by Rose, Katia
I’m going to be me now, and I know it’s selfish to ask, but I would really like you to meet that person, to let him prove there’s nothing holding him back anymore.
I can’t lie; he’s all yours if you want him.
I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk to me. That’s why I wrote this in a note. I was an idiot for taking this long to tell you about the bar. It wasn’t my intention, and I really do have an explanation for you if you want to hear it. I knew you probably wouldn’t open the door if I rang, but I’ll be hanging around your staircase—and possibly getting arrested by the neighbourhood watch—for the next few minutes if you want to talk. I have so much I want to tell you and so much I want to ask.
-Julien
Well, fuck.
My hand is shaking where it grips the page and my heart is a jackhammer in my chest, but my mind is strangely blank. I’m like a video stuck in buffering mode, unable to move to the next frame.
Monroe is loading. Please wait.
Several minutes pass before I can push myself up off the couch, my steps tentative as I cross the room and crack the front door open. The streetlamps are on, illuminating a circle of sidewalk at the bottom of my staircase, but there’s no one in sight.
“Julien?” I call, my voice barely above normal conversation volume. I can hear my neighbour’s TV through an open window, and I don’t want to rouse the entire building by shouting for strange men in the night. There’s no answer, though, so I try again, louder this time.
Still nothing. He must have given up. I glance at the neighbour’s place before padding out onto the landing in my bare feet and cupping my hands around my mouth.
“Julien!”
He comes running from up the street. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt that’s probably from some fancy brand name. The price tag might just be worth it with the way the fabric clings to his chest. That beard, those damn scholar’s glasses, that fucking smile—it’s enough to make me forget all about the answers and questions hanging over our heads. For a moment, all I want is to rush down this staircase and into his arms before making him carry me back up so I can lock the two of us in my apartment for the next several days—possibly weeks.
Then the moment passes and fades to a distant yearning somewhere deep in my chest. We have some shit to sort out first, and it can’t wait until later. As if he senses my resolve, he pauses at the foot of the staircase and looks up at me, seeking permission.
“You were right,” I tell him. “You were an idiot.”
He looks so instantly chagrined it’s almost as if his smile slides off his face and onto the sidewalk. I fight to urge to run down and scoop it up to put it back where it belongs.
“You bought the bar almost two week ago, and you’re just telling me now?”
“I wanted to do it in person.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I repeat: you bought the bar two weeks ago.”
“And I had a plan to tell you as soon as it was a done deal, but then my grandmother died, and—”
“Wait, wait, wait!” I cut him off, one hand flying off my hip to rest over my thumping heart. “Your grandmother died? Oh my god, Julien, I...”
“It’s okay. I’m actually kind of glad because—”
“Hold up!” I interrupt again. “You’re glad your grandmother died?”
“Non, not that she died, but—Voyons, I think maybe I should come inside so we can start this from the beginning.”
I hold up a finger. “You’re still not off the hook, but I think maybe you’re right.”
That hopeful grin is back on his face as he climbs the stairs two at a time.
“Ah, merde!”
I’m pulling the door open when the disembodied exclamation makes both of us jump.
“They’re going inside,” continues the same voice in French from behind the window next door.
“Merde!” a second voice echoes. “That was even better than a soap opera.”
“Great,” I mutter, while Julien starts cracking up. I hurry him inside. “My love life is tonight’s prime time entertainment.
Even in the middle of laughing at my expense, he manages to raise an eyebrow. “Your love life, huh?”
I shoot him a withering look. “I told you you’re not off the hook yet. Start talking.”
I lead the way into the living room and flop down on the couch, clearing enough of my books and papers away to give him a place to sit beside me—with a cushion’s worth of distance between us. That t-shirt is still distractingly tight, and I need to enforce self-control.
I wonder if he wore it on purpose.
“What point should I start at?” he asks.
“Start with me leaving your apartment after I asked you not to buy the bar.”
A shadow passes over him. A storm starts to rage in his eyes.
“I...I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t say a lot of things I wanted to. I’m sorry. I should have been ready, but I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to let go of—of all the...the...”
He struggles to put it into words, but he doesn’t have to. I lay my hand on his arm for the briefest of moments before pulling away.
“I know what you mean.”
He dips his head in a nod heavy with gratitude. “When you left, I realized I never wanted to see you walk away from me again.”
The air gets so thick I struggle to pull it into my lungs. We’ve said some pretty intense things to one another. We’ve expressed feelings four months might not even be enough time to justify, but he’s just taken this to a new level—a level where we use words like ‘never’ and ‘always.’
I don’t know what it’s like to be somebody’s always. I don’t have a concept of never. This is unexplored territory for me, and I stand on its precipice not knowing what I should fear more: taking a step forward or taking a step back.
“Julien...”
“It’s true.” His eyes sear straight to the heart of me. “I know it’s not just up to me, but I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”
It takes everything in me to stay where I am instead of throwing myself into his arms.
“Taverne Toulouse is yours. My trust fund covered the purchase.”
