by Mimi Flood
The Long Weekend
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Long Weekend
MIMI FLOOD
Copyright © 2018 Mimi Flood
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-7753539-1-1
ISBN (Print): 978-1-7753539-0-4
Cover photo:
Cover design: Isabelle Gariépy
For Mom & JP.
And for all those who kept on pushing me,
you know who you are.
Wednesday, April 19th
CHAPTER ONE
It was a particularly rainy and chilly April evening. The last couple of days had been blessed with sun and a warm, southerly breeze. It was beginning to feel like spring, at least the kind of spring we have here in Montreal.
Tonight, however, the weather had taken a turn for the worst, as if foreboding bad times to come. Being prone to believe in signs, I had a feeling Mother Nature was, in fact, trying to warn me and that maybe I should have stayed home. Instead, I found myself walking into this ridiculously upscale restaurant.
“Reservation for Martinez,” I said to the maître d’ who greeted me.
He smiled and led me toward the back of the dark and under-lit establishment to our regular table. Paul loved this restaurant—their specialty was seafood, after all. He didn’t mind much that I hated most seafood, so long as he got what he liked. Then again, I hadn’t exactly objected when he suggested dinner here. I liked their lamb dish that came with mashed potatoes, tomatoes and peas. It didn’t hurt that it was the most expensive thing on the menu so it would make a small dent in Paul’s otherwise overfilled and overused wallet.
I sat down on the wooden chair which contrasted against the modern, black and gold decor, and ordered some wine. The waiter soon appeared with a glass of nicely chilled Pinot Noir and a basket of bread. I started to nibble on bread, slowly filling my stomach, knowing that I wouldn’t be hungry by the time Paul got here.
Later, I checked the time and saw that he was running late—a little over a half an hour. The waiter brought me a second glass of wine, this time avoiding eye contact. I was certain he was mocking me, probably thinking I had been stood up. I could imagine him walking back to the kitchen, wagering with his fellow waiters about how long it would take before I left, broken-hearted and defeated. Whether or not I would leave crying or with my head held high. Part of me wanted to join in on the bet.
Might as well make some money off my own misery.
I was becoming very aware of my surroundings—fellow couples, all whispers, and kisses, playing footsies under the table. The entire restaurant was the size of my apartment, which wasn’t very big. I desperately wanted to leave, my gut telling me this wouldn’t be one of our regular date nights. It was now eight o’clock—I’d been here since seven-thirty. I decided I would give him another fifteen minutes. Not one second more. Generous, really.
Then, as I felt him brush past me, my phone rang. The sound and its timing made me jump. It was my mother. I’d deal with her later, I told myself, sending her call to voice mail. Right now, I had to deal with him. He pulled out his chair with a loud scraping sound that made me cringe. I could never quite understand why someone obsessed with these haughty restaurants, and who was always concerned with his appearance, could be so unmannered and crass. It annoyed me, really, his disregard for social decorum. The air around me seemed to fill with tension along with subtle hints of his cologne.
“Damn work,” he said, his version of an apology. “Have you been here long?”
“Since seven-thirty. You did say seven thirty,” I reminded him, annoyed. I noticed that he hadn’t even bothered to give me a kiss.
“Right.” Saying nothing more he sat down and picked up his menu, perusing it. I watched him, his deep blue eyes giving no hint of feeling sorry for having kept me waiting.
After a few moments, the waiter appeared, offering Paul the wine list. He was in mid-sentence before Paul interrupted and sent him away rather rudely.
“Listen, Lizzie,” he began, taking a deep breath once the waiter was out of earshot.
I hated being called Lizzie and couldn’t quite remember why or when I had let him start doing so. I could tell from his tone that Mother Nature had been right after all—shit was about to hit.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, but I don’t think we’re working out.” The words came out so nonchalantly, so without emotion, that it took me a moment to be sure I’d heard right. “I’m sure you knew this was coming,” he added.
He was right—I had known, or at least I had some inkling for a while. But having a feeling about something and having it manifest in front of you in public is another thing entirely.
Typical.
“Only you would bring me to a fancy restaurant, make me wait and all just to dump me,” I snapped.
Why couldn’t this have been done at my apartment or even at his for that matter? I chugged the rest of my wine, listening to his empty words about us hopefully being friends. I took a moment to look at him—really look at him. I saw past his looks, which were one of the things that kept me crawling back every time, and I focused on the real person behind those incredibly deceptive eyes. I accepted the fact that this time I was so thoroughly done with him and let the realization sink in.
By the time the waiter returned—only after casting nervous glances in our direction—I knew I had to leave. Without a word, I stood up, grabbing my coat and left the table. I could hear him unemphatically calling my name, probably not too happy with my reaction, and could tell people were curious despite their failed attempts at acting indifferent. I didn’t mind if they watched—let them.
