by Rose, Katia
I don’t even know if we’re dating. If I let him into my apartment, if he runs his hands over my books, if he leaves his scent soaked into my sheets, if I wake up to find him pouring coffee into my favourite mugs, this thing between us won’t just feel serious. It will be serious—which could be a serious problem.
Time is passing so much faster than I thought it would. My deadline with Fournier will be here before I know it, which also marks my deadline with Julien. There’s something here, something strong—something that wants to get stronger—but I don’t know if it’s enough to change the nature of who he is and what he wants.
Yet that’s the only way to protect who I am and what I want.
It’s too much to think about right now. It’s so much easier to let myself get lost in him, in the warmth of his touch and the spark of his company, if only for a matter of hours.
“So,” I break the silence that’s been stretching on for way too long as I step out onto the walkway beside Julien, “where are we going tonight?”
I feel his eyes on me as I fumble to get my key in the lock, but if he recognizes my efforts to put up a desperate barrier for what they are, he doesn’t comment on it.
“I’m not going to spoil the surprise,” he answers.
“A surprise, eh?”
His hand finds the small of my back as we head down the stairs together.
“To be honest, it’s more that I’m not sure you’ll come with me if you know where we’re going,” he admits.
I throw my head back and laugh. “What a promising start to the evening.”
We make our way to the closest metro station and head downtown. Julien announces that we’re getting off when we arrive at the McGill University stop.
“We’re going on campus?” I ask as we wade through the crowd exiting the station and then start heading for the main entrance to the university grounds.
“Indeed we are.”
Despite being spread out across several streets in the heart of downtown, McGill has always had a kind of Hogwarts castle appeal to me. The old buildings are gorgeous, all grey stone columns and pediments with wide, tree-lined lanes between them. The buds on the branches are just starting to unfurl into tiny yellow-green leaves.
“I wish Concordia was this pretty,” I muse. My own school is very much an urban university, tucked in among all the high rises and office buildings. “I used to come study here sometimes.”
“You never thought about switching schools?”
I scoff. “You don’t go to McGill to study English. This is a doctors and lawyers kind of school.”
“They also have some excellent professors of economics,” Julien add slyly, directing us toward one of the newer buildings.
“What exactly are you leading me to?”
“I promise I’m still taking you on a real date tonight,” he assures me, “but before that, I wanted to catch this lecture.”
We reach the door to the building, and he holds it open for me before leading me down a hallway inside.
“I used to come hang out on this campus too,” he tells me. “I would sit in on lectures from time to time. At first I was just curious to see how it would compare to Cambridge—”
“Oh, of course,” I interrupt, putting on a posh British accent. “We must assure ourselves that the plebeians are not becoming overly educated.”
“Precisely,” he jokes, mimicking the same accent for a moment. “But really, I just wanted to see what it was like, and that’s how I found this guy. His name is Doctor Josh Phillips.”
“Sounds legit.”
“You sort of remind me of him.”
I’m doing a lot of scoffing tonight. “I remind you of a professor of economics?”
“He wrote this book called The Human Factor. It challenges many widely accepted economic theories by arguing humans will never completely prescribe to a rule that’s been worked out with data on a page because they’re...well, human.”
“And that reminds you of me?”
“It reminds me of you because he finds a way to see an element of humanity in everything, even when other academics start tearing him down—which they do, a lot, but he also built a multi-million dollar media company before selling it and getting his PhD, so I don’t think he really gives a damn when people say he knows nothing about business.”
“I’ll admit you’re intriguing me,” I reply. “Are we allowed to just walk in on this lecture?”
“There’s over a hundred people in the class. We’ll be fine.”
We slip into the lecture hall with a group of passing students and take seats in the middle of the room.
“This brings back memories,” I comment, flipping the little table thing down in front of me once I’m settled.
“Let me guess. You were a front row kind of girl?”
“If I’m going to a class, then I want to actually hear it,” I shoot back. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I always sat in the front row at Cambridge.”
“We’re such nerds.”
We chat more about the professor and his human factor as the lecture hall fills up. At a few minutes past seven-thirty, Doctor Phillips takes the stage. He’s your average fifty-something white guy in slacks and a button-down shirt, but his voice instantly has the whole room going silent. He speaks like a Shakespearean actor, every word crisp and rich, filled with weight and warning, with the deep waters of wisdom and a spark of wildness.
“What makes a leader?” he asks. “What does it really mean to lead? We talk about leading companies, leading countries, leading trends and systems. Yet what is a company made of? What defines a country? What does a trend indicate, and what does a system seek to control?”
We wait in silence, though I already know the answer.
“People. Human beings. Though we may measure economics through a host of other metrics, ultimately we are seeking to understand—and in many cases, profit from—people. Those who are able to do so successfully are the ones who emerge as leaders. So I ask again, with that statement in mind, what makes a leader? What does it take to lead?”
