Chapter 9 Kobe
Kobe
In the pre-dawn hours of Wednesday morning, as the moon kissed the horizon, I parked in a mostly vacant parking lot outside a café I’d never heard of in the Hintonburg area near Wellington Park West.
I may not have been an Ottawa native, but I was familiar enough with the city that it was rare I came across an establishment I’d never noticed or heard of.
Overwhelmed on either side by trendier restaurants that catered to tourists and drew in a nightlife crowd, the squat, family-owned café was easily missed.
Most eateries along this popular strip of road were closed at this hour, but bright interior lights shone through the half-curtains covering the two bay windows of Sin-A-Latte.
The sign featured a cartoon devil in a cozy chair with a steaming beverage in his hands.
His forked tail curled on a woven rug between two devil children, who ate cookies.
It was cute and mischievous at the same time.
A pleasant warmth hit me when I opened the door, erasing the December chill that had settled inside my bones in the short walk from the car.
I spotted Dominique at a round table near the back of the café, staring into space as he absently rotated a yellow packet of sweetener end over end, tapping it sporadically against the laminate surface. Deep craters marred his brow, screaming his discomfort.
The handsome pathologist looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Had I made a mistake?
No. He invited me, I reminded myself. I didn’t push for this. I was careful.
Two other customers were present. One in a booth, wearing jeans and a canvas Carhartt jacket, reading a newspaper. The other at the counter in business attire, scrolling on his oversized iPhone. The warm scent of cinnamon and yeast filled the air, and my tummy growled.
Various treats, from muffins to Danishes, tarts to eclairs, sat behind the window of a display counter.
Above the counter were several wicker baskets, overflowing with flakey croissants and plump bagels of every variety.
A covered carousel spun beside the register, three tiers of muffins rotating and taunting customers.
The sign next to it read, Add a muffin to any beverage for $1.
The server, a squat woman with wide hips, plump, rosy cheeks, and a coffee-stained apron, greeted me with a hearty and heavily accented, “’Ello. Bienvenue à Sin-A-Latte. How are you, Monsieur?”
“Je vais bien, merci.”
“C’est la première fois que j’vous vois. C’est tu votre première fois ici?”
“Oui, oui, c’est bien ma première fois. J’suis venu rejoindre quelqu’un. Merci.”
She waved me off when I motioned that I was meeting Dominique.
Dominique broke from his daze and shuffled upright as I approached. Like our excursion to the Apothecary, he’d left his coat on as though prepared to run out the door should things sour.
“Am I that intimidating?” I asked as I crossed the room.
He screwed up his face in confusion.
I waved the comment off with a chuckle, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting.
Scanning him head to toe, I tipped my head to the side.
“I’ll try not to take it personally, Doc, but you look awfully distraught for a man on a date.
” I pointed to his forehead. “These aggressive indentations you’re sporting suggest you’d rather be anywhere else. Am I that bad?”
“No. God no.” Dominique self-consciously rubbed his fingers over the creases in his brow as though he could erase them, but they remained when he folded his hands on the table. “I’m sorry.” He tried smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “This is… new for me. I’m glad you came.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Truly.”
I puzzled him for a moment, but he seemed genuine. “Can I buy you a coffee? Food?”
“No, no. My invitation. My treat. Besides, you paid the tab at the Apothecary. It’s my turn.” He moved to stand but sat again, frowning. “What are you having? They don’t take orders at the table. It’s not that type of establishment.”
“In that case, I’ll follow.”
A menu board hung from the wall behind the counter. I studied it as Dominique asked for a breakfast croissant with egg, spinach, feta, ham, and onions. “To drink, I’ll have a large… Canadiano. S’il-te-pla?t. With milk.”
I frowned. “Isn’t it called an Americano?”
“Non, non. It change now,” the woman behind the counter said in her broken English, indicating the menu board where the word Americano had indeed been crossed out. Someone had written above it in marker Canadiano. “This is Canada, non? We only make Canada coffee here.” She wagged a finger.
I chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll have a toasted sundried tomato and asiago bagel with butter and a café mocha. The biggest size you make.”
The woman tapped away at the register and recited the total. Dominique paid, sliding a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar. The woman beamed and thanked him before explaining in French that she would deliver our food and drinks to the table when they were ready.