I got to the doors and stopped. Putting my coat on, getting ready to walk into the driving rain, I was surprised and stupidly disappointed that he wasn’t coming after me. The eternal romantic inside me was somehow expecting him to come and stop me. My efforts were futile, I knew it, but the optimist within me kept hoping. I imagined he would rush over, grab me, apologize profusely for being a jerk and take me into a passionate embrace, making the fellow onlookers incredibly jealous. I knew that even if he did make such a gallant effort it would be insincere and wouldn’t last, but I was a victim of cheesy romantic movies. I always looked for grandiose expressions of love—even when love had long since left the building.
I asked myself then if he did make some effort right now,
would it change anything? I glanced back to our table. He was giving his order to the waiter, a small grin on his face. His lack of interest in me and our pathetic excuse for a relationship was all the answer I needed.
Asshole.
I stormed out into the cold, damp night, holding my coat tightly against me.
In a way, I was happy that the restaurant was a dozen or so blocks from my apartment. Sure, walking in five-inch heels through the stinging rain wasn’t the most ideal of scenarios for a post-breakup walk, but the opportunity to go the long distance gave me the time to digest what had just happened.
I couldn’t really blame him. I should have known better. After all, this wasn’t our first breakup. By my last count, this would make it our third. I was the idiot who kept coming back. I was the one who, for some inexplicable reason, even when I could see the breakup was inevitable, stuck around just long enough to get dumped over and over. I was the one who always thought that maybe the next time things would be different.
Paul and I were finally over, I reminded myself, taking a deep breath. It had been a long time in the making, and let’s face it, it was something I should have done a long time ago. I should have been the one to initiate the break-up but had been too chicken-shit to make the first move.
And now, here I was, stuck walking through puddles, feeling sorry for myself, wondering when I had given him all the power in our relationship. Why had I just left the restaurant without saying more, I wondered, shaking my head.
The bell rang above my head as I walked into the corner store. The owner, Mr. Nguyen, sat behind the counter, reading his newspaper as he did most evenings. He looked up at me and smiled, clearly noticing my soaked appearance but saying nothing about it. I headed toward the back wall, found the fridge that held the wine and, finding my regular, cheap but favourite bottle of white, I took it, ignoring my reflection.
On my way to the front, I grabbed a few chocolate bars and a bag of chips. I was starving, I now realized, having missed out on dinner.
Mr. Nguyen put down his paper and rang up my items. “Eighteen dollars.”
I handed him a twenty.
“No umbrella?” he asked, handing me my change.
“Why would I need an umbrella,” I answered snarky, putting my wallet in my purse.
“Silly lady,” he said, laughing.
Part of me wanted to tell him to fuck off, but knowing his sense of humour too well, I simply smiled and thanked him. Braving the rainstorm, I returned out into the cold and rounded the corner to my apartment. The sooner I got into something dry and warm, the better.
CHAPTER TWO
Barely through my apartment door, I threw my purse on the floor and removed my now drenched coat, hanging it up. I walked to my tiny bathroom, ripped off my wet clothes and hung them on the shower curtain rod. Taking a towel from under the sink, I dried my hair a little and wrapped myself in my bathrobe.
I had only just turned off the light when I heard my phone ringing. Rummaging through my purse, I cursed at the amount of stuff I had in it, and, finally finding my phone, I read the caller ID. I had expected it to be Paul, saying he had yet again changed his mind and wanted to make up. I was surprised and relieved it wasn’t.
“Hi, Dad,” I answered. “First Mom, now you. Must be important.” My tone was light but I was a little annoyed.
“Hi, Elizabeth, we need to talk,” he said.
“Right. Is there any way it can wait until tomorrow? I’ve had a really shitty night and—”
“It’s Grandma,” he interrupted his words barely more than a whisper.
“What’s wrong. Is she alright?” I was immediately hit with a bad feeling, my gut somehow instinctively knowing what he was about to say.
“No, Ellie. She passed away this morning.”
My knees buckled and my legs gave out. Luckily, I was standing near a chair.
“How?” was all I could manage to say.
Sure, my grandmother was old, having just turned ninety-one, but she had been the image of good health only a few months prior. My brain quickly did the math and I realized a few months may have been closer to a year.
“The doctor says it’s most likely natural causes.”
Natural causes. I never understood how death could be caused naturally. At that moment nothing felt natural about it. I looked at the fridge and saw the yellow Post-It note with Call Grandma!!! scribbled in black marker. My heart sank a little deeper.