And that’s how I spend two hours of my life totally enraptured by a lecture about the economy. Doctor Phillips paints a picture of leadership in colours I’ve never seen before, never thought to consider. I’ve always seen being a leader as nothing more than a necessary part of my job. I take on that role because there’s no one else to do it and it needs to be done. It’s an item on a list of errands to run. It doesn’t define me.
But what if it did?
I spend so much time making sure everyone else is accomplishing their plans that I’ve never really allowed myself to come up with plans of my own. I’ve never put an idea up in front of people and asked them to fight for it, to fight for me.
I’ve also never wanted anything as much as I want to keep what Taverne Toulouse means to me alive, and as the saying goes: to get something you’ve never had, you’ve got to do something you’ve never done.
“So?” Julien asks, mimicking my question to him after the poetry slam.
“Well played,” I answer. “You’re working very hard to convince me you’re right about everything. I might just be starting to think your Machiavellian mind may not be totally evil.”
“I do not have a Machiavellian mind!” he protests. “That is an extreme statement.”
“Well tell me this: if you had to be loved or feared as a leader, which would you pick?”
“I mean...a healthy degree of fear is necessary for a successful professional relationship.”
“Ha!” I point a finger at him as students shuffle past us on their way to the door. “Just like old Niccolò himself!”
“I said a healthy degree!” Julien insists. “And I didn’t say I would pick it over love if it came down to it. I’m just not...sure. Both are important.”
“I don’t think my staff fears me,” I counter.
“Oh, I think they do.” I start to argue differently, but he fo
rges on. “They love you, yes, but they also respect you and know you’re capable of enough ass kicking to not want to get in your way.”
I can’t help it; I start to giggle and it morphs into a full-on laugh attack.
“What?” he demands. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just...when you say ‘ass’...Like, normally your accent is subtle, but with ‘ass’ it’s like...”
I can’t finish my sentence.
“What’s wrong with how I say ass?” he asks, genuinely confused.
Of course, that just makes me laugh even harder.
“It’s like you put an ‘h’ in front of it,” I choke out. “It’s like ‘hass!’”
He shakes his head at me. “I do not say hass.”
“Yes, you do!”
The few remaining students in the room are starting to stare at us.
“You are complètement fou,” Julien insists. “Let’s get out of here. Move your lovely hass.”
He almost has to drag me up the stairs I’m laughing so hard.
* * *
“So, is this the part where you ask me if I want to come up?”
We’re at the bottom of the stairs leading to my apartment. Julien made good on his promise to take me on a real date tonight; we got poutine and wandered around downtown with our greasy cardboard containers before deciding to pretend it was summer with the dozen or so other people queuing for cones from one of the city’s most popular ice cream places.
Now Julien’s hands grip my hips and my arms are wrapped around his neck, his question about me inviting him up spoken between breathless kisses.
“What, you think you’re getting lucky or something?” I joke.
His hands slide down to my butt.
“Are you trying to tell me I’m not getting a piece of this hass?”
“Oh my god, stop it!”
He’s been teasing me with ‘hass’ all night.
“If I stop, do I get to see your apartment?” he asks.
“You love making deals, don’t you?”
“I’m a businessman.”
I snort at that. “What about Madame Bovary?”
“I knew we’d be out late, so I left her at doggie daycare for the night.”
I almost choke I start laughing so hard. “Did you just say doggie daycare?”
“What?” he protests. “You’ve never heard of it?”
“I’ve heard of it,” I concede. “It’s just very funny to hear you say it.”
He makes a show of rolling his eyes as he waits for me to get myself under control. We’re still latched onto each other, and his closeness steals my breath as soon as I’m calm again.
“I don’t have a lot of people over,” I say softly, letting my thumbs stroke the skin of his neck.
“If you’re trying to tell me it’s messy—”
“It’s not that.”
He doesn’t ask for me to elaborate, and that’s how I know he already understands. He brought me to his place before he knew about all the obstacles that stand in our way. Taking this step now, with everything out in the open, will mean more.
“It scares me, this,” he murmurs, squeezing my hips so I know he means me. Us. “It feels...”
“I know,” I answer when he doesn’t go on. “I know what you mean.”
“You don’t have to invite me up.”
But I will.
I knew we would end up here as soon as I opened my door and saw him standing there in his leather jacket.
Sending him home now won’t keep him out of my life. Not really. He’s already stepped inside.
“Julien...”
Beep beep. Beep beep.
“Shit.” Julien’s whole face falls. “That’s the emergency work ring tone.”
He’s the only person I’ve met besides me who has multiple ring tones for varying levels of work-related issues.
I let my arms drop from around his neck and step back. “You better get it.”
Our nights together usually include a few phone calls or texting interruptions, both on his side and mine. It’s a relief to not always have to be so apologetic about it the way I am with people who aren’t eternally chained to their occupation.
