by Rose, Katia
I step out of the shower, singing along to the chorus as I dry off my hair. I’d say one of the benefits of living alone is getting to sing as loud as you want in the shower, but I’ve pissed off every roommate I’ve ever had by getting full-on operatic with my shower serenades.
It’s been a few years since I finally had the money to start renting a place on my own. The trade off to construction work sucking the soul out of me was that it paid pretty fucking well. I still live cheap, but I have a half decent one bedroom all on my own, just a few blocks from the bar.
I head into my bedroom to track down some clothes, but a missed call notification on my phone halts my progress. It’s rare for any of my friends to call instead of text; voice messages are almost exclusively from the bar. I’m technically off today, but managers don’t really get days off; I’m still on call if anything goes wrong.
“And here I was thinking I could get through a ten minute shower in peace,” I mutter to myself as I check the call time—three minutes ago—before queuing the message up to play and continuing my hunt for clothes.
“Um, hi, Dylan.”
I pause in the middle of pulling a drawer open, my other hand pressing the phone to my ear even harder as her voice comes through the speaker.
“I hope it’s not creepy that I got your number off the list at work. I hope it’s also not creepy that I noticed we both have the day off today.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, so it’s probably pretty creepy. I just wanted to call because, um, we need to talk.”
I tense up; it’s a known fact of life that nothing good ever follows the ‘we need to talk’ line. To my surprise, Renee just laughs again, this one genuine.
“Oh my god, who am I? ‘We need to talk?’ That sounded way too dramatic.” As on edge as this message has me, I’m still grinning like an idiot from just the sound of her voice. “I just meant, um, considering everything that happened on Saturday, we probably should talk, right? I’d like to see you today, if I can. We could meet somewhere, hang out for a bit. I’m free all day. Very cool, I know. Absolutely zero plans for my day off—except calling you. That I planned on...and now I know I sound creepy, and I’m just rambling anyway, so I’m going to hang up. Goodbye.”
God, could she be any fucking cuter?
It’s been two days since I kissed her—since I kissed my employee—but somehow the fatal collision with reality I was expecting hasn’t hit yet. I can’t get her out of my head. I don’t want her out of my head. I’ve got her lips and hips and smile and skin on repeat, and I don’t want to skip to the next song.
When we walked back into Taverne Toulouse after What Happened In The Alley—it’s deserving of mental capitalization—it was all I could do not to throw my arm over her shoulders and saunter into the room with my chest puffed out. I wanted everyone to pay attention to this brave, brilliant, and beautiful woman. I wanted to walk into that room like we were together, like we were taking the world on as a team.
And Renee thinks she’s the one who needs to worry about being creepy.
One kiss in, and I’m already imagining what it would be like to have a life with her. It’s like she’s this light that’s getting closer and closer, but instead of blinding me, I’m starting to see the world a little more clearly through her rays.
The phone rings four times before I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say in a message. Hell, I have no idea what I’m going to say if she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Renee. It’s Dylan.”
I do my best to keep my voice from cracking like a pubescent boy asking a girl to go to the movies for the first time. I just end up lowering my tone so much I might as well be doing a very bad Batman impression.
“You sound different on the phone,” Renee comments. “You’re not sick, are you? Did my call wake you up?”
“Oh, no.”
I still sound about three octaves too low. I stop to clear my throat.
Less Batman, more Bruce Wayne.
“I’ve been up for a while. I was in the shower when you called.”
I can hear her breathing on the other end. Something about me mentioning being in the shower seems to charge the line between us with enough tension to make both our phones start smoking. She can’t possibly know what I was thinking about as I stood under the hot spray. She can’t imagine the way I pictured pinning her against the tile wall and sucking drops of water off her neck as she wrapped her legs around my waist.
Fucking hell, what is this girl doing to me?
I’m about to totally lose my mind just from having her on the phone with me.
“So, did you want to meet up today?” she asks. “I know you probably have plans, but I just figured it would be easier than trying to talk at the bar, and I do feel like we’ve got some things to say to each other.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you first.” I’ve been an asshole to keep her waiting this long. “I’ve thought about you...is it too uncool to say constantly?”
She laughs, and I don’t know if I should take it as a yes or a no, but I’d be the most uncool guy in Montreal if it meant I got to keep her laughing.
“I’ve been, um...The past few days...I mean, we—”
“Dylan.” She cuts off my stammered excuses. “I know this is complicated and weird and that we’re crossing a lot of lines here. That’s why I didn’t call before now either. Saturday was...I mean, you know what it was, but it also happened really fast and very much in the heat of the moment. I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend today. I’m asking you to meet me for coffee.”
Maybe I really have lost it. She’s saying exactly what I should want to hear, but somewhere in the span of the last forty-eight hours, the idea of not being her boyfriend has gained the ability to hit me with a pang of—
Disappointment? Regret?
