by Rose, Katia
“We are so not having sex tonight,” Monroe mumbles just loud enough for me to hear as we’re all settling into the living room once the meal is finally done. “Or doing any physical activity at all. I’m going to need at least a week to digest.”
“I think I’m full enough that I’m not even going to try changing your mind.”
We sag on the couch like oversized slugs while Bento flits through the room, somehow as agile as ever as he hands out wine glasses and pours the red I brought.
“This is from France?” he questions, inspecting the label.
“From one of my family’s wineries,” I answer.
There’s no way to say that without sounding like a complete tool, but Bento just inspects the bottle with eager interest.
“What should we toast this time?” he asks after pouring his own glass.
I look around the room, at the kids curled up by their parents’ feet and at Bento’s arm around his wife. I look at Monroe, sitting there without her shoes on, her hands wrapped around her wine glass and her thigh pressed up against mine.
“To more,” I offer. “To more of this.”
Bento lifts his glass. “To more of this!”
The words echo around the room, and as I take a sip of the rich, ripe flavour, letting it play across my senses like a song before I swallow it down, I know that no other victory will ever taste as good as this.
Twenty-Two
Monroe
BRILLIANT: A descriptor used to indicate an exceptionally pure and clear sparkling wine
The first tile peels off the bathroom wall like a flake of dead skin. Zach and Dylan start cheering.
“Why is that so fucking satisfying?” Dylan jokes as the worker continues chipping away.
“Because those tiles were probably a health hazard. How long do you think they’ve been there?” Zach replies.
I shudder at the thought. “I don’t want to know. Let’s leave these guys to work in peace.”
Zach and Dylan wanted to stay on as investors even after I got the property for free. I have to look at the legal evidence every single day to actually believe Taverne Toulouse is mine, but there’s still a lot of money that needs to be poured into this place before it will live up to my plans. I doubt it would have been possible to move ahead without Zach and Dylan’s help.
We’ll be closed for at least three months, which means the staff are still taking a hard hit despite all my best efforts to keep everyone employed. Almost all of them are working other jobs now, but they know they’ll have a place here if they decide to come back.
That was the hardest part of making the decision to close for so long. Telling the staff that I’d saved the bar only to announce they wouldn’t be getting pay cheques for the foreseeable future was enough to make me question whether we really needed the renovations, but Julien helped remind me that this isn’t just about what’s best for everyone else.
I’m allowed to have a dream too, and this is my chance to go after it.
“I have something I want to ask you guys,” I announce once the three of us are all crammed into my office.
It’s an even tighter fit than usual. This has become the dumping ground for anything we especially don’t want to get covered in dust or paint. All our cheesy Taverne Toulouse slogan posters are leaned up against the wall, and my ‘Please Don’t Do Coke In the Bathroom’ sign has found a temporary home hung above my desk.
Part of the renovation plan includes turning this closet back into an actual closet. All the storage strategies I’ve been daydreaming about for years are finally coming to life. We’re going to have room for a real—albeit tiny—office.
Zach and Dylan are practically sitting in each other’s laps as they face me. I bite back a laugh; we have serious business shit to discuss.
“It’s occurred to me that I cannot both own and manage this bar.”
The two of them share a look.
“Okay,” I admit, reading their expressions. “It’s occurred to me that I cannot reasonably both own and manage this bar, even though we all know I’m likely to try.”
Dylan laughs. “That’s more like it.”
“I want this place to be the best it can be, and you two have more than shown that you’re ready to step up to the plate. I know it’s not typical for a place this small, but I was thinking we could have one front of house manager and one for the back—”
“You’re asking us to be managers?” Dylan interrupts, staring at me like I’ve just told him I want a kitten to run the place.
“Well, yes, that was the intention. Do you not...want to?”
“Want to? Of course I want to! This place is like my second home, but...I mean it’s one thing to make me a cook, but a manager? You know about my...my past, and—”
“And it’s never affected your work before now. Do you think that’s likely to change?”
He shakes his head, a fierceness coming into his eyes. “Never. I’m never going back. I just don’t want people to think less of you or your business.”
“If anyone thinks less of me for making you a manager, Dylan, then quite frankly, they can take their opinion and shove it up their ass.”
He grins at me. “You know I’m gonna quote you on that.”
“I’m counting on it.” I smile back at him. “Can I count on you?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. What do you need me to sign?”
He grabs a pen off my desk and brandishes it like a sword he’s ready to stab through any contract I throw at him. I applaud his enthusiasm and then turn to Zach, who’s been keeping quiet.
“What about you, Zach? I’ll even throw in a fancy plated name tag if you want.”
