by Rose, Katia
I have no way to explain that to her.
“I love you.” I fling the words out like a five-year-old who thinks they’re a magic spell that will make everything okay.
They don’t. They can’t.
“I know you do,” she answers after a pause. “I love you too.”
We say our goodbyes, and the silence of the condo is heavy enough to feel like all four walls are closing in on me now that I don’t have her voice in my ear.
My head is still far from silent. It never shuts off: the constant to-do list, the assessing and analysing, the comparing and measuring up. Did I do enough today? What could I do better? What am I doing next?
Review sales reports, back check builder, contact potential wine bar staff, go on date with Monroe.
There she is, tacked onto the end of a string of things to accomplish like she’s just one more milestone.
This is why I haven’t seriously dated anyone since Fleur. This is what I do. I stuff people into the gaps and spaces in my schedule, and if that doesn’t work for them, I let them show themselves out.
Not with Monroe, I try to remind myself. You’ve made time for her.
But a dinner date hardly counts as being ready for a relationship. I haven’t been able to make enough time to go see my own mother during the past six years. When I asked Monroe out, I was so sure this was the right thing to do, that this was a shot worth taking. It felt too strong to ignore. Now I’m not sure what convinced me I had any right to waste her time when I already know the ending that’s in store.
My phone beeps as if it’s in agreement with me, and I pick it up again to find an extremely unexpected message from the very girl I’m thinking about.
What are you wearing?
I stare at the screen like I’m waiting for the punch line of joke.
Oh my god, she eventually sends in a second text, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant what are you wearing tonight? I just wanted to tell you we’re not going anywhere fancy. I know you probably usually wear suits out on dates.
I settle back onto the couch, smiling to myself, all my worries instantly pushed aside as I imagine her getting flustered. She looks adorable when she’s flustered.
What makes you say that?
Her reply arrives quickly.
Because you own a nightclub and use the word ‘palate’ unironically.
That one actually makes me snort. Some of my doubts start to slip away as I picture the way she wrinkles her nose when she’s mocking me. She makes everything seem so easy, so light.
I’ve felt heavy for far too long.
Judgemental, much? I ask.
You going to prove me wrong?
I walk over to my closet and stand in front of its contents for a moment before I give her my answer.
I just might, Monroe. I just might.
It’s a long shot, but I cling to the chance that I might end up proving myself wrong for once too.
Eight
Monroe
CRUSHABLE: Slang term used to describe a beer that is flavourful and easy to drink
“Are you busy?” I ask Roxanne.
“Define busy,” she replies, her usually smoky voice sounding even raspier than usual on the phone today.
I force the request out. “Do you have time to, um, help me with...a favour?”
I hear some rustling noises followed by a distinctly male groan of protest.
“You are asking for a favour?” Roxanne demands. “You, Monroe, Queen of Ignoring Her Own Needs in order to Meet the Needs of Others, are actually asking someone for help?”
“Well if you’re going to be a dickhead about it,” I grumble.
“Non, non, non!” she objects. “I’m so proud of you! What is it? Should I come over?”
More noises of a man in distress sound in the background.
“Tais-toi, Cole,” Roxanne snaps. “Monroe needs help.”
“Monroe needs help?” I hear him ask. He sounds out of breath, like he just finished running a half-marathon.
Or like he’s just been bumping uglies with my best friend.
“Am I, um, interrupting something?” I ask.
“Just sex,” Roxanne replies matter-of-factly. “We were almost done anyway.”
Which is probably why Cole sounds so pissed.
“Well if you don’t mind coming over, that might be easiest,” I tell Roxanne. “I managed to sneak away from work.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Monroe? I’ll be right there.”
“Oh, wait!” I interject. “Could I talk to Cole for a minute? I have something to ask him too.”
“Two favours? You’re really going for a record today, aren’t you?” she comments before passing the phone off.
“S’up, Cole?” I eventually ask, after he decides to fill a few seconds of silence with nothing but his breathing. He’s not exactly the world’s most communicative person. It makes for some very cryptic phone calls.
“I can tell you what was up,” he mutters. I can practically see him glowering.
“Ew. Save the innuendoes for your fiancée. I’m sure she’ll, uh, deliver the goods before she leaves.”
That at least gets the hint of a laugh out of him.
“So, I have something to ask you,” I continue.
“Anything.” His tone goes instantly serious.
That’s one of the things you can count on with Cole: when it comes to the stuff that matters, he doesn’t screw around. Behind that I-could-crush-you-with-my-fists aura of his is a heart of the purest gold. It’s that heart that I’m appealing to now.
“What are the chances that your band could play a show at Taverne Toulouse?”
Now he really does laugh.
“My band had to play three extra nights last time we booked a gig in Montreal because there was such a huge demand for tickets. You would have a riot on your hands if we showed up at Taverne Toulouse.”
“How humble of you,” I tease.
“Just stating the facts. I’m sorry, Monroe. If it was possible, you know we’d do it, but Ace can barely leave his own apartment these days without getting mobbed. It would turn into a shit show.”
