Page 121 of Butterfly Effect

A lean woman stands in Wade’s kitchen in classic black leather boots to her knees and a fitted black dress. An emerald shawl gathers over her shoulders.

She gasps, uttering something French, causing Wade to straighten from the counter.

Of course.

Same brown tone of her hair. Same angle of her nose. Her chocolate-colored eyes light up the same way.

Any unease disappears when Wade rushes over to clasp my hand, weaving our fingers together. His thumb draws into my palm as he leads me to her.

O-K-?

I trace a shaky Y in reply.

“Maman. This is Gabe Finch, my girlfriend.”

Every time he says it tastes more and more like the truth.

“Gabe, this is my mother, Naomie.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Enchanté.”

“Wow,” I gush, awestruck. I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do justice, not even the ones from her competitive rowing or modeling days. “You’re beautiful.”

Every subtle move she makes—the way her shoulders lift, hand drawn to her mouth, eyes crinkling and fluttering shut with the praise—is full of grace and control.

She waves a finger at Wade, and I can’t tell if she’s scolding him or what.

He returns a sly smile and a shake of his head.

Nerves manifest in titters. She understands the confusion in my smile.

“Oh my, pardon us.”

Her accent is like a sweet melody.

“Sorry, I barely passed French class.”

“No, no. My apologies. I sometimes don’t notice when I’ve switched. Walt, where are your manners? Please, let’s sit.”

We head over to the sofa. Wade swings our hands, the hold loose and playful but unwilling to part. “Surprise visit?” I whisper.

“Quick stopover.”

Naomie motions to the spot across. “Walt talks about you constantly.”

“Does he?”

“C’est toi, évidemment!”

I look to Wade for translation. “She said, ‘of course, it’s you.’”

“Well, that’s sweet.”

“He’s a sweet boy.”

He is.

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