“She called me last week, told me she wanted to talk. I kept stalling to call her back.” My voice cracked a little.
“I know, sweetie,” my father said, consolingly. “The funeral is this weekend. Your mom and I were hoping you could maybe come down a little early to help with everything.”
Still in shock at the news and trying desperately to clutch on to what remaining composure I had left.
I answered softly, “I’ll drive down tomorrow.”
“Good,” I could hear the desperation in his voice, the sadness of losing his mother. My heart broke for him. “Thank you.”
Though I wasn’t sure, I felt that he might be crying. My father, always the epitome of strength and composure sounded so small and fragile. It shook me to my core.
“I’ll be there, Dad.” I hung up and threw the phone on the table.
The reality of the situation came crashing down on me within seconds, as did my emotions. Overwhelmed, I headed to the kitchen and dazedly poured myself a large glass of wine. Taking a deep breath, then a long gulp, I tried to calm down.
Ever since I had moved away from home, I had tried to focus on my life in the city. I had come to Montreal for school and, by now, had expected to be halfway around the world, living life fully, using my expensive education to make my dreams come true.
Instead, I was living in an over-priced and cramped apartment, with no real claim to anything. I worked as a freelance writer, which left me with far too much free time and far too little income. My only relationship that had lasted more than a few months had been with Paul and as tonight reinforced, had never been a very healthy one. And then there was my cat, Max, who crawled onto my lap, purring, rolling onto his side, expecting to be stroked. I smiled at him, through my tears, appreciating his unconditional love.
I was now alone, filled with such pain. Ironically, the one person I knew would be the best to talk to about this situation was now gone. The idea that I would never be able to speak to my grandmother again was incomprehensible.
Again, I saw the note on the fridge and shut my eyes, trying to remember the last time I’d heard her voice.
A week prior, she had called but I had been at Paul’s place and wasn’t interested in speaking with her at that exact moment, so she’d left a message. She had sounded sad, serious—which wasn’t normally like her—and she had only said she needed to talk. It had been a long while since we had spoken or seen each other, so I assumed it was just an attempt to touch base. Whatever it was, her voice had given me the impression I should probably call back, hence the note on the fridge. In reality, I didn’t need the note. I knew I should call her. But I didn’t.
And now it was too late.
I walked to the fridge and ripped the note off, crumpling it and throwing it in the garbage. As if by coincidence, the doorbell rang.
Reluctantly, I placed the chain on the door and looked to see who it was. I wasn’t that surprised when I saw Paul standing there, but still hesitated before unlocking the door. I was sure seeing him right now was by far the worst idea but at the same time, I was in desperate need of the company.
“Babe,” he said through the closed door. “I’m sorry.”
I had been through this so many times that I could already hear his regurgitated speech resonating in the back of my head.
“Please, let me in,” he begged. Though subtle, I could hear the drunken slur in his words. He wasn’t being too loud, but I knew the neighbours would soon open their doors out of curiosity. With a heavy sigh, I wiped the tears fr
om my cheeks and despite my better judgement, I let him in.
His suit was wet, his hair dishevelled. I should have sent him on his way.
Sorry, not this time, buddy.
As he walked past me, I could smell the vodka mixed in with the rain, the cold, and his usual scent. Something within me shook and the familiar feeling confirmed my doubts. I shouldn’t have let him in, especially not in the condition I was in.
“What do you want, Paul?” I asked, knowing full well what he would say.
He reached for my hand. “I don’t want us to be over.”
“You don’t, do you?” I asked, sardonically.
Yanking my hand away, I walked toward the kitchen table and finished my drink in one swig.
“Want some?” I offered, getting myself a refill. knowing his visit might last a while.
“Sure,” he said, removing his damp jacket.
I watched him peel it off slowly, revealing his soaked white shirt, which clung to his chiselled chest. Look away, I told myself, pouring him a measly glass of wine. The quicker he drank it, the quicker he would leave—at least that was my hope.
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” he said, taking the proffered glass. “But every time I think we’re better off apart, I keep thinking that maybe we’re not.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Surely, these constant emotional twists and turns he went through were signs of something seriously wrong.
“Damn it, Paul!” I snapped. “I’m not going through this with you again.” I was nearing the limits of my patience, which I had to admit should have been reached ages ago. “Tonight is really not the night for this,” I added, handing him a towel. I sat down on the couch, sinking into its softness.
He knelt down in front of me, drying his hair. “What’s wrong?”
He seemed genuinely concerned, which was so unlike him. It was more than likely a ploy to get back in my good graces—a tactic that had sadly worked so many, many times before—but I fell for it anyhow. I felt rather vulnerable and appreciated having the shoulder to cry on, despite who it belonged to.