“Coffee. Yes. Good.” I seem to have lost the ability to speak in full sentences. “Where do you want to get coffee?”
She gives me the name and address of a cafe on rue Saint-Denis, and we agree to meet up in an hour.
* * *
I show up at the cafe wearing jeans and an old slam t-shirt from one of the years I went to nationals. It’s that awkward time of year when you never know how thick of a coat you’re going to need. The place is only a twenty minute walk from my apartment, but I’m already wishing I wore something warmer than the army jacket I threw on over my shirt. They’ve at least got the heat on high inside. It’s a stylish cafe, with plants hanging from the ceiling and polished wooden tables surrounded by upholstered benches to sit on.
Renee texted to let me know her bus is running a few minutes late, so I head to the counter and order an Americano. I’m standing there waiting for the coffee and wondering if I should pick a table or not when the little bell over the door jingles.
She is actually going to kill me if she keeps wearing white.
Renee walks in wearing a thick knitted sweater over tight black pants. The sweater is big enough to fall partway down her thighs, but the loose neckline hangs over one of her shoulders, her dusky skin a contrast to the pale wool. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole coffee shop dropped their conversations just to look at her. I’m having a hard time keeping my jaw off the floor.
“Hey.” She walks up to me with a wide smile on her face that I’m already returning. “Turns out the bus wasn’t as late as I thought.”
“You’re just in time. I was wondering which table you’d like the most.”
She scans the room around us. “Which table do you think I’d like?”
“Hmm. Is this a skill testing question, Renee? Will there be consequences if I get it wrong?”
She shrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”
I’m still distracted by that sexy as hell glimpse of her shoulder the sweater gives me, but we slip into joking around with each other like it’s a scene we’ve rehearsed a hundred times. I expected to be more nervous. I was almost at the point of muttering
to myself on the sidewalk on the way over, but I’m starting to realize that no matter what the circumstances, being with Renee always feels good.
“What did you get?” she asks me after my drink arrives and she’s ordered a chai latte for herself.
“An Americano.”
“Hmm.” She taps her fingers against her chin. “I don’t think I pegged you for an Americano kind of guy.”
“I didn’t used to drink coffee,” I explain, “never mind espresso, but Monroe showed up at the bar one day with this mini espresso machine for the once in a blue moon occasions when a customer asks if we have coffee. It was a dangerous time for all the cooks.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Dangerous?”
“Sometimes we would fuel ourselves through really busy nights with those little packs of instant coffee. They were really nasty and only used in emergencies, but once we learned there was gourmet shit out front, things got kind of crazy. We actually had a special jar for the ‘espresso fund’ that we’d all put a portion of our tips towards, and if you did not pay up, you were shunned.”
Renee shakes her head, laughing. “Sounds intense.”
“Oh, it was. Monroe had to stage an intervention after people’s hands started shaking so bad that at least one person was burning themselves every night.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m not kidding! I told you it was a dangerous time. It’s faded now, but I used to have the scar to prove it.”
Her drink arrives, and we’re once again left facing the question of where to sit.
“Okay, time’s up,” she announces. “If you were me, where would you want us to sit?”
“If I was you, I’d want to sit at the table where you’d get the best view of me.”
“Ha ha. And which table would that be?”
“How about the corner one near the window with all those pillows on the benches?”
She nods and leads the way over. We each take a side of the corner bench, and I notice her grinning into her latte as she takes her first sip.
“What?” I demand. “It’s the table, isn’t it? You hate it.”
She shakes her head. “It’s my favourite one at this place. I always sit here.”
It shouldn’t feel so significant. It’s a goddamn table, and possibly the nicest one in the room. I’m sure it’s many people’s favourite, but I still swell with the pride of getting it right.
“This is a good table. I’ll give you that. It’s a really nice place all around. The only thing wrong is their soundtrack.”
Her face scrunches up as she strains to hear the music playing under all the conversation and bustle in the room.
“What’s wrong with their soundtrack?”
“It’s not the right mood.”
She wiggles her fingers mysteriously as she croons, “The moooood?”
“Yeah, the moooood.” I copy her gesture. “It’s wrong. It doesn’t fit. Music is the most mood setting medium there is. It can make or break the atmosphere of an entire business. That’s why I put so much work into what we play at Taverne Toulouse. Knowing which songs go together, how to arrange them so they flow into one another, getting the commentary just right—”
“The commentary?” Renee interrupts. “For your kitchen radio shows, right?”
“Hey.” I hold up a finger. “My kitchen radio shows are legendary.”
She laughs before nodding a few times. “I know. They’re great. Really. Everyone loves them. The whole night feels off when you don’t do them.”
The compliment hits me like the beginnings of a buzz. I knew people were at least entertained by my idiocy, but to know it’s having the effect I want, that it’s making people’s shifts better and bringing them together as a team—and to hear that from Renee—sort of makes my chest feel tight.
