by Rose, Katia
“I have never purposefully tried to make you spit your drink out.”
“Oh really? I’m pretty sure I’m on the verge of spitting my drink out every time I see you walk into a room. I can’t do any heavy lifting with you around because I just end up dropping things on my feet. Hell, I’d probably walk straight into traffic if I ever saw you standing across the street from me. You’re a hazard, Renee Nyobé.”
“A hazard? Wow, flattering.”
I am flattered. I can feel the heat climbing up my neck again.
“So.” I scramble to change the subject before this moment gets way too sexually charged for a coffee shop. “I told you about my best friend. Now you tell me about yours.”
He taps his chin. “Hmm. My best friend.”
“You have to think about that?”
“Hey, Renee, I’m a popular guy. I have more friends than I know what to do with. There’s a waiting list to become my friend. You don’t realize just how lucky you are to be getting this one on one session with me. You just jumped ahead of people who’ve been in line for years.”
“Ha ha.”
I know he’s not exaggerating all that much. He is a popular guy. He’s done well enough in the spoken word scene that he could be featuring at slams all across the country. I’m sure even now, years after his last time competing at nationals, he’s still getting invitations to do workshops and guest speaking.
“As far as work goes, I’d say I’m closest with Zach,” Dylan answers, still tapping his chin. “I’m pretty close with Monroe too, but that’s more of a...I mean it’s weird to call it a ‘motherly’ relationship, so she’s more of an equal parts strict and caring...godmother?”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone describe their boss as a godmother.”
“What should I call her, then? A bar mother? A beer mother?”
I’m glad I don’t have any latte in my mouth as I let out an involuntary snort. “Beer mother. Wow. Okay, let’s go with that. So that’s who you’re closest with at work. What about outside of work?”
“Uh...” He stares off into the distance like he’s genuinely struggling to come up with an answer. “I mean, Stella and Owen, the poets I used to run the workshops with, we’re all still pretty close. They’re actually the driving force behind the Montreal slam group now. I don’t see them as much as I did back when we ran the workshops, but they’re good friends. It’s hard not to get close when you’re all splitting your souls open sharing poems every month.”
I nod. That’s part of the reason Tahseen and I became so important to each other so fast. Poetry has a way of cracking open people’s shells, of splitting apart the layers it takes most people years to chip away at when they only see one another in passing.
It’s probably why I ended up crushing so hard on Dylan, why even then I was convinced I recognized something more in him than just a teenaged fantasy.
“What?” Dylan demands, snapping me out of my temporary daze. “You have this goofy smile on your face. What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing!” I gulp down more of my drink to cover for myself.
“Nuh-uh. That was not a nothing smile. What were you just thinking?”
“I was just...remembering some stuff about the workshops.”
“Was it something stupid I did? I know I used to come up with a lot of weird exercises for you guys to do. Sometimes they worked really well. Other times you guys were just like, ‘Hell no, Dylan, we are not doing that.’”
“Oh!” I snap my fingers, a memory I haven’t thought about in years resurfacing. “Like the time you wanted us to eat all those different foods while we said our poems?”
“Hey, that was a good idea!”
He brought in a bunch of strongly flavoured food items to a workshop one day—lemons, chili peppers, coffee grinds, anything bitter or spicy enough to make you pull a face while eating it—and had us perform our pieces in between taking bites. The goal was to show us how much delivery impacts a poem, how you could be telling the sweetest love story known to mankind and still leave the audience on a sour note if you spit your words just right. That’s what we call it in the spoken word community: spitting. It’s a high compliment to be told you spit good.
“The chili peppers were taking it too far,” I argue, “and don’t tell me you forgot about that girl’s lips swelling up because she was allergic to lemons.”
Dylan throws his hands up in the air. “Who the fuck is allergic to lemons?”
“Apparently she was.”
“Yeah, apparently. How do you go fifteen years without realizing you have a citrus allergy? God, that scared me shitless. I thought her throat was going to close up. It was also really difficult for me and Owen to explain to the paramedic why we had a room full of teenagers eating lemon wedges at the library.”
We both burst out laughing, loud enough to turn a few heads. There were quite a few eventful evenings at the library, but that was the only one to involve emergency services.
“That’s not what you were thinking about though, was it?” Dylan prods after we’ve both calmed down. It’s almost like he can tell exactly what I was thinking, like he’s just waiting for me to admit it.
“It’s so embarrassing.”
“Well now you have to tell me.”
I groan. “You’re going to laugh. It’s so stupid.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I can wait this out all day, Renee.”
It’s not an empty threat; he really will just sit here. I let out another groan before conceding.
“So, back when I was in the workshops, I kind of...sort of...had like a massive crush on you. I pretended it was no big deal to Tahseen, but she always saw right through me. You were just so...charismatic.”
“Charismatic?”
I point a finger at him. “Do not make fun of me!”
Instead of laughing like I expect him to, he wraps his fingers around mine and brings it to his lips to press a kiss to the pad, to the ridges and swirls of my fingerprint, to the part of me that leaves a trace of who I am on everything I touch.