“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “What do you mean, ‘covered?’ When you said it was mine, I thought you meant you’d sell it to me. Are you telling me you—”
“I bought it. It’s paid for, and now it’s yours.”
“Julien!” My hands fly to my mouth. “How big is your fucking trust fund?”
He cracks a smile. “Well, it’s considerably smaller now.”
“I can’t take it. It’s too much.”
“I meant what I said.” He leans closer, and my protests all dry up in my throat. “It’s not a gift. It’s not a favour. It’s a promise. If nothing else, at least let me give you that.”
I stay silent, not trusting myself to speak. I’m sure my eyes must have gone as big and round as a Pixar character’s by now.
“I’m going to rent out the place next door,” Julien continues. “I’ll make sure it goes to someone who won’t be a threat to Taverne Toulouse, and if one day you end up wanting to expand your square footage, maybe we can talk business.”
“But—But your wine bar,” I stutter. “All the money you’ve already put in...”
It’s exactly what I asked him to give up, but the fact that he’s willing to do this much for me just won’t sink in.
“I’ll need a few months to recoup, but with another chunk of the trust fund and what I’m going to be making off rent, I should be back on track by the winter.” He gives me a tentative smile. “Avenue Mont-Royal really wasn’t the place for an upscale wine bar, anyway. I’ve got my eye on a spot in the Old Port now. Maybe this has all saved me from making a terrible oversight.”
I scoff. “It would have to be one hell of an oversight to be worth all this mess.”
“It’s not the bar that’s worth all this mess.”
&nbs
p; I didn’t think my heart could pound any harder, but it does. He lets a long moment pass before he says anything else.
“We’ll need to meet up, preferably with lawyers, to get this all finalized and sorted out—if you’re willing to accept, that is.”
“How could I not?” My voice comes out raw, and I have to clear my throat. “This is going to help so many people.”
It’s clearly not the reason he was hoping for, and I know it’s not the only one.
“And me,” I force myself to admit. “This is going to help me. This is...everything.”
“It’s everything to me too.”
In the entire time he’s been sitting here, I still haven’t moved any closer. After a moment of silence, he pushes himself off the couch, leaving me blinking up at him.
“I guess that’s all we, um, have to discuss tonight.” He stares down at his feet, his usual immaculate posture slumped with what I realize is dejection. “You can text me to set up a date for the meeting. I’m sure you’re probably tired from work, so I’ll head out now.”
He thinks I’m rejecting him. How can he not know that my hands are twitching with the memory of his skin, that my mouth is parched with wanting and my arms are as empty as a dry riverbed without him in them? I’m the cup outstretched toward him, and he is everything I need to be filled.
“Julien!” I jump to my feet and close the distance between us, my chest just an inch from his. I tilt my head back to look at him. “Don’t be a hass.”
My arms circle his neck, and my lips haven’t even met his before he’s lifting me into the air. I let my legs wrap around his waist. I don’t worry about being too big or too heavy. I don’t worry about anything at all.
He can carry me. He will carry me whenever I’m unsteady, and I will carry him when his own legs won’t hold him up. There will be days when we both carry each other, when our strides are more of an anguished crawl than steps to take us forward. There will be days when we can’t move at all, but I will be there holding onto him, and he won’t ever give up on me.
It’s a promise, and I taste it on his tongue.
We kiss like it’s our first time and like it’s our last, though I know this embrace is far from either. I dig my hands into his hair, the growl that rumbles in his throat when I tug on the strands sending a quake of longing up my spine. His hands slide from the bottom of my thighs to my ass, squeezing hard. I break the kiss, gasping my desire.
“I missed you, chérie.” His voice is almost menacing with want. “I missed the way you taste.”
“So taste me.”
That earns me another growl. He squeezes me again, hard enough to hurt, and then he’s manoeuvring us both into my bedroom. In a rush of skin and breath and mouths and teeth, he somehow has us both naked and on my mattress in record time. His eyes glint behind his glasses, sharp with hunger, and he sets himself up between my bent knees, spreading them apart as he lowers his lips to my stomach. Our pace has been frantic, but now he goes slow, giving me one drop at a time when I want the whole damn bottle.
“Rien n’est plus parfait que ҫa,” he murmurs, the words coming out as hot breath on the part of me that needs him most.
Nothing is as perfect as this.
He teases me for so long and so well that it only takes the breach of his finger and a few flicks of his tongue to make me come. I’m still clawing at the sheets when he pushes himself to his knees and thrusts inside me. My pussy throbs in a mix of protest and pleasure as he pounds into me again and again. I’m so wet I can hear it.
Julien’s face twists with something close to fury. He falls forward to bracket my head with his arms, my breasts pressing into his chest that’s slick with sweat as he takes my mouth prisoner. His thrusts gets faster and faster as his tongue dominates mine. I feel his whole body stiffen, and then he’s moaning with the force of his release. His lips trail their way along my jaw and down my throat, murmuring my name.
I could listen to him breathe that sound forever.
Twenty-One
Julien
MATURE: A well developed wine that has reached the full potential of its flavour
“Je t’aime, Maman. See you in three weeks.”
