The Boss (Chateau 3)

“Melanie, I’d like to apologize. I think my feelings may have gotten the best of me.”

I turned away from the TV and met his gaze, seeing the guilty look on his face. “You think?”

He dropped his gaze, the features of his face sagging like he aged a decade in a second.

“Please accept my sincere apology.”

“I’m not going to tell Fender.”

“I already knew that, Melanie. I’m sorry because I was being biased and insensitive.”

My anger was impossible to grip, so I let it go. “It’s okay, Gilbert.”

He came closer then indicated to the cushion beside me. “May I?”

“Sure.”

He took a seat then grabbed the notebook on the coffee table. “Working on your French, huh?” He nodded to the TV.

“Fender said I sucked at it, so…”

“Yes, he asked me to teach you even when he’s in residence.” He grabbed the pen and clicked it. “Any luck with this?”

“Nope.” It was some kind of soap opera, and while there was a lot of yelling and then a lot of steamy scenes right afterward, I couldn’t make out the transitions in between. Other than simple words that I had already learned, the rest was indecipherable.

“French is a difficult language for a novice. And we speak so quickly that it’s hard to grasp.”

Whenever Fender spoke on the phone, his words tumbled out like a waterfall. In English, his words were seldom and purposeful. Maybe it was because it was his second language.

Gilbert crossed one leg on the opposite knee and got comfortable against the cushions.

“Is he home?”

“Yes. Just had dinner.”

If he wanted to see me, he would have come to me. He wouldn’t have ordered Gilbert to continue his instruction. He was either in a bad mood or still had work to do. His work outside the camp seemed to be dinner with important figures and nighttime strolls with shady characters. I knew which one it was when I wasn’t invited.

Gilbert went on with his instruction, teaching me a couple phrases I could use at dinner parties, and then tried to help me figure out what was being said on the TV show, so I could follow along. “I think regularly watching French TV will help. They say immersing yourself in a culture is the quickest way to learn a language. But since you don’t go out, this is the next best thing.”

The most French I’d learned was what Fender said to me, so that was true. “He said I sucked at French, so I’m obviously not understanding what he says to me.”

“And what does he say?”

I tried to think of something new, something I didn’t recognize. “Cha… chatti—”

“Chatte, probably.”

“Chatte parfaite.”

He chuckled as he wrote it down. “Chatte parfaite.”

“What does it mean?”

He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “Perfect cunt…”

“Oh…” Sometimes I didn’t want Gilbert to translate because it was a bit awkward, but I didn’t have a phone or laptop so I couldn’t figure it out myself.

Gilbert moved on. “What else?”

What other dirty things did Fender say to me? “Uh… something like… te baiser… dans le cul… I’m not sure if that’s right.”

He didn’t have a reaction as he wrote it down. “He wants to fuck you in the ass.”

My eyes immediately paled at Gilbert’s words. I was sure Fender would do a good job, but I was not interested in that…at all. My cheeks started to redden a little bit when I knew exactly what he said, what he wanted me to know that he’d said it. I pushed past it to dispel the awkwardness. “He also says… Je t’aime, chérie. He says that a lot, actually.”

Gilbert went absolutely still, the point of his pen pressed to the white paper, a drop of ink growing bigger and bigger the longer he held it there. With eyes wide open, as if he realized he forgot to turn off the stove in the kitchen, he didn’t even breathe.

“What?”

He unclicked the pen then dropped it on the notebook, like he was finished for the night. He leaned forward and set the notebook there, his forearms moving to his thighs, his hands coming together.

The silence was suffocating. “Gilbert, what does it mean?”

He inhaled a deep breath before he cleared his throat. He got to his feet, straightened, and then tucked his hands behind his back before he departed the living room.

“Gilbert?” I got to my knees and faced the back of the couch, watching him walk out. “I don’t understand. What the hell did he say?”

He halted in his tracks, his back to me, one hand gripping the other wrist. His entire body lifted with the breath he inhaled then slowly sagged as he exhaled, his shoulders dropping farther than they’d been a moment before. “I love you, sweetheart.” He took a step forward and continued his route to the door. “That’s what it means.”

My legs were crossed with the book in my lap, the pages open to the next chapter in the story. The fire was warm against my legs and knees, even though it was several feet away from me. My eyes took in the words, but occasionally they would flick up and look at the fire.