Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
A week goes by. And then another. And Noémie doesn’t come into the coffee shop.
It’s pretty weird to admit, but I feel her absence. It feels like something isn’t quite right. Like perhaps the Earth’s tilt changed. Everything is just a little off—slightly less vibrant and less interesting.
There are moments when I think I glimpse her. I’ll see a flash of an orange vest, bag, or dress, and for a second, it’s Noémie. But then I blink, and like a mirage, she’s gone.
Wayne’s moved on. He no longer seems interested in the mystery surrounding the Poutine Princess. Meanwhile, I think about her often. Too often. Which is stupid.
I know Noémie’s gotta be fine. Just the other day, her father was on the news boasting about yet another international location of Poutine Heaven opening in the U.K. If something was wrong with Noémie, Hugo St. Pierre wouldn’t be smiling so brightly, right?
Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen to a spoiled rich girl anyways? I imagine that the Poutine Princess is likely vacationing somewhere lavish, like Ibiza. She’s probably suntanning on a yacht in the Mediterranean downing negroni after negroni. Personally, I think negronis are vile—they taste like lighter fluid. But every rich girl I’ve spent time with loves that cocktail. Noémie’s probably no different.
Before I know it, the end of the month arrives and Sarah’s flying out in a day. I’m in an awful mood about it. I’m not quite sure what I’m more upset about: losing my best friend to Vancouver or the fact that I can’t afford rent on my own.
The stress of having to find a new roommate or find a new place gnaws my insides. I probably should have started my search the moment Sarah told me she was leaving, but I kept deferring. And now, there’s about sixty days left—that’s my window since Sarah is nice enough to cover her portion of rent for two months after she moves out.
I’m so on edge about my renting situation that when Marquess calls in—announcing he can’t make his 8:00 a.m. shift—I lose my absolute shit and fire him over the phone.
After slamming down the receiver, I turn to see Wayne watching me all wide-eyed. “Remind me never to piss you off,” he says.
I snort and roll my eyes at him.
Down a barista, the shift is hell. After work, my commute is also hell, and I’m sure the rest of my Friday night is going to feel like sucking Satan’s giant balls. The last thing I want to do is go out, but I have no choice in the matter. To celebrate Sarah’s departure, our friends have planned a night out at one of Toronto’s fanciest lounges. We’re meeting at 9:30 p.m., which gives me roughly two and a half hours, and I want to take a quick nap before getting ready.
More than a dozen haphazardly stacked cardboard boxes greet me at home. Some of them will be shipped to Sarah’s new address in Vancouver, but most are destined to collect dust in her parents’ garage.
I manoeuvre around the obstructions blocking the path to my bedroom. Changing into a fresh pair of sweats, I collapse on my shitty spring mattress and close my eyes.
What feels like a second later, my alarm goes off. Yawning, I grab my towel off the hook on my door and do some more manoeuvring to get to the bathroom, where I shower off the smell of bitter coffee and sour milk.
I dress in one of my nicer outfits—a black blazer and a black satin shirt that I opt to leave several of the top buttons undone. I tuck the shirt into the waistband of my pinstripe slacks and slip my feet into a pair of polished Oxford shoes that I got for a great deal on Boxing Day.
Sarah and I slide into the back of an Uber at 8:46 p.m. We’re splitting the cost, so the ride won’t break the bank for me. But, I’m again reminded that soon I won’t be able to make rent on my own. Time is ticking down for me to find a new roommate or place.
The Uber gets to the lounge at 9:32 p.m. We exit the vehicle and thank the driver, who takes off without acknowledging that he heard us.
“Rude,” Sarah says.
I nod in agreement.
Tonight, Sarah’s wearing an outfit similar to mine. But where I am decked in black, she’s in white. She wears her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun, showing off her barber’s handiwork—a freshly trimmed undercut with a star pattern.
We join the line to get into the club. After being screened by security, we are let inside. Sarah gives her name to a hostess who guides us through the swanky establishment over to a booth where several of our friends are already seated.
I plaster on a smile a fake smile and greet everyone.
