Page 122 of Butterfly Effect

“And he’s so proud of you.”

“He is?”

“Oui, he sends me clips of your interviews and links to your articles online almost daily.”

“I had no idea.” I glance over at Wade, and he’s blushing. The hand he’s not holding reaches for his thigh and squeezes.

“Bin oui! It’s the same with hobbies. When Walt finds something he enjoys, it turns to obsession. I took him along for a library story time I attended after the Olympics, and look” —her arm draws a circle toward the bookshelves— “he can’t stop reading. Reading led to children’s theater, but he was teased a bit, so he took up rollerblading to combat theneighborhood kids. Rollerblading became ice skating, and now he’s a professional athlete.”

“All because of reading?”

Naomie nods. “At least it’s a good habit. It led him to Harvard.”

“Wasn’t he on an athletic scholarship?”

“That happened after. He had early admission.”

I didn’t know that.

“Really? How interesting.” One knee crosses over the other, my chin in my hand as I peek at Wade. “I don’t think that’s public information.”

“You didn’t tell her?”

“Maman.”

Is he actually a genius masquerading as a dopey fuckboy?

“I’d only read he was drafted sophomore year.”

“Oh, yes. He did finish his degree—English literature with a minor in theater—what do they call it? Ah yes, distance learning.”

“Impressive.”

“My boy doesn’t like to brag, except in the ways it doesn’t matter.”

“Maman!” His embarrassment deepens.

“What? You are! You’re cocky about the way you look, but it’s simply genetic.” She sweeps a delicate wave of hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t take any effort.”

Wade’s hands move up and down over his torso. “Thistakes effort.”

“Okay, Monsieur Hotshot. You’re a professional athlete who has been honing his skills since you sprouted your first chest hair. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have a decent physique.”

“Decent? I’m in top-notch shape?—”

Their animated squabble quickly converts from mixed French and English to French and I’m relishing every second. There’s palpable love and pride in her criticism.

Reclining into the couch cushion, I cross my arms. “I’m learning so much about you,Walt.”

“Oof, he loathes the name. But I can’t help it.” Her hands lift in surrender. “Sorry, mon bébé.”

“She called you a baby,” I tease, tapping my knee to his. I’m tickled by his wry expression.

“That, you understand.”

“This is fun. I want more stories about bébé Walt.”

“There’s so much more. Happy to share over lunch. Will you join us?”

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