18

Arthur Müller.

Some time ago,

France.

I find it amusing to watch Charline, my mother, dancing with young male guests at the party while my father watches her angrily and annoyed.

He had grown tired of telling her to invite him to dance, and she didn't. In the end, my mother succeeded.

Dancing, even if it's not with him.

"How can she move like that? She's almost sixty," my sister remarks in astonishment.

I shrug, not even having thought about it. I simply set myself to watch her, happy about something as small as dancing salsa.

"I don't know where she learned, but she does it well," I say, taking a sip of my drink.

"Oh? Why do you think she does it well? You don't even know what the music says!"

I roll my eyes, hating it when she shouts.

It's true, it was Spanish music, and I have no clue what it says.

I can speak German, English, and Chinese, and I even know a bit of Latin. But damn it, Spanish doesn't let me be happy. All other languages come easier to me, but with Spanish, I've had to put in a lot of effort only to end up frustrated and give up.

I just hope my laziness with that language doesn't cost me in the future with potential partners, even though for now, I've managed perfectly fine with the companies. Although I don't have any in Latin America, I will carry out the idea of setting one up soon in that region, I just had to decide which country to start with.

I was waiting for something that I still don't know; it's like a feeling telling me that it's not the right time.

I was waiting for something...

"Whatever, Christine," I scoff.

I was starting to get stressed.

I notice her falling silent, which irritates and alarms me because she always has something to say. It's annoying, but when she's quiet, it's not good either.

"I'm leaving France."

I furrow my eyebrows.

"Why would you do that?"

"I don't know, why do I want to?" she rolls her eyes. "I've been here for a long time, I'd like to flourish in another area, you know? Find my place."

I exhale, sensing a certain excitement in her eyes that tells me there's something more.

"First, you're not a flower. Second, your place is with your family. Us. Third, it's stupid that you want to leave France when you've already completed your Obstetrics career," I point out, trying to reason with her. Until I notice her trying to lower her gaze, her small body tensing up and avoiding looking at me at all costs. I raise an eyebrow, her embarrassed attitude is not normal.

Christine could be anything but shy, I know that very well. As a teenager, she gave me a lot of headaches with boys, even though she was only a year younger.

"I want to do what you did," she mutters.

"And what did I do? Screw up since birth?" I joke bitterly.

She rolls her eyes, punching my shoulder with her fist, tossing her blonde hair identical to our mother's, then resting her elbow on the table and bringing her drink, which I don't know what it is, to her mouth.

"You studied here, you were the best. And then you went to find your place," I nod thoughtfully.

Was I the best?

"Yes, and I remember you got mad and yelled at me, calling me selfish for leaving you guys.

Her cheeks, along with her nose, turn red. I let out an amused laugh at how embarrassed she is in such a short time

Oh, I should record this.

"I understand now that you just wanted to grow. Taking some time away from the family isn't a bad thing; it helps you find yourself when you're lost. And you were lost, but you also seemed happy to leave," I smile at her little sheepish smile, extending my arm to lightly tap her red cheek with my fingers. "I'm sorry for trying to stop you. I understand now. Arthur, I'm sorry."

Christine is my sister. But she's also my best friend, my mother, and the only girl I would give my life to. Our relationship isn't like those siblings who fight now and then; we're so similar in some ways that I questioned whether she was my sister or my twin.

Our relationship is warm; we don't hesitate to show how much we love each other in the most affectionate way possible. We have our differences, yes. However, that girl is my anchor when I'm stranded in uncertainty about my life.

"I was never mad at you," I clarify to alleviate her sadness and guilt. "Why do you want to leave?"

"I've decided to practice as an obstetrician in another country," she smiles.

Her eyes radiate a characteristic sparkle that makes me smile too.

"Alright, in which country?" her innocent smile turns mischievous. "Christine."

"I won't tell you, at least not until I'm there."

I scoff, my eyes catching my mother's. She's still dancing cheerfully, but as a consequence of her actions, my father stands up in total fury and grabs her by the hips. She starts scolding him in a low tone to avoid drawing the guests' attention.

Although, well, their attention is already on them since they're the hosts.

"Happy birthday, parents!" exclaims my table companion fervently.

I let them embrace for a few minutes, then feel jealous and join the family hug. Christine no longer lives with my parents, although she still resides in France, which is why she congratulates them. In contrast, I came from London just to see them.

"Oh, Arthur, make some space for us," my mother complains.

I grumble, moving away from them to take another sip of my whisky. My father watches me with reproach in his eyes; I fake a smile and finish the glass.

"Happy birthday," I say for the fifth time.

Mom rolls her eyes while still affectionately caressing my sister's face.

"Look how beautiful you turned out; one can't deny that you're my daughter," she tells her.

Dad purses his lips.

"Of course, since you made her all by yourself," he comments sarcastically.

"Shut up, adults are talking," she scolds him rudely.

I smile amused; that's the basis of their relationship. Fun.

I don't remember ever seeing them argue or fight to the point where my father slept outside the room. They were accomplices, partners, friends, and lovers. All in one.

I envy them in some way. I hoped that if I ever find someone, we would be like them.

Returning to the evident adoration they have for my sister, one can't deny the favoritism; my mother doesn't even try to hide it. I sigh, drinking my sister's glass this time, making a face at the taste. What is this? Juice?

I signal the service staff to bring me another whisky.

"That's enough, Arthur. I don't want to deal with you drunk," my father warns.

"I'm not going to get drunk, Father," I assure him.

My mother fixes her eyes on me for much longer than I'd like, and I grimace, bewildered.

"No, she's getting married."

I start coughing. Christine rushes to my aid, patting my back. I nearly choke on my saliva from the nonsense my mother is saying.

"What?" I inquire in horror. "When did I propose, and to whom?" I growl.

I love my mother, but her insistence on me having a family, or at least a girlfriend, has wearied me.

"I don't know, but you will," she assures me with a smile that frightens me. I narrow my eyes. "Since I don't see you intending to have a girlfriend, I decided it for you."

"Mom, on what grounds?" I shout, clenching my fists.

The guy hands me the whiskey, and as soon as he does, I finish it quickly. My father scolds me with a look, but I couldn't care less right now.

"Arthur, darling, are you gay?" I choke again.

My sister laughs while still assisting me.

"What? No!"

"Then why haven't you introduced me to a girlfriend?!" she screams angrily.

I swallow.

"Because I haven't found the right one, Mother! Damn it," I snap, gritting my teeth. I pull my hair back, hoping she'll ignore the fact that I just used a curse word.

"Son, let's talk for a moment," my dad intervenes.

With those words, he takes the tense atmosphere with him and leads me to a more secluded part of the party taking place in the huge garden of our old home. Once we're alone, I smile at him.

"Happy..."

"Arthur shut up," he requests.

I make a face.

"I know Christine is the favorite, but you can pretend to love me a little."

His serious expression relaxes, along with his entire body. He tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows and tightening his jawline.

"Son, when I found out you existed, I cried tears of joy. I was the first one to hold you, the first one to embrace you, and the first one to scold you because your mother was too weak with you. And I still am, Arthur. Now, I can't let you become an idiot just because I love you," he says, surprising me with the sweetness in his eyes. "You're my firstborn. You're the first one I taught to ride a bike, to read, to treat a lady. Where the hell do you get such an idea that we don't love you?"

I blink at his words, although the curse word he used catches my attention. Anthony Müller doesn't swear.

I shrug, deciding to tone down my drama a bit.