“For the record, I didn’t think it was a ‘meet the family’ type of relationship. I thought they were just…” Rafael tapers off, but the end of it is loud and clear.
Fucking.Justfucking.Onlyintercourse, like that isn’t gross enough on its own.
Julien shudders and quickly doles out the rest of the utensils. It’s all in the wrong places, but as long as it’s nice for his parents, it’s fine. The rest of the table can eat with their hands for all he cares.
Thomas carries a bowl of green beans into the room and sets it in the middle of the table. “This is wrong.”
He fixes the silverware at the placement he’s leaning over, then at the next.
Julien watches him with crossed arms, smiling when Thomas gets to the head of the table and turns.
“Purposely setting the table wrong for our guests? That’s really fucking mature.”
“Your guest isAustralian.” Julien scoffs. “I’m sure Sam doesn’t give one flying fuck where his fork is placed.”
The man in question leans over the table to drop off a dish of whipped potatoes. “As long as I can figure out which is mine, I reckon I’m good.”
“It is about respect,” Thomas calls after him as Sam retreats into the kitchen. “You are such a brat, Julien.”
Julien sticks out his tongue, and Thomas mirrors him.
Rafael exhales as he props up the last napkin. “Let’s just have a nice dinner, okay?”
“How does Formation 1 deal with both of you?” Matthieu asks as he carries the duck into the room. “You have only been here for twenty minutes and you are both children again.”
Thomas huffs. “Two more races and it will not be ‘both of us’ anymore.”
Julien won’t admit it, but the reminder stings.
“Too far, Thomas.” Matthieu adjusts the plates on the table until the collection looks magazine ready. He whips out a cloth and wipes excess liquid from around each of the dishes.
“C’est vrai.”
Julien doesn’t run away, but he dips into the kitchen to look for something else to do.
He knows he has a limited time in the Ferraro seat—that’s why he has to give it everything. To have that thrown in his face by someone who has the seat year-round is just another layer of salt to his already-bleeding wound.
“Julien,ça va?”
Julien hadn’t noticed his father at the refrigerator.“Papa! Ça va.”
They give la bise, and the older man still smells like cigarette smoke and whisky. The nostalgia of it is comforting.
“You brought a boy home?”
Julien peeks through the kitchen doorway and points to Rafael. “Mine is the one in maroon.”
Sam is just wearing a black henley and faded jeans. He probably didn’t even bring a gift.
It’s just like Thomas to set someone else up for failure.
“Good looking kid,” Papa decides. “You have never brought a boy home before.”
“You’ve met Hugo.” Though, technically, he never set foot in the house. “Besides, Rafael is just a friend.”
“Dressed up, nice wine, fancy napkin shapes…”
Julien flushes. “He is still just a friend.”