“You thought I was charismatic,” he repeats as he lets me go. “You looked at me and saw...something worth looking at.”
This is a part of him I’ve only ever glimpsed before. Dylan Trottard, the guy who lights up every room he walks into, has gone dim.
“I can barely stop myself from looking at you,” I admit. It’s the truth. I could spot him in a crowd of thousands. “Sometimes taking my eyes off you is...a near physical impossibility.”
Other than laying his hand on my thigh under the table and squeezing before pulling away, he doesn’t seem to have an answer for that, so I remind him of my question.
“Are you gonna tell me about your best friend?”
He smirks. “I told you, I have a lot of friends.”
“But not a best friend?” I prod. “Did you have one growing up?”
“I...” He trails off, sipping at his coffee and then twisting so he can stretch his arms behind his back in that signature Dylan gesture.
I try not to let myself get too distracted by how good he looks doing it. I only meant to ask a getting-to-know-you question, but we seem to have launched this conversation into the deep end. I sit as still as I can, keeping my expression calm and open as he works out what he wants to tell me.
“I don’t really keep in touch with anyone I grew up with,” he begins. “I didn’t grow up in a bad neighborhood, per se, but it wasn’t great. My mom became a single mother after my dad left when I was seven. It was just me, her, and my brother growing up.”
“Peter.”
He blinks at me in shock after I blurt out his brother’s name.
“You have a poem about him,” I explain, heating with embarrassment. If he thought my teenage crush was endearing, he might be reconsidering it now that I sound like a creep. “I’ve heard you perform it a few times.”
“Right. Yeah. I forgot about tha
t piece.” He runs a hand over his chin. “It was just me, Mom, and Peter. Petey. That’s what we called him.”
“Are you still...in touch with him?”
He doesn’t flinch or get angry, but it does take him a while to answer the question.
“My mom, she...It’s just...hard. All of it’s really hard. That’s my fault, though.”
It’s like we’ve been exploring each other’s lives by lantern light, and I just stumbled upon a chasm I had no idea was waiting for me. I haven’t got enough light to see how deep it goes, but its jagged edges scar the surface of who he is. I don’t know how I’ve never seen it before, how he’s kept something that can make him sound so hollow hidden for so long.
“Whatever it is, whatever happened”—I reach for his hand under the table and guide it up until both our hands are just in front of my face—“I’m still here.”
I press my lips to his knuckles, and this man, this hilarious, handsome, broad-shouldered beefcake of a man, trembles from the press of my mouth to his skin.
“I’ve seen too much good in you to get scared away by any of the bad.” I kiss his hand once more for good measure before lowering it to the table. He doesn’t let go. Our fingers stay twined together there on the lacquered wood.
“I can’t thank you enough for saying that, Renee, but—”
“No buts,” I interrupt. “That didn’t come with conditions. You still want this after seeing me hyperventilate in an alleyway, after learning about the toughest parts of who I am. At least give me the benefit of the doubt when it comes to returning the favour.”
He stares at our hands wrapped around each other on the table as he gives a single nod.
“All right, Renee. I promise to doubt your benefit.”
“Asshole!” I want to smack him, but that would require pulling my hand away, and I’m not quite ready to do that. “I’m being serious.”
“I know.” His tone gets somber again. “Believe me when I say I want to share all of me with you, as fucking terrifying as that is, but there are parts of me, parts that have been kind of hard to ignore lately, that, well...They’re not things you share in a coffee shop on a second date.”
I nod.
Time. He’s asking for time. I can give him that.
“Taking it slow,” I reply. “Got it.”
He grins at me like he’s the one having secret thoughts now.
“What?” I demand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I was just thinking about how proud of us I am. I’ve wanted to kiss you so bad it hurts since you got off that bus, and look at me, just sitting here resisting temptation.”
My gaze slides to his mouth, reminding me just how much I’ve wanted to kiss him.
“Please.” I can’t keep the urgency out of my voice. “Stop resisting temptation.”
He slides closer on the bench and detaches his hand from mine so he can slip an arm around my shoulders. His lips hover a breath away from mine before finally giving me what I want, what we both want—so badly it’s enough to make me feel weak with relief when I finally get it. His tongue sweeps over the crease between my lips, and I part for him, unable to deny the rush of intensity. Some distant part of me recognizes that we’re now having a dark-corner-of-a-bar style make-out session in broad daylight in a cute little cafe, but I can’t bring myself to care.
He tastes like espresso, dark and heady with the power to seep right into my veins. I could live on that taste. It’s more thrilling than any rush I’ve ever felt before. It makes me understand why people are so willing to destroy themselves chasing a high.
I don’t know how long we kiss for. I do know it’s time to cool things off when the urge to slide my body into his lap is interrupted by me bumping into the table and nearly knocking our drinks over. I was about to straddle him in a cafe.
“Jesus,” Dylan mutters. His eyes are still half-closed, just glittering slits that make me wish we were somewhere—anywhere but here.