We sat, but Dominique didn’t appear any more comfortable.
He had trouble holding my gaze, his attention drifting repeatedly around the room as he weaved his fingers together and squeezed them until the skin turned white.
I wanted to reach out and peel them apart, hold them so he calmed down, but with my luck, the gesture would have the opposite effect.
“This is a cute place,” I said, opening the conversation.
“It is. I like it. Marcella is the owner.” He indicated the woman behind the counter. “She’s wonderful. Cosette loves her but mostly because she gives her free cookies whenever we come.”
“I’d love her too if she gave me free cookies.”
Dominique attempted to smile. It hooked one corner of his mouth but didn’t stick around long. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow, and he stared at his hands, fretting again.
The air crackled with tension. I wanted to break the ice and take us back to the few relaxed moments we’d shared at the Apothecary the previous week. I wanted to learn all there was to know about this troubled man, whom I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The why of my attraction baffled me. Despite all the eligible bachelors on my dating apps, the troubled pathologist was the one who interested me most. Damaged souls sought damaged souls, it seemed.
Perhaps I recognized a kinship in Dominique, sensed his imperfect history, and knew he might be the kind of man who understood mine.
“This is ridiculously early, by the way.” I tapped my foot against his under the table, drawing his attention. “What the heck time do you hit the gym? You’ve already been this morning? That’s what you implied when you invited me.”
“I have. Usually, I go between four thirty and five.”
I groaned with disgust. “Good god. Why?”
The corner of Dominique’s mouth turned up again as he put the stray packet of sweetener back in the caddy. The lopsided smile was endearing on the constantly fretting pathologist.
“Why not?” he asked. “It works for me. When Cosette was an infant, she always woke up for a bottle at four, like clockwork. I could set a timer to her cries. She eventually grew out of it, but I didn’t.
I figure spending an hour working out in the morning is a good use of time.
Plus, my neighbor works midnights. She gets home at four and usually doesn’t go to bed until midday.
She likes the extra money, and I like the time to myself.
So, we made a deal, and there you have it. ”
“Fair enough.”
“Not a gym guy?”
“Not a morning person. I could take or leave the gym. I prefer to sleep in, and work keeps me too busy to establish proper routines. I run on occasion but not with any regularity.”
“Did you sacrifice your sleep for me, Kobe Haven?”
“I did, but I don’t mind on occasion when it means spending time with you.
” I held up a finger. “So long as we don’t make a habit of meeting at this ungodly hour, we should be okay.
Once in a while, fine, but I much prefer a nightcap to setting an alarm.
Not gonna lie, I worried I’d be too groggy to make sentences. ”
“You seem to be managing.”
“Cold showers work wonders.”
“Ah, I see.”
Dominique had found the courage to meet my gaze. His shoulders came down, and his unique, one-sided smile stuck around. Perhaps there was hope yet.
Marcella delivered our coffee and breakfast. She and Dominique chatted amicably for a while in French. When she left, I sipped my drink before carefully setting down the steaming mug. “It’s good to see you, Dominique. I’m glad you invited me.”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“Are you sure? You seem wretchedly uncomfortable.”
Dominique hugged his mug, staring into its depths.
A stitch appeared between his brows. “Truthfully? I am uncomfortable. I guess… I have mixed feelings about this date.” The emphasis he put on the word spoke volumes.
“I want to be here, Kobe. Please believe that. It’s not…
” He sighed. “Letting go of the past is… difficult. I know it’s time. I just haven’t figured out how yet.”
“I’m not asking you to let go of anything. I know you don’t want to talk about her, but if you change your mind, I’m a good listener. I won’t judge, and it won’t hurt my feelings to hear about your wife.”
He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and frowned at the table. “Thank you, but… I think if this date is to succeed, it would be best if Angelique was left out of the conversation.”
“For now.”
Dominique peered up warily. “What does that mean?”
“It means for now. She’s part of you. I can tell you loved her very much. Still do. I want to get to know you. All of you. There are parts of my past I’d rather not discuss on a first date, either. Parts that molded and shaped me into who I am today. Believe me, I’m far from perfect.”
“Second date.”
I arched a brow.
“You said first. It’s our second date.”