so fucking happy.
“Absolument, mon amour.”
I pat one hand against my pocket to make sure what I need is there, and with the other, I take her left hand.
“But first…we have something else to do.”
Her eyes narrow. “Like what?”
I don’t get the chance to answer—there’s movement at the door.
Her eyes widen as our guests spill into the room—Estrella with her mischievous smile, Juan beaming from ear to ear, Marisol bouncing with excitement, followed by Aubert, Cece, and Philippe.
“What’s going on?” she squeals, half ready to bolt toward her family, but I tighten my hold on her hand, keeping her close.
Everyone starts talking at once—a chorus of laughter, greetings, teasing.
I raise my voice above the noise. “Mon amour, we’re not finished with that thing I mentioned.” Then, turning to the crowd, I add, “If you could all be quiet for a moment! I’d like to do this properly.”
Philippe chuckles. “Well, get on with it, then!”
Confusion flashes in Tara’s eyes—then realization. Her breath catches.
Because I’m already kneeling before her, her hand in mine, my heart thundering as I look up into her face, and speak the words that hold everything I am.
“Tara Gayarre, from the moment I saw you, I knew you would ruin me, and I was right.You ruined my certainty, my solitude, my carefully built walls. You made me laugh again. You gave me a life of joy.”
Her eyes shimmer with tears, and I know they are happy ones.
“I don’t want a future that doesn’t begin and end with you.” I hold up the ring that I’ve been carrying for a month now. “Will you marry me?”
For a heartbeat, Paris itself seems to hold its breath. Then Tara laughs her low, beautiful laugh that undid me the first time, and says, through tears, “Si. Si. Si.”
The room erupts—applause, laughter, shouts of “Felicidades?*!” and “Bravo?*!”
“Mija!” Estrella embraces Tara, then, with sudden seriousness, asks, “How do you like the ring?”
Tara looks at her hand as if seeing the ring for the first time, which she probably is.
“It’s….” She pauses, eyes wide. “You made this,” she breathes.
