by Rose, Katia
She started to cry even harder, but the way she clutched my shirt told me not to let her go, that my words were helping instead of hurting.
“Can I ask you to do something?”
She nodded against my chest.
“Keep writing, okay?” I couldn’t handle the thought of that girl on the stage being gone forever. “Just promise me you’ll keep writing. The world needs your words.”
“Dylan, I—I—”
She was crying so hard by then she couldn’t even speak. The metro station was mostly deserted, but it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d been standing in the middle of a crowd. My world had narrowed to the woman in my arms.
“Shh. It’s okay.”
I don’t know how long I held her. It could have been minutes or hours. I would have stood there all night. Eventually her sobs got slower before stopping all together, but still we didn’t break apart.
It was only after I was sure her breathing was steady that I realized how close we were, how warm her body was against mine, how delicate the bones of her shoulders felt beneath my hands. Her skin was so soft. I could have tilted my head and pressed my lips to her temple. I got so close she must have felt my breath on her cheek.
“Dylan?”
She moved back just enough to tilt her face up to me. Even with red-rimmed eyes, she was stunning. She was enough to light up the whole street, and I didn’t know how I hadn’t seen it before.
Her lips parted, just a fraction of an inch, and that’s when it hit me.
I’d never noticed how beautiful she was because I wasn’t supposed to notice. She wasn’t mine to look at.
She was eighteen.
She was a kid scared about leaving home for the first time, and I was standing there with my arms around her, staring at her mouth.
I thought I’d fucked up before, but I never came as close to totally destroying something as I did that night. My mistakes had always been my own, and that kiss hanging between us was an invitation for her to make one with me.
I dropped my arms to my sides, stepping back as soon as I was sure she’d found her balance, but the expression she turned on me was as off-kilter as could be.
“Remember what I said about the writing.” I couldn’t leave without telling her again. “I meant it.”
And then I left her there. I left her because I didn’t have the strength to save her if I’d stayed. I left her standing outside the metro stop and walked all the way to the next one. I left every possibility of what that moment could have been behind. I wrote it off as a mistake I was lucky enough to avoid making, and for over three years, I let myself believe that’s all it was.
Then she walked into Taverne Toulouse looking for a job.
Nine
Renee
OXYMORON: When two contradictory words or terms are placed together and still form a comprehensible idea, ex. act naturally, alone together, small crowd
My dad picks me up from therapy during his lunch break. At first I thought his insistence on driving me home from Sarah’s office every week was because he was worried, like I’d be this emotional wreck wholly incapable of navigating the public transit system. Maybe that is what he used to think—and maybe he wouldn’t have been totally wrong to think it—but now the drive is our time to check in with each other, a quick twenty minutes that are just for us.
“How did it go today?” he greets me, holding out a pear, walnut, and arugula salad from the museum’s cafe. I used to live off those things when I’d go to work with him. I swear the cafe sprinkles their salads with crack; it’s the only explanation for how addictive they are.
“It was really good. We talked about the reopening at the bar, how it’s kind of a big deal for me...”
As close as we’ve gotten, we still dance around the subject of the ‘episodes.’ Dad tried a few times in the early days, right when I got back from England, and I’d always freak out or shut down. I know I owe him an apology—I owe my whole family an apology for some of the things I said—but that would mean bringing up what happened, really explaining what I went through to them, and I’m still not ready to do that.
So when Dad asks about therapy, I tell him it’s good, and we usually leave it at that.
“Are you still sure your mother and I can’t tag along to the reopening tomorrow night?”
“I’m not bringing my parents,” I complain.
“What? You don’t think we can be cool? You think I don’t know how to chill with the hipsters?”
“One: hipsters are getting a little dated. Two: do you even know what a hipster is?”
“Does anyone know what a hipster is?”
I start to answer with another biting reply before I stop myself. “Actually, you’re kind of right. It’s a contested topic.”
“I’m always right. I’m your dad.”
I roll my eyes at that one. “Do you really want to get me started on the patriarchy?”
He takes his hands off the steering wheel for a second to hold them up in surrender. “The lord help us all if I get you started on the patriarchy—you or your sister.”
“It’s about the only thing we agree on.”
He lets out a sigh heavy with regret. “I wish you and Michelle didn’t fight so much.”
“It’s not that we fight,” I explain. “We just...don’t really want to have much to do with each other.”
His jaw sets into a hard line, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, that sounded bad,” I amend. “I love her. Of course I love her. She’s my sister, and I’m really proud of her. We’re just...I don’t know. I think we work better keeping our distance.”
Dad shakes his head. “A sibling is a precious thing to have, ma petite lionne. I don’t like to see you two wasting that gift.”
A heaviness settles in the car, pinning us both underneath it. Dad doesn’t talk about his brother much—I think it might be the equivalent of his ‘episode,’ something he just can’t bring himself to share or call by its name—but the lines in his face always gets deeper when we come close to touching the subject, like it’s physically painful for him to think about the uncle I’ve never met.