Cole plays bass for an alt-rock band called Sherbrooke Station. They’ve been rising through the ranks of the music industry for years now and are the pierced and tatted up darlings of Montreal. While it might indeed start an actual riot, having them play at Taverne Toulouse would be a sure fire way to get people talking about the bar. I knew it was a long shot, but it was also one of my only shots, and I feel the desperation I’m becoming all too familiar with start rising in my stomach.
“I figured,” I say as evenly as I can. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“Roxy told me what’s going on over there. You’ll find a way to save the place,” he urges. “I know you will. You’re Monroe.”
“Unfortunately that doesn’t hold the same sway as being Sherbrooke Station.”
“I could talk to our label,” he offers, “see if there’s anyone else interested. We’re still the biggest band they’ve signed, but they have some major up-and-comers on there now. I’m sure you could get someone who would pull the student crowd in.”
“That would be great,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.”
“Glad I could do something.” His voice rises suddenly. “Hey, where do you think you’re taking that fine ass? I’m not done with it.”
“Excuse me?” I splutter.
“Talking to Roxy. She’s trying to leave.”
“And that is my cue to hang up.”
* * *
I own exactly one piece of clothing that I can remember paying more than fifty dollars for.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I consider essentials like boots and coats worth investing in, but the grey and white striped silk blouse from some fancy boutique on Saint-Catherine street was a spur of the moment splurge instigated by Roxanne.
As such, I have worn it a grand total of zero times.
�
��It’s kind of itchy,” I complain as Roxanne throws my coat at me and tries to shoo me out the door.
“No, it’s not. It’s silk. You’re just feeling weird about wearing it.”
“And these pants are too tight!” I insist.
“They’re high-waisted skinny jeans. They’re supposed to be like that. Fashion is pain.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Wow, you’re so metal.”
“I am. Now are you going on this date already?”
I stare down at my outfit, fussing with the edge of my shirt where it’s tucked into the pants. “Maybe I should change.”
Roxanne comes over and lays a hand on my arm. “You can wear whatever you want, Monroe. The most important thing is that you feel like yourself.”
“I know that,” I concede, “I just want to feel...like the most stylish version of myself.”
I’ve never been on a date where I didn’t half-expect the guy to show up in sweatpants. I planned on heading downtown straight from Taverne Toulouse before I realized meeting Julien in leggings and a turtleneck might not be the most desirable course of action. I then sent him a very stupid and embarrassing text in which I asked what he was wearing, but even after warning him that we wouldn’t be spending the evening in formal attire, I couldn’t shake the sudden onset of insecurity. This prompted a mad dash to my apartment and the frantic emptying of all my drawers before I realized my spring wardrobe consists of almost nothing but leggings.
I have only one friend who could work a fashion miracle with such limited resources. I suppose DeeDee could manage something too, but she’d probably just throw a tank top and some daisy dukes at me and tell me freezing my ass off is worth it if I look hot.
So I phoned Roxanne.
“I’ve never seen you so flustered before,” Roxy gushes as she pats me on the head. “It’s ben cute.”
“You’re not helping me feel better.”
She switches tactics. “Your ass looks amazing in those pants. Where are you meeting this guy?”
“Frango Tango.”
“You’re wearing this to Frango Tango? You’re going to knock him dead.”
My coat nearly slips out of my hands as horror takes hold of me. “Is it too fancy? I told you not to make me too fancy! I told you I wanted to look casually intriguing. You know, like, ‘maybe I trimmed my bush for this, maybe I didn’t’ kind of intriguing.”
“Did you trim your bush for this?”
I stay quiet for just a little too long.
“Ooh la la, someone’s getting laid tonight!”
“We are not having sex!” I protest. “Shaving is just part of my special occasion grooming routine, okay?”
“Right. I’m sure you shave your pubes for Christmas morning and your nephew’s birthday too.”
I lift my chin up in the air. “Maybe I do.”
“That would be so creepy. Now get your ass out the door. You look the exact right amount of fancy, and Frenchman is going to be on you like a magnet.”
“We’re not having sex,” I insist as I finally pull my coat on and Roxanne follows suit. It’s warm enough out that I can ditch my arctic explorer boots and go for some more fashionable—but equally functional—Blundstones instead. “I’m only going on this date because he has something he wants to tell me about the bar and refuses to tell me any other way.”
“I see,” Roxanne drawls in a way that suggests she ‘sees’ something else entirely.
“He’s hot, okay? I’ll admit that. I’m attracted to him, but where exactly do you see things going between us? You know those ‘Caution: Falling Rocks Ahead’ signs? Yeah, a giant one is staring Julien Valois and I in the face right now, and he doesn’t even know it yet. I’m going on one date with him, and then this ends.”
“But you did trim your bush.”
I lock the door behind us and turn to glare at her. “Don’t make me contemplate pushing you off this staircase, Nadeau.”
We ride the metro together all the way to the heart of downtown, where Roxanne hugs me before I exit the train. She stays behind to ride the rest of the way back to her and Cole’s condo.
