Page 94 of About to Fall

My parents' house was as warm and bright as a holiday postcard. Garlands on the staircase. A tree that Margaux had helped decorate, which meant ornaments clustered heavily on the lower branches and a slightly bald patch near the top where her arms couldn't reach. The smell of my mother's tourtière drifting from the kitchen.

My mother opened the door before we'd made it up the steps.

“Merry Christmas, maman.” I leaned down to hug her and she did the thing she always did—held my face in her hands for a few moments, studying me with quiet, searching eyes. Checking. Always checking.

“Merry Christmas, mon chou.” She smiled, seemingly satisfied with whatever she found, and kissed both my cheeks.

My father's hug was more perfunctory but no less warm. A firm squeeze, a clap on the back, and then he was stepping aside to let us in.

Adrian charmed them immediately.

He'd brought flowers for my mother—winter roses, elegant and understated—and a bottle of wine that made my father's eyebrows lift in appreciation.

“Mr. Fontaine. Mrs. Fontaine,” Adrian said smoothly. “Adrian Zhao. Pleased to meet you.”

As if anyone in Canada wouldn't recognize the pink haired figure skater with a face that regularly broke the internet. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling.

My mother laughed. “Oh, absolutely not. We are not doing that.” She took the bouquet and leaned in to smell it, delighted. “Call us Dominic and Geneviève, please. If you call me Mrs. Fontaine I’m going to feel like my mother-in-law.”

My father’s mouth twitched—his version of a grin. “Dominic,” he echoed, offering his hand. “And thank you. That’s a good bottle.”

Adrian shook it, still smiling. “Dominic. Geneviève. Thank you for letting me intrude on your holiday.”

My mother's eyes softened in a way that made something in my chest unclench. This was already going better than I'd hoped. I'd worried she might be cold, protective—especially after Théo. She had only learned about our relationship after it imploded, when I'd come home hollow eyed and unable to explain why I was falling apart. She'd held me while I cried and asked careful questions until she pieced together that I'd been hiding our relationship for three years. Someone I'd kept secret because her brother would freak out if he knew and I didn't want Renaud to nuke Théo's career just because he'd made the fatal error of falling for me.

I'd promised her then—no more hiding. She'd been cautiously encouraging when I started seeing Julien. Getting back on the proverbial horse. And then my overdose destroyed whatever fragile trust I'd rebuilt. Now she watched me with constant, careful worry.

But here was Adrian. Standing in my parents' foyer with flowers and wine and his pink hair and visible piercings, making no effort to be anything other than exactly who he was.

My mother reached out and squeezed Adrian’s shoulder. “If you're important to Nico, you're already family,” she said, decisive.

The relief that flooded through me must have shown on my face because Adrian caught my eye over her shoulder and smiled—soft, private, meant just for me.

Then a small thunderclap of footsteps on the stairs and Margaux came barrelling down in a frilly red dress and white tights, nearly wiping out on the landing before skidding to a halt in front of Adrian like she'd been launched from a cannon.

She looked up at him. Way up. Then her whole face split into a grin.

“Your hair is so pretty,” she said with the undisguised fascination of an eight year old. “Did it hurt to dye it?”

“Not at all. The pink is very gentle.”

“What about those?” She pointed at his ears. “Did those hurt?”

“A little pinch. Nothing too bad.”

Margaux turned to my mother, batting her eyelashes innocently. “Maman, can I get my ears pierced?”

“When you're twelve.”

“But—”

“Twelve, Margaux. We’ve had this discussion.”

Adrian caught my eye and grinned. I reached into my pocket, feeling the embossed buttons with my fingertips and clicking twice.

His composure flickered—just for a second, just enough for me to notice—before he smoothed it back into place. The look he shot me promised retribution.

Dinner was easier than I'd expected. Adrian asked my father about his golf game and listened attentively to a 15 minute explanation of a particularly difficult hole at his club. He complimented my mother's cooking with such genuine enthusiasm that she insisted on sending him home with leftovers. He let Margaux show him approximately four hundred photos of Captain on her tablet and made interested noises at all the right moments.