“I could try harder,” I admit. “Maybe we could do something together, something outside the house. I think part of the problem is that we get so annoyed about living together.”
Dad’s whole face lights up. “You could take her to Taverne Toulouse with you tomorrow night.”
“Um, no.” I catch his warning glance and sigh. “As if she’d even want to go.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” he suggests. “She might just surprise you.”
* * *
It turns out Michelle does surprise me. I suspect Dad might have given her a little talking-to, but I’m still beyond shocked to be walking into Taverne Toulouse with my best friend on one side of me and my sister on the other.
“I’m just going to slip over to the bar...” Michelle announces, half joking and half serious as she starts to veer away from me.
“I told them to double check the ID for any girls who look like me,” I warn her.
I didn’t actually do that, but she could pass for a couple years older than seventeen even when she’s not made up like she is tonight, and I swore to my parents I wouldn’t let her drink. I need to keep her away from the bar. I’m dead if a photo of her holding a cocktail shows up on her Instagram.
“That is racial profiling,” she fumes, but she gives up on her beeline to the alcohol.
“Whatever it takes to keep you sober.”
“Just one glass of wine isn’t going to get me drunk. I could—”
“No, Michelle.”
She rolls her eyes. “What was even the point of me coming to a bar, then?”
“Um, to support your sister at her new job that she worked very hard to get?” Tahseen replies. She’s spent enough time around my family that she’s as comfortable nagging Michelle as I am. “I don’t drink at all, and I’m here.”
Tahs
een still lives at home too, and while she exaggerates how strict her parents are, it’s not by much. She had to lie and tell them she was at a slam to avoid a fight at home tonight.
“See?” I throw my arm over Tahseen’s shoulder. “This is what a loving relationship looks like.”
Michelle raises an eyebrow. “You would say ‘ew’ and push me off if I tried to put my arm around you like that.”
“Okay, fair point.”
“But if it gets me a drink...”
Without warning, she launches herself at Tahseen and I, wrapping us both up in a group hug. We almost topple over and clutch each other even tighter to keep our balance, laughing and shrieking as we sway on our feet.
I’d never admit it to Michelle, but I don’t know what I’d do without both of them here. I could have handled the crowd if I’d been working, stuck focusing on tasks detailed enough to distract me from the swell of people in the room, but tonight I’m just here to support Taverne Toulouse—which means mingling and smiling and being a normal human.
A few months ago, just the thought of surrounding myself with this many people would have been impossible. I would have run out of breath wondering what they were all thinking and if it was about me. I would have felt my fingers go numb as I pictured myself having an episode right here in the middle of the room. The Brighton flashbacks would have started, and a few minutes later, I’d have been a shaking mess barely capable of walking myself out the door.
“Hey.” Tahseen bumps my arm with hers as Michelle turns away from us to check her phone. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I reach out and squeeze her wrist to let her know I mean it. “I am.”
It’s not effortless. It’s not easy. I can still feel the fear rolling around in my stomach, but it’s more of an apprehension that things could go wrong, not a certainty that they will.
“Oh, there’s Zach!” I spot his flannel shirt weaving through the crowd. “He’s coming this way. We should say hi. I want you to meet him.”
“Zach is the really sweet one, right?” Tahseen questions. “And he’s in love with the girl with pink hair who trained you?”
“That’s him,” I confirm. “Only do not mention anything about him being in love with her.”
“Got it.”
It doesn’t take long for Tahseen and Michelle to be convinced that Zach is a sweetheart. He’s in the middle of working on some tech stuff for the stage, but he makes time to stop and shake all our hands before asking how the night’s going and if we need some drinks.
“Actually—” Michelle begins.
“We’re good,” I cut her off. “Good luck with the microphone.”
He shakes his head. “It always works perfectly until we actually need it.”
We wander around after Zach takes off, bumping into a few other staff members I introduce. There’s a DJ playing later tonight after a few speeches. Everyone is buzzing with excitement and alcohol as they wait for things to kick off. I haven’t caught a glimpse of Dylan. My eyes bounce around the room even as I talk with Tahseen, always drifting to the back hallway, waiting for him to poke his head out.
We’ve miraculously secured ourselves three seats near the stage when Zach takes the microphone he’s been fiddling with up there and starts to speak.
Or tries to.
The few of us close enough to pay attention start laughing as he taps the mic and tries again, but still no sound comes out. He makes a few frantic gestures, staring over the crowd to where someone must be manning the sound system, then holds the mic up again.
“IS THIS THING ON?”
His voice booms out so loud I reach to cover my ears. A few people actually scream. Zach winces and makes a ‘turn it down’ motion.
“Whoa, okay. Good evening, everyone. We’re off to a lively start. Just wanted to make sure I had everyone’s attention.”