“I think we just gave everyone a bit of a show,” I mumble. I resist the urge to look around the room, figuring I’d rather not know just how many people are staring or glaring.
“They probably thought we had some sort of hand fetish,” Dylan jokes. “At least now they know we also kiss like normal people.”
“There was nothing normal about that kiss,” I interject, so quick it almost comes out harsh.
“You’re right,” Dylan agrees. “That wasn’t even on the same planet as normal.”
His tone has me wanting to jump in his lap again.
“What do you say we get to the walking part of the walking and talking?” I suggest instead. “The rain has pretty much stopped.”
I try to sound casual, but once again, he reads my mind.
“You just want to make out in the park, don’t you?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out when we get to the park.” I start to stand up before glancing at our table. “Oh shit, I forgot all about my drink, and you’re all done. Do you want another one for the walk?”
“I’ll just help you with yours. I need to try this apparently excellent chai latte.” He grabs my mostly full cup and downs several sizeable gulps. “You’re right, that is good.”
I take the drink back and gaze into the dregs. “Thank you for emptying half my cup for me, Dylan.”
“Ah, Renee.” He shrugs himself into his coat before patting my head. “Some would say the cup is half empty, others would say half full. Your outlook on that is up to you.”
“Wow, what a philosopher.”
I take my final two sips and drop the cup in the trash can after Dylan’s on our way out the door.
“So, which was it?” he asks, as the chill in the air makes us both pull our clothes tighter around us. “Half empty, or half full?”
I stand on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms around his neck and contemplating his face for a moment.
“With you,” I tell him, “it’s always half full.”
I press my lips to his, and the sparks that flare behind my eyelids are anything but normal.
Fifteen
Renee
CACOPHONY: A group of strong, harsh sounds within a sentence or phrase that is used to create a sense of unease
“Call me if you need anything, mes chers,” DeeDee sings out as she throws a jean jacket on over her crop top and shoves her phone into her purse. “I will try to answer if my mouth isn’t too busy.”
She says the last part quietly enough that only I can hear and wags her eyebrows at me. She booked a few hours off tonight to see her flavour of the month sing at an open mic night and has been very clear about what she plans to do with him after the show. It’s cute to see her so excited about someone, but like everyone else at the bar, I can’t help wondering why she’s out there looking for love when she’s got a sure-fire shot right here. Zach was trying to hide how gloomy he was before he left for the night, but I know him well enough now to see right through his forced smiles.
“Do you need me to go over the tip out again?” DeeDee asks me and my fellow bartender for the night, a new guy around my age named Sam. It’s the first time either of us will be working without a senior staff member on the bar, but it’s a Monday night and the place has been dead enough that I’m sure I could handle things on my own. With the two of us here, we shouldn’t have any problems.
“I think we’re good,” I answer.
She pats me on the head. “You have a busser here until the end of the night, so they’ll do most of the front of house close for you. It’s just the bar stuff you need to worry about, and you’re very good at that. You too, Sam! I believe in you guys!”
She blows us a trail of kisses as she heads out the door and then knocks on the window outside before flashing a thumbs up.
“She never slows down, does she?” Sam comments.
“No,” I reply. “No, she does not.”
Business for the night does slow down. By midnight, there are only three guys left crowded ar
ound a table, finishing the dregs of their beers. The kitchen has been closed since ten, and the busser has subtly been cleaning up the front of house to send the guys a message. It’s only him, Sam, and I left on the clock. We’ve done everything we can to speed the close along without actually closing.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Sam mutters, tapping his fingers against the bar. “How long does it take to drink a beer?”
“You getting sleepy?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I just have someone to go see.”
I don’t know him well enough to ask what he’s doing meeting someone at midnight, but the answer is pretty clear. If DeeDee was here, she’d be shouting ‘Boooooooty call!’ loud enough to disturb the customers.
“Do you guys need help with anything else?” The busser saunters over and leans across the bar to check the time on the POS system. “I might head out if you’re both staying until closing time—if that’s okay with you guys?”
I don’t know what the policy on leaving early is. Usually when it’s dead, the highest ranking member of staff will let me know I can leave, but we’re all equally ranked tonight. What I do know is we certainly don’t need three people on the payroll with business this slow.
“I’m cool if you go. Sam?”
Sam’s rocking back and forth on his heels with impatience now. “Yeah, you head out. These guys can’t take longer than five minutes to finish, and then we can all finally go.”
The busser leaves, and five minutes go by. Then ten. Then fifteen. I glance at the clock and then at Sam, where he’s actually started pacing up and down behind the bar. We’re under orders to close up only once the last customer leaves, but this is ridiculous. Taverne Toulouse is just losing more money by the second.
Since the guys ordered from me, I make the executive decision to go over and ask them to settle up.
“Hey, guys,” I greet them. “How’s it going?”
They gaze at me with hazy eyes; they’ve all been here for a few hours and a few beers.
“Are you coming over to kick us out, baby?” one of them drawls as the others laugh.