One for the Road (Barflies Book 3)

by Katia Rose

  I start typing in the message box.

  Hey. I know you’ve got a lot going on, and maybe this isn’t the best time in the world to say it, but there are some things I want to tell you. Can we meet up?

  God, it sounds like I’m about to announce the death of all her immediate relatives. I pound on the backspace key and start again.

  Thanks for the patch up job. My spine will survive another day. If you’re not too busy, do you want to come over for dinner?

  And now I just sound like I’m asking for Netflix and chill.

  In the end, I send her a particularly poignant meme about tripping on air and a text Dylan would sucker punch me for writing.

  Thanks for the patch up job. My spine will survive another day. You’re a great friend, and if you need to crash at mine again, it’s all yours. What are bros for, eh?

  This is what we are to each other, what we’ve always been, and whatever anyone says, I can’t lay that on the line.

  Seven

  DeeDee

  BITTERS: plant-based liquids with highly concentrated flavours used in the making of various cocktails

  “And she was just there?”

  “Yes,” I answer Roxanne. “Sucking his dick like a vacuum cleaner.”

  “Sacrement, that’s horrible.” Roxy puts down her coffee and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal. He was always kind of a jerk, wasn’t he?”

  She nods. “You said it, not me, but...yes, he was. So where did you go after? I wish you had called me.”

  We’re sitting at one of the tables in La Bareille, a microbrewery and cafe that Roxy is some sort of director person for. The place looks like a classed-up warehouse, with big front windows, high ceilings, and all the pipes and air ducts exposed. The back of the room is a huge glass wall that shows off all the beer making gear behind it.

  I didn’t want to deal with X right away, so I texted Roxy after leaving Zach’s place to see if she wanted to hang out. She said she could take an early lunch and get us free pastries, so here we are.

  I lick some croissant flakes off my thumb before I answer. “I just went to a friend’s place.”

  Friend. He is your friend.

  I wasn’t thinking about being friends when I was touching his bare back this morning. I wasn’t thinking about being friends when I stood beside him in that tiny little bathroom, so close it was like I could feel the heat coming off his skin. I wasn’t even thinking about being friends when I was drifting off to sleep in Paige’s bed last night.

  No, I was thinking about what it would be like to sneak into Zach’s bed on the other side of the apartment, what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped around me and his mouth on my neck.

  I am going crazy. I am complètement folle.

  Zach does not want that from me, and I do not want that from Zach. It’s never been like that between us, and we’ve known each other for almost three years. I’m only thinking these things because my boyfriend schedule just opened up and he’s the closest boy around.

  Zach is one of the few people in my life who’s always there, waiting with a funny joke or a dumb meme to turn my whole day around without even realizing he’s doing it. He isn’t going to be there if I start making him feel like he has to cook me breakfast or cuddle me when I’m sad or kiss me whenever I want him to—if I start needing him.

  People never want to be needed forever—not the way I need people. They think they do, but they don’t.

  “DeeDee?”

  “Quoi?”

  Roxanne glances down at my hands and then up at me again. “You okay?”

  I didn’t notice I was playing with my ring, twisting the blue gem around and around my finger. I move my hands under the table.

  “Oh, yes, chérie. I was just thinking about what neighbourhood I should live in, you know, now that I need a new apartment. I want to go somewhere fun.”

  “Oh! You know what?” She snaps her fingers. “One of the girls here is looking for a roommate. I know it’s kind of random, but now that I think about it, you two would really get along. She’s working part time here while she goes to haircutting school.”

  “Ah, vraiment? Is it Cheveluxe?”

  Roxanne gives me a blank look.

  “The school. Is it called Cheveluxe?”

  “Oh.” She shakes her head. “I have no idea. Why? Do you know anyone who goes there?”

  I wanted to go there. I started looking up haircutting schools when I was fourteen, right after my maman helped me dye my hair for the first time, and Cheveluxe was always at the top of my list. I still look into the application process every fall, but I can never make myself do it.

  Not without Clém around.

  “I...I used to know someone there,” I lie.

  It’s not totally untrue; I used to know the version of me that was going to end up at Cheveluxe one day.

  Roxanne nods. “I’m sure you’ll love this girl. Her name’s Valérie. I already told her about you and what a great job you always do with my colour. I’m not totally sure, but I think her apartment is in the Mile End. I can give her your number if you want.”

  “Superbe.”

  I finish the last of my coffee. Roxanne always drinks really fancy stuff, and whatever this is, it feels like sipping liquid velvet. It also has enough caffeine that I want to start dancing on the tables.

  Not that I’d ever say no to dancing on tables, whether I’ve had coffee or not.

  “Roxy, are you trying to drug me? This stuff makes me feel like I have enough energy to go put all my furniture on my shoulders and carry it out of X’s apartment.”

  I laugh, but Roxanne just looks worried.

  “Do you need somewhere to put your stuff? Or stay? Our place is kind of full of things for the wedding, but you could—”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine.” I wave my hands around. “Easy breezy. X texted to say I could leave the big stuff until the start of next month. I guess he’s not always an asshole. I don’t have a lot of furniture anyway. I’ll go over today and take a few boxes of what I really need.”

