When Chad’s French in-laws come over, he invites his friend, Nolan, along — to keep him company while Camille and her parents converse in French.
While they have dinner, Chad discovers that Nolan understands French and reveals a family secret.
My wife, Camille, is as French as they come. We met at college when she was an exchange student studying International Politics, and we’ve been together ever since.
Camille’s parents live in France but visit us twice a year. I’ve learned a few odd words and phrases in French, but the language has yet to stick with me.
Other than mon chéri or various dishes from French cuisine, I don’t know much.
Now, my in-laws are around, and it’s only been four days, but I’ve started to feel left out at the dinner table when they’re all chatting in French.
So, I decided to invite my friend, Nolan to have dinner and meet Camille’s parents.
That way, I would also have someone to talk to.
Now imagine this: We’re all sitting at the table, enjoying our bouillabaisse.
Nolan and I talked about an audit at work, and Camille and her parents were happily chatting in French.
Everything seems fine, right?
Wrong.
While mid-conversation about work, Nolan’s face goes as white as a ghost, and he nudges my arm firmly with his elbow.
“Go upstairs and check under your bed. Trust me,” he whispers urgently.
My first instinct was to laugh it off — it made no sense. But one look at his wide eyes told me that this wasn’t a joke.
“Excuse me,” I said to the table.
“I’ll be right back.”
I reluctantly shuffled to my bedroom, feeling like I was stepping into some strange French noir film. I picked Camille’s silver silk robe off the floor and bent to look under the bed.
My heart was beating ridiculously fast like I was about to have a heart attack. But there it was — a lone black box.
I opened the box with shaky fingers, going through the contents quickly — I didn’t know if Camille would come looking for me.
Then, toward the bottom of the box, was a series of photographs of Camille, wearing next to nothing.
My heart pounded harder and nausea rose through my body. What have I just stumbled upon? I asked myself.
As I was about to put everything back, the world turned black.
It must have been hours later when I woke up in a hospital ward, surrounded by empty beds.
The harsh light glared down on me as my eyes adjusted to the change of venue and the sharp smells of detergent. “Woah,” I mumbled, my throat raw.
That’s when I noticed that Nolan was sitting next to me, his head propped up by his arm.
“You passed out in your bedroom, mate,” he said. “What happened?”
Then, it all came back to me.
Camille’s box under the bed, my insatiable curiosity mixed with an overactive heart rate brought on by a panic attack.
But I did get a glimpse into the box. It turned out to be my own Pandora’s Box. There were incriminating photos of Camille, love letters to a man named Benoit, and little trinkets, all piecing together a tale of betrayal.
It turns out that Camille was hiding an affair.
“You were taking forever,” Nolan said.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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