“Oui, allô?” Julien turns away and greets whoever’s on the other end of the line. “Quoi? Encore?”
His tone takes on a note of exasperation as he asks a few more questions before ending the call. He doesn’t turn back to me right away. I see his shoulders rise and fall as he pulls in a few heavy breaths.
When he faces me, he’s the picture of regret.
“You have to go,” I summarize before he can speak.
I try not to sound disappointed. I shouldn’t be disappointed; this is saving me from a decision I’m not sure I’m ready to make, and more than that, it’s a situation I should be able to understand. I’ve been on the other side of it so many times.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I—”
“No, Monroe. It’s not okay, and it’s not enough to just say I’m sorry. I...” His eyes drift up to the top of the staircase. “I hate this. I hate that I always have to put something else first. I want...”
He doesn’t tell me what he wants, and I don’t dare guess. Whatever it is, it’s waiting for us up there in my apartment.
Maybe we’ll never take those steps. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe this is a sign, some sort of cosmic intervention, but—
“I’ll come with you.”
He gives me a questioning look. “What?”
“I’ll come with you, wherever you’ve got to go tonight. We’ll get the problem sorted out, and then...Then maybe we can continue where we left off.”
“You really don’t need to do that. It’s late. I don’t want to drag you all over the city,” he insists.
I don’t budge. “Where are we going?”
“The damn sink at one of the Frango Tango locations is broken, and the manager on duty isn’t answering his phone. We won’t get a plumber in until tomorrow, so I’m heading over there to see what I can come up with for tonight. But you don’t have to—”
“I know a thing or two about makeshift plumbing solutions, Bordeaux boy. The pipes in Taverne Toulouse are awful.”
I force him into ordering us an Uber, and we climb into the car a few minutes later before riding all the way out to Lachine.
“How late is this place open?” I ask as we get out in front of the restaurant that sits next to a few fast food places in a big shopping complex lot.
“Nine, but there’s someone in late tonight prepping catering for tomorrow.”
We’re met by a very frazzled cook who brings us over to the sink in the back room. The high pressure hose is spewing water out with rapid and unstoppable force, and it looks like it’s been duct taped to the wall above the basin for some reason.
“I don’t know what happened!” the cook insists in French. “I was rinsing some dishes, and then it wouldn’t shut off. I had to tape it up because if you try to hang it on the hook, it just sprays all over the kitchen.”
“You got everything done for tomorrow, though?” Julien asks.
“Yes,” the cook hurries to inform him. “Everything we can do in advance, yes.”
“Great. You can go home, Antoine.”
“But—”
“It’s late,” Julien interrupts. “You’ve been here for a while. We’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not going to get fired, am I?”
I’m leaning over the sink examining the hose, but I glance over my shoulder to watch Julien glare at him as he gives his answer.
“I thought you didn’t have any idea what happened. Why would I fire you for that?”
The cook gives a nervous laugh. “Right. Ouais. Okay. I’m going home now.”
He grabs a backpack off the floor and heads out as fast as he can.
“Machiavelli,” I tease.
Julien puts a hand on his chest to make it clear he’s offended. “I was joking
around!”
“I don’t think he knew that.”
“Well he did definitely do something to fuck up the sink.”
I turn back to the projectile water stream.
“I think I can fix it,” I announce, “or at least stop it until you get an actual plumber in. Do you have a wrench?”
Julien just laughs.
“I’m serious!” I urge. “Get me a wrench.”
He hunts around the kitchen for a few minutes before he comes back with a tool kit.
“Will this work?”
“That’s like a wrench for babies.” I give the puny thing he offers me a contemptuous look.
“I’m afraid the baby wrench is all we’ve got, chérie.”
“Well then stand back and watch what this chérie can do with a pipe.”
Julien actually snorts. I put my hands on my hips and glare at him.
“Or I could just not help you.”
“It’s not that. It’s just funny; in French ‘une pipe’ is—”
“Oh, right.” I start to laugh along with him; it’s a slang word for ‘blowjob.’ “Well, you already know what I can do with those.”
“That I do.” He sighs wistfully. “That I do.”
He’s still reminiscing about nights gone by as I turn back to the sink and start twisting a few pieces with the wrench. I actually have no idea if this is going to work, but I learned long ago that plumbers will often charge you a couple hundred dollars for a two minute job you could have accomplished by knocking a few things around yourself.
You just have to know which things to knock.
The water stream slows down but continues pouring out as I try a few different combinations.
“Um, okay, I think maybe if I just...” I squat down so I can reach under the sink and twist a few more things with the wrench before smacking it against one of the pipes. The water shuts off.
“Aha!” I cry triumphantly, shaking the wrench in the air as I pull myself to my feet.
Julien’s watching me with way more heat in his gaze than I expected.
“I won’t lie,” he says, running a hand over his beard in a way that always gets me going. “That was incredibly sexy.”