My good friend Kristen stands and shuffles out of the booth to hug me. It doesn’t escape my notice that Hailey, Kristen’s girlfriend of six months, scrutinizes our embrace. I don’t like Hailey. I don’t know her well, but I’ve seen enough to know that Kristen can do better. Both Kristen and Hailey work in law enforcement. Hailey’s a cop, and I get the sense that she feels superior to Kristen, who is a correctional officer. I suspect that Hailey thinks she’s better than everyone.
I ease into the booth beside Sarah and reach for the drink menu. After a quick look at the prices, I immediately put it down. The way they’ve marked everything up, I can’t even afford a Budweiser. It will be water for me tonight, which really sucks. I’d like a drink or two or five.
Looking around, my unease builds. I’m not used to being in places like this—places that have plush and comfortable seating. Places with fancy light fixtures and sleek tables made from possibly real stone. Even the air smells expensive. It’s like the fragrance of jasmine petals is being pumped through the central air system. Or perhaps it’s just the candle that my nose is picking up. A large one is lit in the middle of our table.
Coiffed men in breasted suits peacock around the long 360° bar. They chat up women in smart cocktail dresses with their chests all puffed out. A part of me seethes at the display—I’m not sure why.
Over the next hour, the rest of our group arrives. The entire time, I fix a faux smile to my lips and try to engage politely. Usually, I am not such a poor sport, but I’m tired and want the day to end.
By 10:45 p.m., Sarah is four drinks in, and I can tell she’s more than just tipsy. She’s practically yelling as she recounts how she met Veronica. Having heard the story too many times before, I tune her out and toy with the condensation on my glass of water. My knee bounces under the table as I consider possible excuses to leave early.
Suddenly, I’m itching for a cigarette. I need one badly. I reach into my bag and withdraw a pack of nicotine gum, but when I slide out the plastic cartridge, it’s empty. When the hell had I finished them all? Annoyed, I flick the empty package onto the table and take a gulp of my water.
“So when are you planning to ditch the single life, Jordan?” Paula asks, taking a sip of an espresso martini that I know costs twenty-eight bucks.
After me, Paula is Sarah’s closest friend. We’ve never gotten along. I’ve tried to befriend her, but she has a bad habit of giving me stink eye when I get too close. Half the time I don’t think she notices that she’s doing it—hostility is her visceral reaction to me. I’m pretty sure Paula is in love with Sarah, so maybe that’s why she hates me. Maybe she’s known all this time about Sarah’s romantic feelings for me.
All eyes are on me. Everyone is waiting for my response to Paula’s stupid question.
“I don’t do relationships,” I say, giving my best nonchalant shrug.
Hailey’s eyebrows pinch. She takes a long swig from her beer bottle. “And why’s that?”
“Does there need to be a reason?” I say.
Hailey burps and leans back in her seat. She slips a possessive arm around Kristen. “It isn’t natural to want to be alone.”
“Are you calling me unnatural?” There’s a tightness in my voice. Even drunk, Sarah notices. She squeezes my knee under the table. But I’m not in the mood to be comforted and shift away from her.
“You’re twisting my words,” Hailey says.
“No, I don’t think I am.”
“How about we change the topic?” Corie says. She’s a Libra and diplomacy runs in her veins. It’s her M.O. to try to deescalate heated conversations. Though we aren’t really close, I’ve always liked her.
Corie is a high femme who used to date Paula ages ago. It hadn’t been a messy breakup. In a very adult way, they mutually agreed that they were better off as friends. Hell, they even kept living together for a year after their split and to this day co-parent a Russian Blue cat named Ben.
“Yeah, let’s change the topic,” Kristen says. “Has anyone watched Love Lies Bleeding ?”
Hailey rolls her eyes and reaches for her beer. Her expression tells me that she’d much rather continue to debate with me.
“You know what,” I say, rising from my seat, “I’m gonna get some fresh air.”
“Want me to come with you?” Sarah begins to rise as well.
I wave for her to sit back down. “Nah, I’ll be back in a bit.”
Leaving the group, I navigate around couples and gaggles of cologne-drenched men until I reach the exit.
Fall is a few weeks away, but I’m still surprised at just how chilly it is outside. Hugging my arms around my torso, I shuffle towards a woman who is sparking a cigarette a couple metres away from the entrance of the lounge. She’s nice enough to let me bum one. They aren’t the brand I like, but beggars can’t be choosers.
