Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
I awake to a trio of unwelcome companions: a stuffed nose, a sore throat, and a fever. For the first time in over a year, I call in sick.
Sarah runs to the pharmacy to restock the Vicks and Buckley’s. She also picks me up some chicken noodle soup from Timmie’s.
Slathered in VapoRub and groggy from the cough syrup, I sleep through most of the day and then endure a horrendous night. In the dead hours, I nearly hack up a lung and I am compelled to blow my running nose every other minute. A part of me forgets what it’s like to breathe normally.
The hours crawl slowly towards dawn, and when the sun pokes through my tiny basement window, I know that I won’t be able to go into work for a second day in a row. It’s Friday, and I only work weekdays, which means I’ll have the weekend to recover. It’s hard to think that I’ll ever get better. That’s how disgusting I feel.
When Monday rolls around, my nostrils are clear but fiery, and I can finally swallow without it feeling like a cactus is being shoved down my esophagus. I step outside for the first time in four days and allow myself to appreciate the fresh air and the brush of the wind on my face. It’s too early for the sun to be up. The sky is grey as I head over to the bus stop.
As I commute into the city, anxiety fists my gut. All weekend I’ve been worried about my motorcycle. Vehicle thefts are on the rise in the Greater Toronto Area, and I pray that my baby is still there.
Turns out that I worried for nothing—my bright green ninja is exactly where I left her. Feeling relieved, I head for the storefront. I’m right on time for my 6:30 a.m. shift.
Wayne leans against the brick wall near the coffee shop’s entrance. He hunches over his phone, frowning down at the screen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Startled, Wayne jumps and clutches imaginary pearls. “Fuck, I didn’t hear you.”
“Seriously, you should pay more attention to what’s going on around you,” I say, sliding the store key into the lock and turning it over. “I don’t get your obsession with those dance videos.” I pull open the door and gesture for him to enter first.
“I’m not watching dancing videos,” he replies, shuffling inside.
“What’s so interesting then?” I bolt over to the alarm to disarm it.
Wayne slaps a switch, and the harsh overhead lighting makes me squint. Twirling towards me, Wayne hops up onto the counter and crosses his legs. He’s smirking in a way that tells me he’s got tea to spill.
“Oh my God, what happened?” There’s a tickle in my throat. I cough into the bend of my elbow.
Wayne makes a face. “You sure you’re not still contagious?”
“I’m better. My throat’s just dry.” I roll my eyes at him. “Spill it. I’m dying for some juicy tea after being cooped up all weekend.”
“It’s the Poutine Princess—she’s gone dark,” he says.
At the mere mention of her, my pulse spikes. I’m not quite sure what Wayne means by she’s gone dark though. I raise an eyebrow at him.
“She hasn’t posted since the incident. Usually she’s so active online,” he explains.
I hadn’t heard of any incident happening with Noémie, but I’m sure Wayne will fill me in. He’s good for that. “The way you stalk that girl is not normal,” I say.
Wayne snorts. “Says the one who malfunctions whenever she struts her pretty ass in here.”
“I don’t malfunction.”
“Oh yes, you do. I’ve got receipts.” He uncrosses his legs and leans back on his hands. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you stalk her more than I do.”
My mouth drops open for a second. I consider denying it, but I know Wayne. He will latch on to any protest, and somehow, I’ll end up revealing more than I want to.
Truth is, I do occasionally scroll through the Poutine Princess’s Instagram—but only for inspiration for my graphic novel. And yes, there was that one time that a video of her and her hottie blond friend popped up on my TikTok FYP. The two women had been dancing to “WAP,” and yes, it’d been sexy. And yes, I might have rewatched it. Maybe I rewatched it more than a dozen times. Maybe I favourited it. If that makes me a stalker … Well, I’m not ever going to admit it.
“I’m human and I have eyes—the Poutine Princess is beautiful. But she’s also so-so-so not my type.”
“I thought you were into bitchy femmes.” Wayne pouts.
“Femme is a queer identity. She can’t be femme if she’s straight,” I state. “And you know I can’t with straight chicks anymore. I’m too old for their kind of drama. I’m only looking to hook up with women who already know that they’re down for women.”
Wayne chuckles. “Sure, I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I begin setting up the stools, pulling them down from the high-top tables. “Are you planning on helping?”
“I am helping. I’m the entertainment.”
“I’m not entertained,” I say. “Start the coffee.”
“Sure thing, boss,” he says, hopping down from the counter.
After arranging the seating area, I go to the back office. There, I retrieve cash and coins from the safe. I return out front and stock the register drawer with the money.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee flavours the air. Wayne’s moved on to his next task. He’s busy lining a baking tray with a half-dozen frozen croissants.
It occurs to me that he never mentioned the incident with the Poutine Princess. I want to know what happened. Closing the money drawer, I approach him as I tie on my purple apron. “What was the incident with Noémie?”
Excitement flashes in his dark brown eyes. “Oh yes, I was getting to that. But someone told me they weren’t entertained.”
“You’re so petty.”
“Yes, don’t ever forget that.” He pops the tray of croissants into the preheated oven and sets the timer.
“So, what happened?”
Wayne seems to consider my question, but only for a moment. When a smirk breaks across his face, I know he’s not going to hold out on telling me. “So get this, Poutine Princess comes waltzing in here last Thursday morning with her Prada bag and Loro Piano loafers?—”
“As she does.”
“As she does,” Wayne repeats, nodding. “And guess what happens?”
“What?”
“Her Visa declines,” Wayne says with a squeal, clapping his hands together. “But wait, there’s more.”
“More?” I’m already so invested in this story. It makes me rather happy to know that Noémie suffered an embarrassing moment. I can just imagine her outrage at seeing the word declined on the payment system.
“So she tries to pay with her American Express card, but it also declines,” Wayne continues. “And then her phone is buzzing. She looks down at it, and gurrrrrrrl, she went whiter than Casper and scrambled out of here like an egg.”
I frown. “That’s definitely weird.”
“Even weirder, she hasn’t been back since. And the Poutine Princess is totally M.I.A. She hasn’t posted anything since last Wednesday.”
“What do you think happened?” I rub my chin as I consider possible scenarios.
“Dunno. Maybe the girl got hacked.”
I nod. “That would explain why her cards weren’t working. We both know that Poutine Heaven isn’t hurting for money, even in this economy.”
“True, true,” he says.
Everything is all set up for 7:00 a.m. Two of my staff clock-in and don their aprons just as we’re opening our doors to customers.
The morning rush is chaotic as ever, but I’m in the right headspace to keep my team on track. All in all, it’s a good shift. But Noémie doesn’t show, and there’s a sorta hollowness to the morning without her appearance.
When she doesn’t show up on Tuesday morning, my curiosity about her disappearance peaks, and I find myself scrolling through her socials. I’m searching for a clue, but there’s none to find. The Poutine Princess’s last post is from almost a week ago.