A laugh ripples through the crowd.
“For some reason, I’ve been given the job of welcoming you all tonight, so, welcome. In case you didn’t know where you are, this bar is called Taverne Toulouse. If that’s what you were looking for, congratulations, you made it. If that’s not what you’re looking for, the doors are locked and you’re not getting out.”
Someone standing by the front door pretends to struggle to pull it open. “He’s not kidding, guys!”
“I don’t joke,” Zach declares. “Ever.”
I knew Zach was funny, but he’s really on the ball tonight. I glance back at the bar and can just make out DeeDee in my line of sight. She’s got her elbows on the bar top and her chin resting in her hands as she stares at the stage. The dorky grin on her face tells me Zach’s feelings for her might not be as one-sided as everyone thinks.
“I know you’re mostly all here to drink,” he continues, “but I have a little history lesson for you tonight. You probably know this bar has been around for a while. It’s gone through a lot of changes. It’s seen good nights and bad nights. It’s seen a lot of parties, a lot of friendships, a lot of toasts to things that are happy and things that are sad. It’s seen couples get together. It’s seen couples break up. It’s seen couples get back together. It’s a part of this city, and it’s here to stay.”
A light round of applause fills the pause before his next sentence.
“A lot of people are responsible for that, but I think we all know that the biggest thanks goes to a very special lady. Pardon my language, but she worked her ass off to save this bar. She worked everyone’s asses off to save this bar. She’s the heart and soul of this place, and it’s been an honour to have her as a manager and now an owner of the bar I spend almost as much time in as I do my own apartment. She tried to get out of making a speech tonight, but please welcome Monroe to the stage.”
I join in the whooping as a disgruntled looking Monroe extracts herself from under the arm of an attractive man with glasses and some impressive facial hair. Zach offers her his hand as she climbs onto the stage—she’s so short that it seems to be a concerted effort—and she takes the mic from him.
“I did tell him I didn’t want to make a speech tonight.” She pretends to give Zach a furious glare as the crowd boos at her. “But we all knew I wasn’t getting out of it. Thank you, Zach, for that very entertaining introduction.”
They blow each other a kiss as he leaves the stage. Monroe turns to face the crowd. Her expression shifts from amused to joyous to totally awed as she takes in the scene before her. I can’t even imagine what a big moment for her this must be. From what everyone’s told me, she’s been dreaming about this forever and has worked harder than should be humanly possible to make it happen.
“I...I tried to write a speech,” she stammers, her voice thick. “I just couldn’t get the words right. Nothing sounded good enough. I still don’t think anything I say tonight will tell you what it means to be standing here, surrounded by you all as we celebrate something I went a long time not being sure would ever happen. What tonight has really taught me, though, is to eliminate the word ‘never’ from my vocabulary. This bar almost lost the chance to be what it is today because I limited my belief in myself and limited my belief in others. I’m proud of the fact that I got here, but I’m even more proud of the people who helped me get here, who got here with me, who are sticking with me as we go even farther.”
She has to pause and wait for people to stop clapping.
“Some of you have been on this ship for a while, and some of you are just climbing on board”—she looks right at me as she says that, grinning wide—“but I value each and every one of your contributions. I can confidently say this is the best staff in the whole damn city, and you better prepare yourselves for some busy nights, because the whole damn city is going to know about it.”
“Hear, hear!”
The booming shout echoes right through my core, not because of its volume, but because even without turning around, I can tell who said it.
I follow the sound with my eyes to find him leaning against the bar. I’ve onl
y seen him in chef’s pants and t-shirts since I started working here. He makes even those look enticing. What he does to me in a black button down and dark jeans has to be some kind of torture. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was illegal in some countries.
The thing about Dylan’s looks is that they aren’t that noticeable, not all on their own. It’s his attitude, his courage, the way he holds himself and fills up a room that draws my eyes and drives me crazy. He always looks like he’s ready to make a speech that’s going to save the world. Tonight, he might as well be up on a podium accepting his new job as President of the Universe. He radiates the kind of energy you just can’t ignore.
Everyone has already fixed their attention back on Monroe by the time I drag my gaze away from Dylan. She’s wrapping up her speech now, giving a special shout-out to her boyfriend. Glasses and beard guy looks almost as proud of her as she does of the bar.
“Since I’ve spent so long talking about how great my employees are,” she adds, “I thought it would be a nice idea to actually give you some evidence. In addition to being awesome bar and kitchen staff, the people who work here have a whole host of other talents. Our new kitchen manager, Dylan Trottard, has been involved with Montreal’s spoken word poetry scene for years, and we’re very proud to host the group’s monthly slams here at Taverne Toulouse. He told me he didn’t want to steal the show, but we all know that’s a lie, so Dylan’s now going to get up and do a much demanded performance for us. I’m told this piece was inspired by his work at the bar. I’m not sure if I should be nervous or excited about that.”