“Come on, Marisol, it’s perfect—you must see that,” Luis insists, standing proudly beside his creation. A wildly lopsided piñata shaped like a margarita glass, complete with a crooked lime wedge on the rim.
Marisol squints up at it, tequila glass in hand. “Luis, it looks like a cocktail that got into a bar fight.”
Luis grins, unbothered. “It’s abstract. Art doesn’t have to be pretty. Am I right, Tara?”
“Of course!” I say in mock agreement.
Marisol snorts. “Well, congratulations, Picasso. It’s definitely….” She takes another slow sip of her drink, eyes narrowing in mock appraisal. “Weird.”
“Good.” Luis beams like she’s validated his entire artistic career. “Weird is the new perfect.”
Tia Camila chimes in from across the room, waving a tamale, “Only in this family would we have a drunk piñata and call it art.”
Then, accidentally, Luis hits a light fixture with the piñata stick, and Marisol laughs so hard, she sprays tequila over everyone around her.
Laughter erupts and fills the whole restaurant, drowning out the hum of the city outside.
For once, I almost forget Paris.
I almost forget him.
Until…I seehim.
He’s standing beyond the glass door of the restaurant, framed by the string lights.
He’s in a tailored navy suit. Crisp white shirt. Hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looks like he’s stepped out of a magazine—and into the wrong universe.
For a second, I think I’ve drunk too much, so much so that I’m hallucinating.
But then the door opens, and he walks in.
Papi is the first to notice. He walks toward Gustave, drying his hands on a towel. “The restaurant is closed for a private event.”
Gustave clears his throat. “Bonsoir?*…ah…buenas noches?*. I’m looking for Tara.”
Everyone turns. The music dips. A ripple of whispers moves through the room like a wave.
Marisol’s jaw drops. “Ay,dios mio.” She’s seen pictures of him, so she knows.
I walk on unsteady legs to Gustave. “What are you doing here?” I hiss.
“Tara, I?—”
“Get out,” I cut him off.
“Mija.” Papi puts a hand over my shoulder. “Aquí cuidamos a los invitados?*.”
Papi studies Gustave for a long, silent moment, then gives him a pleasant smile. He puts his towel on his shoulder, and holds his hand out. “I’m Juan Gayarre. Tara’s father.”
“Gustave de Valois.” He shakes my father’s hand. It’s completely incongruous to see him here in my world.
“Come, come,” Papi urges. “It’s Marisol’s birthday! I’m sure we can find you something todrink and eat.”
“Papi,” I blurt out.Is he out of his mind?
“Mija, the man has come all the way from Paris. We’re not going to turn him away. That’s not who we are.”
“That’s whoIam,” I mutter.