I wave at my mother’s image on the screen. She’s stretched out on a lawn chair with her usual bowl of cherries in hand.
She looks more like her old self than she has since the funeral, but I know the lines in her face are always going to be deeper. She’s in the process of convincing Grand-père to move out to the winery, and it isn’t going well. I know the thought of him wandering the halls of the chateau by himself haunts her days, and her days are busy enough.
She dove headfirst into her work at the winery after all Grand-mère’s affairs got sorted out. She may still be a ‘French princess,’ as Monroe once called her, but she’s becoming more of a farm woman by the day. I know it’s a transformation she’s making for her own sake. We’re both done living someone else’s life.
We’re also both so busy the earliest she could book a trip to Canada is at the very end of the summer. I’m the last person in the world who could ever begrudge her delaying a visit, but I wish she were coming sooner.
There’s someone I want her to meet.
“We’re going to be late,” Monroe complains, coming out of the bathroom with her dress unzipped and her head tilted to the side as she tries to put in one of her earrings.
I toss my phone aside and get up off the couch, moving to zip up her dress without being asked. Truthfully, I’d much rather be pulling it off. She looks beautiful tonight, with her hair curled into some sort of vintage style and her curves sheathed by a royal blue dress.
“They’re my employees,” I point out. “I’m the one who should be worried about being late.”
She shoos me off so she can go find her other earring.
“I want to make a good impression too!” she calls from the bathroom.
There are traces of her all over the condo now. She keeps a toothbrush by the sink and a stack of clothes in one of my dresser drawers. She’s helped me pick art for my walls, and she even convinced me to let her stock the fridge with a couple packs of craft beer. Some of her books clutter my side tables, and there are empty spaces on my shelves left by the titles she’s taken home with her.
“You can keep trying to trick me into reading Beowulf,” I joke, picking the Penguin Classics edition up from where she’s sneakily replaced the book I was working on with it. “It’s still not going to work.”
She joins me in the room again, all ready to go, and grimaces as I put the epic poem back down.
“I still can’t believe you went to Cambridge and you’ve never read Beowulf. I’m ashamed to be dating you.”
I’ve actually been meaning to read it for a while, but she’s so cute when she scowls.
“Shall we?” I offer her my arm and lead her to the door. She grabs the flowers on the way out, and I grab the wine. We lavish our goodbyes on Madame Bovary like the good human servants we are and leave her working her way through a handful of morbidly expensive organic dog treats.
The ride I ordered is waiting for us out on the curb, and I whisper the words I know Monroe’s been waiting for just as she’s getting in. “You look ravissant tonight.”
She shivers.
The address is out in Villeray. We pull up in front of a little red brick house with white trim and a thirsty looking front lawn scattered with children’s toys. We haven’t even made it all the way up the front steps when the door flies open and Bento steps out.
I’ve never seen him without his Frango Tango uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a polo shirt, stubble shading his usually clean-shaven face, and he’s beaming at us like we’re long lost friends.
“Boss!” he calls out, stepping forward to shake my hand. “You are so very welcome, and, linda dama, you are even more welcome than him.”
He presses Monroe’s hand as she laughs at the Portuguese compliment. I’ve never seen him this at ease bef
ore, never gotten a look at what he keeps under the mask of professionalism I seem to make all my staff feel they need to wear. I’ve known him for years. He was one of the first employees I ever hired, and I hardly recognize him as he shows us around his home and introduces his family.
What I do recognize is the look in his eyes as we settle down for dinner. I see pride there—pride for all he’s managed to build and provide—but I also see gratitude, and it’s directed at me.
I’ve been doing my best to spend more time getting to know my staff. Monroe has shown me that a team works better when they’re just that: a team. You can’t be strangers with your teammates.
I’ve also been doing my best to keep my promises to Monroe, the ones I made about finally being myself, about living my life and not an idea of what I think my life must be. I put all that distance between my employees and I because I thought that’s what it took to succeed. I put all my focus on power and not enough of it on the people I had power over.
Tonight is about proving just how different things are now, to Monroe and Bento, and also to myself.
I never knew how much the chance I took on Bento meant to him. His English and French were rudimentary when he arrived in Canada. He could barely fill out an application form, never mind secure an interview, and there was no one willing to help. He was going hungry by the time he got his first pay cheque from me.
I didn’t know any of that when I hired him. All I knew was that I didn’t need someone who could talk the customers’ ears off; I just needed someone who could make good chicken. It didn’t even occur to me to ask about his life. He was a tool in my kit, a step in my plan.
I wasn’t someone who deserves the toast he raises in my name tonight, but I hope I’m becoming worthy.
I hope I’m becoming worthy of the woman at my side.
Bento seems to have made the evening into a grand affair; there are nearly a dozen people crammed at the table, and there’s still far too much food for us all. I eat until I’m more full than I’ve been in my life, and then Bento piles another load onto my plate and makes me eat some more. It helps that everything tastes like someone beamed it down here from heaven.