“That’s good to hear.”
I take a sip of my coffee and decide it needs a few minutes to cool. Renee blows on her latte before gulping more down.
“How’s the chai?” I ask.
“It’s pretty good.”
“Cool. I, uh, I like your sweater.”
I like your sweater? Really?
I’m turning into an adolescent boy.
Do not talk to her in the Batman voice again.
“Thanks.” She glances down at the table. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I, um, thought you might like it if I wore white...”
Renee Nyobé getting flirty with me will be the cause of my death. I’m calling it. I’m betting ten thousand dollars that one of those shy glances from under her eyelashes will put me in the ground.
“You thought right,” I agree. “You look...really beautiful today.”
She cocks her head to the side. “You sure you don’t need that thesaurus?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a little shit?”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I don’t realize just how at ease she makes me feel until I’m a few sips through my coffee and she’s all done with her latte. That’s when she reminds me we’re here to talk about something.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I somehow totally forgot?”
“Honestly, so did I,” she answers. “This has been...so nice.”
I mouth the word ‘thesaurus,’ and she reaches over to bonk me on the arm with her empty cup.
“How about we walk and talk?” I suggest. “Gotta work off some of this caffeine.”
“Oh yeah, the danger is real,” she mocks me. “You have the scars to prove it.”
I tug my jacket on, and Renee pulls a big plaid scarf out of her bag before draping it around her shoulders like a poncho.
“What is this garment called?” I ask, tugging on the fabric as we step outside the cafe.
“It’s a blanket scarf.”
“A blanket...scarf?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s fashion, Dylan. Just go with it.”
We start walking up the street. Along with Avenue Mont-Royal and the famous Boulevard Saint-Laurent a few blocks over, Rue Saint-Denis makes up the heart and soul of this neighborhood. The brightly coloured and sometimes dangerously sloping buildings we pass are filled with restaurants, bars, and boutiques, but mid-morning on a chilly Monday, the sidewalks are mostly clear.
“I love this part of town,” Renee muses. “I wish I lived closer.”
“Where is your place?”
“We’re in Rosemont,” she answers. “Like, the far end of Rosemont.”
Right. She lives with her family. She’s twenty-one years old. She’s recovering from a severe breakdown, and I kissed her in an alleyway two days ago after she had an anxiety attack.
We do have things to talk about.
“So...talking,” I prompt. “We should do that.”
She tugs her scarf—blanket scarf?—tighter around her shoulders. “Yeah. We should. I’ve thought a lot about what happened, and...I do want this. I know we’ve only just come back into each other’s lives, but what I feel for you, what happens when we’re together—it’s not something I’ve ever felt before. I don’t know if you—”
“Never,” I interrupt. “It’s never been like this for me before either.”
She lets out a laugh. “Okay good. I was a little bit worried.”
“That’s one thing you don’t need to worry about.”
She grips my forearm where it’s swinging between us and squeezes, just for a second. As effortless as being together has felt, we’ve both been cautious with our touches. This one lets me know that whatever comes next in our conversation, she’s here to face it with me, not against me.
“We also need to face the fact that I’m your employee.”
“Yeah.” I suck in a breath as the impact of that detail slams into my stomach like it always does. “Yeah, that’s a big one.”
“I just want to be clear. You’re not, like, contractually obliged to not date me, right?”
“We do
n’t have a no fraternization policy or whatever,” I answer. “It’s a dive bar with a staff of twenty. People have dated before, but I don’t think the manager has ever dated anyone before, and I mean, it doesn’t really look great. I doubt Monroe would be happy about it.”
“Do you think she’d fire you?”
“Maybe not for this alone, but...I’m sure my job has been on the line for a while.” I can’t hold back the bitter reply.
“Why do you keep thinking you’re bad at your job?”
I turn my head and give her a ‘for real?’ look.
“People love working with you,” she protests.
“Yeah, but how do they feel about working for me?”
Renee stops in the middle of the sidewalk and faces me. “Dylan, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to think about it and answer honestly, even if you can’t answer right away. Do you like being a manager?”
“I’m grateful for it.”
That’s the first thing I felt when Monroe offered me the position: gratitude so strong it was closer to honour. She honoured me by giving me this job. There were people far more deserving on the staff, people without pasts like mine. My history had never been an issue for her before, and nothing had ever happened to make it a problem at the bar, but putting me in a position of power after she’d staked everything on that place was a whole new level of trust.
I don’t have reason to believe my past will ever follow me all the way to Taverne Toulouse, but that’s the thing about a record. You can never actually escape it. It’s always there, hanging over your head, waiting to cause problems and remind you of all the problems you caused other people.
All the problems you could still cause other people.
“I have to prove I’ve got what it takes to do this job,” I explain, “that I’m not going to mess this up.”
“Who do you have to prove that to?”