He indulges me with a laugh. “It means a lot that you’re asking, Monroe, and I wish I could say yes, but I’ve actually been meaning to tell you that once we open up again, I’d like to go down to part time—if you’ll still have me as an employee, that is. Is it weird if I’m a bartender and an investor too?”
“Kind of,” I admit, “but do you really think I would fire you, Zach?”
He strokes his farmer beard. “I don’t know. You’re kind of on the warpath these days. I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
“Yeah, you were a BAMF before, but now you’re like a badass BAMF,” Dylan adds.
“The ‘BA’ stands for badass,” I remind him. “That’s redundant.”
“And she’s still a stickler for grammar,” Zach teases.
“Why part time?” I question him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Like I said before, my ecommerce stuff is picking up, and I want to devote more time to it, but I’d miss this place too much if I quit completely.”
‘This place,’ my ass. I’ve got a suspicion it’s more than just ‘this place’ he’s staying for.
“I can’t lose one of my best closers,” I assure him. “So I guess that makes you the sole candidate for manager, Dylan.”
After I’ve shooed them both out of my office, I put in another couple hours at the desk before my designer shows up and we head off to do a brainstorming session over coffee. Orchestrating a huge renovation project is a far cry from chasing drunks out after last call. I spend most days convinced everyone can tell I’m in way over my head, but I’m learning more by the day, and I think I’ve got a shot at landing this freefall on my feet.
I get home in time to have dinner at a reasonable hour. I reply to a text from Roxanne while simultaneously trying to shove noodles in my face. We’re planning our first double date with the guys, which is going to be hilarious since Cole is not a double date kind of guy. We’re being nice enough to take them out to a rock concert instead of torturing Cole with something like brunch.
I’m about to text Julien and let him know we’ve confirmed the details when a call from an unknown number pops up.
“Hello?”
“Allô, Madame Monroe?” a man’s voice asks.
“Speaking.”
“I need to tell you tha
t there seems to be a bit of a mix up with the delivery of the tiles you ordered from our company...”
His tone suggests he expects me to begin screaming at him, but as he goes on to explain the situation, I just start to laugh.
“Is this, um, a problem?” he asks, probably wondering if he’s talking to a crazy person.
“Oh, it’s a problem,” I reply. “It’s a pretty big problem, but I’ll get it sorted, and I’ll be in touch about a refund too.”
I add just a hint of menace to my last few words before ending the call. After that, I dial Julien’s number.
“My darling, sweetest, most precious love,” I greet him.
He sees straight through me. “What do you want?”
“Are you busy right now?”
He lets out a resigned chuckle. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not asking that in a sexy way?”
“Because I’m not,” I chime. “I need you to come help me move several hundred pounds of tiles off the sidewalk.”
* * *
“What is it with delivery companies in Montreal being totally incompetent?” Julien complains, straining under the weight of the box in his arms.
“It seems to be a recurring issue,” I agree.
For the second time in our lives, Julien and I are carting packages of tiles into a bar after they’ve been unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk of Avenue Mont-Royal at night.
“This was the last load?” he asks.
“Mhmm.”
I wheel the dolly away after he’s got the last box off and tuck it away in a corner. Taverne Toulouse is an all-out construction zone. Buckets, boxes, ladders, and tools cover every available surface, and big white plastic sheets are stretched over the bar and parts of the floor.
“I spend so much time envisioning what this place will look like,” I muse, “but when I’m actually here, it’s so hard to see it.”
This is supposed to be the part of my life where my dreams come true, where the hopes and fantasies I always felt so guilty about finally appear in front of me and make me realize I never had to feel guilty at all. This is what I’m supposed to be doing. This is the life I’m meant to lead. I know the hard work is far from done, that it probably won’t ever be done; that’s not what’s been bothering me.
I just wish this all felt more real, that I didn’t wake up sometimes and feel like an imposter in my own skin as I wonder just how the hell this actually worked out.
Julien walks over to stand by my side.
“It’s going to happen,” he assures me. “Maybe you can’t see it, but I can.”
Just like always, he seems to know exactly what I need to hear to make all my worries go away.
“Does it look like it’s turning a profit?”
He throws his head back and laughs, the sound bouncing off the bare walls of the room.
“It does. I’m looking at the grand opening right now.”
“Oh?” I prompt.
“Oui. Some famous band is playing. People are popping champagne.” He spreads his hand out in front of him, inviting me to envision the same thing.
“I don’t know if I would allow that,” I chide. “It might damage my expensive lights.”
He puts a finger on my lips. “Shhh. It’s a grand opening. There’s champagne, okay?”
I smile against his finger.
“There’s also dancing,” he adds.
“Dancing?”
He steps in front of me and places his hands on my hips. “Yes. Dancing. We’re dancing.”
“Oh we are, are we?”
He pulls me tight to his chest. One arm snakes around the back of my waist to press me even closer to him while the other reaches up to tuck my head under his chin. He starts to sway.
