Read Online I Am Having So Much Fun Without You by Courtney Maum - Free Book Online

in October, and went straight from the Charles de Gaulle Airport to Anne’s parents’ place in Le Vésinet, thirty minutes outside of Paris. After a series of awkward cheek kisses and “nice to finally meet-you”s, we proceeded outside to the patio, where Madame had set up the aperitifs, skirting around the elephant in the garden by agreeing that it was, indeed, quite warm for October.
    It quickly became clear to me that the Bourigeauds had spent the month before our arrival setting up a pros and cons list that must have looked a bit like this:
    PROS (regarding Richard)
    âˆ™ speaks fluent French (without too much of an accent, according to Anne)
    âˆ™ has an appreciation for culture and the arts
    âˆ™ is European
    âˆ™ is loved deeply by Anne
    âˆ™ appears to love Anne back
    âˆ™ well-enough traveled
    CONS (regarding Richard)
    âˆ™ will probably make no money in his chosen line of work
    âˆ™ comes from a modest family (probably with bad teeth)
    âˆ™ is a stranger (probably with bad teeth)
    âˆ™ is not French
    âˆ™ is not Catholic
    âˆ™ is not rich
    I passed with flying colors through the first round of questions: the fact that my parents were on their fortieth year of marriage seemed to help my case a great deal, as did the fact that I spoke a rudimentary amount of Spanish, bringing my “spoken languages” tally up to three. But things got dicey when Alain de Bourigeaud inquired just what kind of artist I was.
    â€œHe’s a pop culturist , Dad,” Anne said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Like Houellebecq, but for visual art.”
    I almost spit up my white Burgundy at the words pop culturist .
    â€œPop politics ,” I ventured. “It’s . . . I try to provoke thought.”
    Both Alain and his wife, Inès, stared at me blankly, clearly expecting some kind of follow-up. But I couldn’t think of a single work of mine that didn’t make me sound spastic.
    â€œHe’s putting together his thesis show now, actually,” went Anne. “About the rise and fall of popular figures? How one movement can lead to another movement, influence trends. Like, for example”—Anne put her hand on top of mine—“he has this series of Russian dolls that tracks the commoditization of the food industry all the way up to the cult of Martha Stewart?”
    Her mother cocked her head. “How interesting. Who’s that?”
    Lunch passed without further incident, or rather, without any incidents at all, the mark of a successful luncheon in the Bourigeaud maison . When the final forkful of redfish was laid to rest on top of patterned china, Anne’s mother suggested that Anne and she do the dishes before dessert. We’d had soup before the entrée, and a cheese and salad course after that—there were a lot of dishes to be done. I suspected that the time had come for me and Mr. B to have a little chat.
    Sure enough, as the women began to clear the table, Monsieur asked if I wouldn’t like to see their garden in more detail. (“Inès is simply a wizard with outdoor plants!”) I accepted, catching Anne’s eye as I walked toward the door. She gave me a thumbs-up, an out-of-character gesture that reminded me of my RISD roommate, Toby, who used to flip me the same hand signal after his morning visits to the loo.
    Once outside, I realized I’d best not beat around the bush. In fact, I wouldn’t even circle it. Just jump right in there, Richard. There’s a good dog.
    â€œMonsieur Bourigeaud,” I began, in the rather dressed-up French I reserve for the old guard, “I’m sorry things turned out like this. I don’t have as close a relationship with my family asAnne does, so I wasn’t thinking, really, of other people. I know we acted hastily. It’s just—they don’t like to fly?”
    Mr. B threw a weed over the hedge into the neighbor’s yard. “If Anne