  “And you can stay at your friend’s place until May?”

  “I—”

  The sound of someone calling Roxanne’s name cuts me off. A man comes out from a door beside the cafe counter and walks over to our table.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, speaking in French like the two of us have been and smiling at me before turning to Roxy. “I know you’re on break, but could I get you to sign off on some documents really fast? It will just be a minute. They’re already late, or else I would wait until you’re back.”

  “Of course. I know it’s not actually lunch time.” Roxanne gets up and points a finger at me. “I’ll be back for you. Don’t steal my croissant.”

  I only steal the corner.

  Some weird trance music is pumping through the speakers. I bob my head to it as I pull my phone out and wait for Roxy to come back. I’m going through all the April Showers photos that got uploaded to the Taverne Toulouse Facebook page, trying to distract myself from the fact that I don’t have an answer to Roxanne’s question.

  Her place isn’t an option; she was sweet to offer, but it’s not like I’m going to live on her couch while she gets ready for her own wedding in a few weeks. I don’t think I’d be able to afford a hotel or short term rental, not if I’ll have to pay first and last month’s rent on whatever I find for May.

  I know where I want to go. I know where I want to be waking up, what kitchen I want to be making breakfast in, what voice I want to hear greeting me with a good morning every day.

  I felt at home the second I walked into Zach’s apartment. The half hour I spent sitting on his couch listening to music before he woke up was so peaceful, like the couch was a boat and his living room was a calm and sunny sea. All I wanted was to spend the day drifting away.

  I wanted to drift away with him, and I know what happens when I get carried away w
ith a guy. It usually involves me needing a new apartment.

  I keep scrolling through Facebook photos. There’s one of Zach and I standing behind the bar. I zoom in on our faces. They’re a little blurry, but I can still make out our expressions. I’m laughing so hard I have my eyes closed, and Zach is watching me with his face split into a huge grin.

  Something in my stomach dips when I notice the look in his eyes. He’s looking at me like I’m special, like there’s nothing else in the whole room that could take his attention away from me. I wish the photo would come to life on my screen, that his little pixilated image would turn and tell me exactly what he was thinking in that moment. I need to know. I need to know whether I’m going crazy or not, whether the guy who’s been just a friend for years has been thinking about kissing me as much as I’ve been thinking about kissing him.

  I shake my head and scroll to the next photo. I make it all the way to the end of the album, searching for more shots of Zach and I, but I don’t find any. I’m about to write a comment making fun of how hammered Dylan looks when a text pops up on my screen.

  My breath catches when I see it’s from Zach. I open up a meme he sent about tripping on air and then read the message.

  Thanks for the patch up job. My spine will survive another day. You’re a great friend, and if you need to crash at mine again, it’s all yours. What are bros for, eh?

  “Bros,” I read out loud.

  We’re bros. Homies. Amigos. He said it himself.

  I let out a big whoosh of air. This must all be in my head. I’m just messed up from last night. Zach doesn’t feel awkward. He doesn’t think we need to change. He’s still sending me memes like my old buddy pal. I didn’t wreck things by picturing him naked or imagining his lips on my lips.

  It was a weird night. Anyone would be thinking weird thoughts after finding their boyfriend with another girl’s mouth around his dick. Maybe I just wanted un peu de vengeance.

  But it’s a new day. The sun is out, the air is warm, and my friend is offering to let me crash at his place for a few days while I figure out where I’m going to live.

  Nothing weird about that. Nothing at all.

  “Zach, you are so weird.”

  “What do you mean, I’m weird? I can’t believe you’ve never heard of peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”

  He puts a plate down in front of me on the coffee table. I stare at the brown bread, cut down the middle to make two triangles.

  “Non. I will not eat it.”

  I’ve spent two more nights at Zach’s place, and I have not pictured him naked.

  Not even once.

  Not while awake, at least.

  I had naked dreams about someone who might have been him, but he was spooning me from behind, so who can say? Dream man had Zach’s voice, and I could feel that silly farm boy beard of his tickling me, but that doesn’t mean it was Zach. It could have been his cousin, or his secret twin. Dreams are unpredictable like that.

  “I’m on lunch duty today, and this is all I made, so you’re going to have to eat it. Just give it a try. I promise it will blow your mind.”

  “But it’s pickles and peanut butter!”

  We have a schedule going at the apartment. Our shifts at the bar don’t line up very often, and Zach likes to get up early. All the years of late night shifts have turned me nocturnal, but we both end up eating something around noon—even if it’s breakfast for me. I told Zach I would make him lunch every day to say thank you for letting me stay, but he wanted to take turns.

  “You have to see what a beast I am in the kitchen,” he told me, “and also my mother would never forgive me if I let a guest feed me every day.”

  So yesterday I made him a very delicious chili that took me almost two hours, and today he makes me this.

  “Try it. I swear you’ll love it.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and makes a big show out of going ‘Mmm.’

  We’re sitting on the couch together. The apartment isn’t big enough for a kitchen table, so all the meals get eaten off the coffee table in front of the couch.

  “I used to make these all the time with my sisters,” Zach continues once he’s done pretending to have a mouthgasm. “I don’t think I’ve had one in years.”