“We’re dancing just like this.”
“I guess I’m okay with that.”
There’s no music, but we move to the same rhythm, twisting in time with one another as we criss-cross over the dusty floor.
“I asked you something the day we met,” he murmurs into my hair, “and you never answered.”
“What did you ask?”
“I asked you to tell me what kind of person I am.”
I lift my head from his chest and tilt it back to look at him. Our movements slow until we’re still.
“There’s this quote by Charles Dickens,” I begin, pausing to let him laugh at how predictable I am. “It goes like this: ‘Every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.’”
His hand strokes my back, his eyes catching the dim light of the room as he waits for me to go on.
“I will never know everything about you, Julien Valois, and you will never know everything about me, but I plan to spend a very long time continuing to figure you out.” I lay my palms just under his shoulders. “What I do know is that I am completely in love with every piece of you I’ve seen so far. You aren’t a perfect person. You have flaws. We both have a hell of a lot of flaws, but every day, I see you working to find yours and fight them. Your weaknesses don’t own you, and I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but I don’t think they ever did—not completely. I don’t think anything could hold you, not once you’ve decided to shake off its grip. I look at you, and I see...I see something to believe in.”
He takes my face in his hands, stroking my cheeks like I’m made of petals he’s being careful not to crush.
I’m not worried. He won’t break me.
“You are a profound secret and mystery, Monroe,” he says solemnly, “and there is nothing I believe in more than you.”
He starts to sway again. We dance around the empty bar to the rhythm of the city outside, the streetlights spilling through the window and kissing our skin with their pale orange glow.
Save An Indie
Thank you so much for picking up a copy of The Bar Next Door! It means the world to me to have you as a reader.
Fun Fact: The Bar Next Door is an indie book, meaning it was published independently by the author. Indie publishing is an awesome thing that allows more writers to get their work out into the world and more readers to find the kind of books they love.
Here’s how you can help ensure your fave indie authors are able to serve up new stories for years to come:
Step one: obtain indie books in a legal manner. Step two: take a minute out of your day to drop a quick review. Reviews are the LIFE BLOOD of an indie author, and just typing a simple “I liked it!” is it all it takes to straight up SAVE AN AUTHOR’S CAREER (which means more books for you!)
On behalf of all indies, THANK YOU for your support!
-Katia
Up next
Your Rhythm
You know what they say: save a snare, bang a drummer.
Kay Fischer is well aware of what they say, and she intends to ignore it completely.
After her first step into the world of music journalism ended with a screw-up so royal it deserved a crown, Kay’s been struggling to re-stack the building blocks of her career. Enter Sherbrooke Station, the latest alt-rock craze to grace Montreal’s legendary music scene.
A front page feature on the band everyone’s talking about seems like a foolproof shot at success, even after Kay meets their drummer. Matt Pearson might have a smile sexy enough to be the eighth deadly sin and a passion for music so powerful it makes her heart ache, but Kay’s got things under control.
She’s a professional, goddammit, and a professional would not get tongue-tied over a source.
A professional would not find herself opening her door at an hour long past midnight to pull said source inside and lead him to her bed.
No, that’s not at all what a professional would do.
Read on for a free excerpt from Katia Rose’s next romantic comedy.
One
Fader || The Temper Trap
KAY
I might as well be in the Yukon.
Winter turns Montreal’s downtown core into a series of giant wind tunnels, icy a
ir blowing in from the Fleuve St-Laurent and shooting up the streets to hit you like a slap in the face every time your path intersects with an eastward facing intersection. Combined with a snowstorm like the one going on today, it feels more like I’m traversing the arctic, not walking to work in one of the most populated cities in Canada.
Most of my route runs along the RÉSO, the network of underground tunnels Montrealers burrow themselves into to get around downtown in the colder months, but I have to walk the last few blocks up on street level.
“Which wouldn’t be so bad,” I mutter to myself, hoping my breath will help warm my face where it’s already buried under a scarf, “if there wasn’t a pile of FUCKING SNOW stuck down the side of my FUCKING BOOT and freezing my WHOLE FUCKING LEG OFF.”
I swear a lot when I’m cold.
When I finally make it into the lobby of my building, I have to take a few minutes to unravel enough layers that I no longer look like a walking, talking, profanity-spewing snowball. I pull my fogged up glasses off and wipe them on my scarf.
After an elevator ride during which the thaw begins and my boots start dripping all over the salt-stained carpet, I walk into the office of the Montreal newspaper La Gare. I reluctantly peel off the rest of my outdoor stuff before swapping my boots for the pair of Keds I keep in my cubby. That’s a Canadian winter for you: an office full of grown adults has a cubby shelf to hold all our indoor shoes.