“I owe you a beer for the fashion advice,” I call back over my shoulder.
“You owe me nothing, chérie. Have fun. Use protection.”
I give her the finger from the other side of the train doors.
Up on street level, I walk the two blocks to Frango Tango. The extremely popular Portuguese chicken place is just off Crescent Street, one of the main downtown nightlife hubs. It’s an excellent location for catering to customers looking to grab a quick snack before they head out drinking or to binge on meat and potatoes after they’re done with the night’s festivities.
Someone had their thinking cap on when they decided to put it here.
The red and blue storefront comes into view up ahead, a guy in a tracksuit leaning up against it as he looks at his phone. It prompts me to pull out my own phone and see if Julien’s arrived already and let me know he’s inside. I don’t have any texts, so I head for the door to grab us a seat myself.
I’m only a few feet away when the tracksuit guy looks up.
“Oh...my god.”
I don’t even bother to be subtle as I let my eyes travel from his feet to his head to his feet again as I take the ensemble in: battered Nike running shoes, faded grey sweatpants clinging to his hips, a Cambridge University crew neck sweater, and an actual ball cap with the Cambridge logo on it perched on his head.
Julien Valois has dressed down.
He smirks at me where I know I must be gaping at him like a fish. “Told you I’d prove you wrong. There you were, thinking I only wear suits on dates.”
I clamp a hand over my mouth as I stand there shaking my head.
“How do you like the look?”
“You...” I stutter from behind my fingers. “You look...”
‘Fucking hot’ would be the most accurate term to use here. Julien does laid back sporty almost as well as he does business casual. I didn’t know sweat pants could do the things they’re doing for his body, and the hat makes him look like some sort of army sergeant on his day off—except it’s a Cambridge hat, so he also has the added benefit of scholarly values spritzed on him like a fine cologne. He’s a complex cocktail of manly charms with an alcohol content high enough to get you drunk off just the smell of him.
And sweet lord on high, do I ever want to smell him right now.
“You look adequate,” I manage.
He tips his head back and laughs. “Adequate. I’ll take that. Shall we?”
I let him hold the door open for me as we step inside. The wave of garlic, oil, and spicy Piri Piri that meets my noise as soon as I’m over the threshold settles what was left of the nervousness tying knots in my stomach. All I can think about for a few seconds is food.
“Mon dieu,” I moan, “that smell. I haven’t been here in forever. I used to come all the time when I was studying at Concordia. Have you had this stuff before?”
“I have, actually,” he admits, “a time or two.”
It’s the kind of place where you order at the counter and then have your food brought to your table. I strip my coat off and leave it lying across a booth to claim our spot. I turn back to Julien, expecting him to have already joined the small lineup, but he’s standing stock still in the middle of the restaurant, staring at me.
“What?” I demand, glancing down at my shirt to check for whatever giant stain could be causing his reaction.
“Nothing. Um, just...” he stammers, eyes still wide and slightly unfocused behind his glasses, like he’s just taken a hit of some overpowering drug. “You look...adequate.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and all I can manage is a super suave reply of, “Oh.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so pleased to be called ‘adequate’ before. I really do owe Roxanne a beer.
We take our place in line, and I dash up to the front to grab a laminated copy of the menu before passing it off to Jul
ien. I already know what I’m getting, and I take the opportunity to observe the warm decor of the room: blue and red walls that match the brightly tiled counter, striped blankets hung like tapestries to give the place an intimate feel. It’s far from fine dining, but the soft lights are comforting and the music pumping through the speakers always sounds like it might be drifting in off the streets of Lisbon.
“I like this place,” I muse while Julien scans the items on the page. “I know it’s probably not up to your classy standards, but there’s something to be said for hominess. I always feel like I’m walking into someone’s quaint little living room in Portugal. There’s this one family who has three generations working here. It’s a pretty amazing story. It all started with this one guy, Bento, who came over to Canada by himself. I used to chat with him when I was a student. He barely spoke English when he arrived, but he got a job here when the place was opening, and he worked so hard he’s the manager now. He was able to bring his whole family over because of this place. His mom works here, and now it’s his son’s summer job too. It’s just a little hole in the wall chicken place, but it changed their lives.”
I can’t take Julien seriously in that ball cap, but there’s something so intense in his expression it almost makes me forget he’s dressed like a jogger.
“I didn’t know that,” he says slowly, the words laced with a pensiveness that doesn’t make sense to me.
“Why would you?” I question.
We make it to the front of the line just then, and I’m quick to order the combo that fueled me through so many long days of lectures. Julien orders the same. I don’t even know why they bother having a full menu; everyone gets the combo.
“Good evening, sir,” says the girl behind the register, flicking her big brown eyes to Julien and then dipping them back down like she’s embarrassed. She can’t be older than twenty.
“Good evening,” he replies. “How are you?”
That seems to bolster her courage a little. She gives him a shy smile. “I’m good, thank you. We’ll have your food ready for you as soon as possible.”