  “Even your sisters ate these?”

  “Yeah, it’s one of the first things my mom taught us how to make. She was always making really fancy stuff for like, bake sales and fundraisers. She’s an administrator at my town’s community center, so she’s really...involved. Anyway, she had a few recipes she called ‘silly food’ that were just for us. This was one of them.”

  “It is silly.” I pick up my plate and sniff the bread. “But it’s cute too. I like that. ‘Silly food.’”

  I take one of the triangles off the plate and bite off just the corner of the sandwich.

  “Oh come on,” Zach complains. “You didn’t even get any pickle.”

  I glare at him and take a bigger bite. I chew for a minute. I close my eyes. I pretend like I’m thinking about it. Then I swallow.

  When I look at him again, Zach’s watching me the way dogs do when they’re trying really, really hard to sit still and wait for their treat.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was the treat.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say I like it.

  Bad DeeDee.

  “Well?” Zach’s voice is all wheezy. He clears his throat. “Uh, well? Do you like it?”

  “It kills me to say it, Zachy Zach, but I think maybe you’re right. This is pretty good.”

  “I knew it!” He does a fist pump and waves the rest of his sandwich in the air.

  “You dork.” I lean into the squishy back of the couch and take another bite. “Tell me more about your sisters.”

  I already know their names: Emily and Hope. Emily is two years older than Zach, and Hope is three years younger. Hope and him are the closest, and he video calls her a few times a week, even though she lives in a different time zone. She was a troublemaker when they were kids, and she was always getting Zach into these crazy adventures around their small town.

  I remember every story Zach has ever told me about where he grew up, but I always pretend I forget the details so he’ll tell me again. It sounds just like a story book: that tiny town with its little school and its little corner store and its little parades for every holiday.

  Everybody knows each other there. Everybody says hello when they cross paths in the street.

  Nobody is ever alone. Nobody ever leaves.

  “I always tell you about my sisters,” Zach complains. “You should tell me about your family.”

  I shrug. “Ben, there is not much to say.”

  “Come on. I know you grew up in Trois-Rivières and that you have a sister and some step-siblings, but that’s literally it.”

  “Half-sister,” I correct him, “and she wasn’t really...around. Her dad got custody after the divorce with my maman, and he took her far away. My step-siblings from the guy Maman married after him are a lot older, so they were only around for a few years too.”

  I shove a few bites of bread in my mouth to keep myself busy with chewing. I want to hear Zach’s stories about the scary small town librarian or the time the mayor got drunk and went home to the wrong house. I don’t want to talk about maudit Trois-Rivières.

  I don’t want to talk about the day I watched my sister get put in a car and driven away. I was nine. The two of us were playing with chalk out on the sidewalk, and her dad just scooped her up and took her. I remember him telling her to drop the piece of chalk she was holding, but she wouldn’t let go. He buckled her into the backseat with chalk dust all over her hands, and even though he told us both they’d be back soon, somehow I knew it was the last time I was going to see that car’s tail lights.

  I felt the same thing when I watched my own dad drive away for the very last time.

  “I’m sorry.” Zach pushes a few crumbs on his plate around. “That must have been tough.”
r />   I shrug. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t tough.”

  I just shrug again. My throat is getting tight, and I don’t want him to hear how close to choking up I am.

  “So...what was growing up in a city like?” he asks after a moment. “I can’t even imagine it. My sisters and I would just jump on our bikes and see what was going on around town if we felt like hanging out with people. Did you have friends in your neighbourhood or anything?”

  I think back to our long street lined with duplexes, to the afternoons I’d spend walking up the sidewalk when I was way too young to be out on my own.

  “I had some friends on my street and stuff. There wasn’t a lot to do at my house, so I would just go say hi whenever any kids walked by. It’s probably why I like being a bartender. I get to say hi a lot.” I force a laugh, and Zach laughs too as I toss my hair over my shoulder like an actress posing for photos. “I was pretty popular in high school, you know. I won the ‘Most Fun At Parties’ vote.”

  I pulled that page out of the yearbook and had it hanging on my wall for years.

  “I don’t doubt that.” Zach nods and strokes his beard. “You’re pretty popular now. I’m sure if I said, ‘You know that bartender with the pink hair?’ to anyone in Montreal, they’d all go, ‘Oh, you mean DeeDee?’”

  “And if I said, ‘You know that weird guy who likes peanut butter and pickle sandwiches?’ they’d say, ‘Oh, you mean Zachy Zach.’”

  He glares. “No one calls me Zachy Zach.”

  “No one but me, and you loooove it!” I do a little dance in my seat for a second, just long enough that his glare turns into a grin.

  “I guess it’s okay.”

  We both go silent for a moment, and I realize we’ve been leaning in as we talk. We’re a lot closer on the couch now. He’s wearing jeans. My leggings are so thin I’d feel the roughness of the denim if my thigh brushed his.

  “Let me do the dishes!” I jump off the couch like something stung me and grab his plate so fast he only just has time to snatch the last piece of his sandwich. “Since you spent so long making lunch, you know. It took you two whole minutes!”