As I smoke, I think about Victoria, my first everything—girlfriend, love, and heartbreak. Back when I’d been in high school, there’d been such a stigma around being gay, and teenagers were exceptionally cruel. So when the rumours started going around that Victoria and I were more than just friends, she quickly shut the gossip down by boxing me out of her life and spreading her legs for the starting point guard on the boys’ basketball team.
Nine months later, Victoria gave birth to a baby boy while I’d still been working to tape my broken heart back together. I listened to a lot of emo music back then, playing songs by Taking Back Sunday, The Used, and Senses Failed on repeat. It’d been a dark time.
I think about Jessica Moretti, the married professor, who’d strung me along for over a year. Our first few months together, I hadn’t known she’d been married. But when I did find out, Jessica began filling my head and my heart with promises about a life together. “I do not love him,” she had told me. “I’m going to divorce him,” she had said.
I saw how false her words were on the day her husband stumbled in on me eating her out on the kitchen counter. Jessica literally threw herself at his feet. A blubbering mess, she swore to him that I was a mistake and that she loved him—only him.
Finally, I think about Samira, but my thoughts can’t linger on her. Even all these years later, my heart aches from the absence of what once was.
I crush the glowing cigarette under my heel and exhale a cloud of smoke.
I’m just about to turn to head back inside when a red Ferrari screeches to a stop at the curb just ahead of me. A gorgeous woman in a strapless orange dress gets out of the flashy sports car and slams the passenger door. She flings back her auburn hair over a shoulder, exposing her profile.
My breath catches—it’s Noémie.
The passenger window whirs down, and a man shouts. “Get back in the car.”
“No,” Noémie snaps. Her skin is red, flushed from anger. Her hands are balled at her sides.
She spins away from the vehicle, angrily strutting in my direction. Our eyes meet, and my stomach soars up into my chest. There’s a look of surprise or maybe recognition on the Poutine Princess’s face. She falters. The heel of her shoe sinks between a crack in the pavement.
I spring forward, catching her before she falls.
Our contact is brief, but it’s electric. A current buzzes through my entire body. The skin of her arms is smoother than I could ever have imagined. Her perfume is spicy with notes of citrus, and I want to bathe in it.
But there’s another scent heavy on her—alcohol.
Whoever the man in the car is, he decides not to hang around. The window zips back up, and the Ferrari peels away from the sidewalk with a growl from its engine.
Noémie looks over her shoulder, watching the taillights disappear with distance. She sighs and rubs her temples. Her body sways slightly.
I hover closer—just in case she needs someone to lean on.
“Fight with your boyfriend?” I ask, mostly out of curiosity. It’s been weeks since I’ve last seen her. Weeks since she’s posted anything on social media. And maybe it’s creepy, but I want a clue as to what she’s been up to.
Noémie spears me with a look that tells me that she will not be answering my question—that it’s none of my business.
I wonder if she recognizes me. Just a moment ago, it seemed like she had, but I could be wrong. Do people like her even register in their minds the people who serve them on a day to day?
Her gaze drops to the Chanel clutch she holds. She pops open the clasp and removes her phone. The screen is dark, and even as she taps on the glass surface, it remains black. “Tabarnak!” she says, scowling.
I have no idea what that means, but the word sounds like a curse.
It bothers me how easily she dismissed me—as if I am nothing but background noise. “You know, a thank-you would be nice,” I say.
Her head snaps up from her phone. Steely grey eyes meet my own, making my pulse quicken.
Like always, her makeup is applied flawlessly. Tonight she wears deep-red lipstick and smoky eyeshadow. The blush on her cheeks has a shimmery element to it that sparkles in the streetlight, giving her face an ethereal glow. Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“And what exactly would I be thanking you for?” Her tone is tart, and I hear more of her French accent than usual. It’s the kind of tone I might imagine the gentry used with peasants.
“Stopping you from faceplanting,” I reply.
Before Noémie can think to answer, a scrum of exuberant young men stagger around the corner. The moment their eyes land on Noémie, the catcalling begins.
My entire body goes stiff, and my protective instinct kicks in. I put myself between Noémie and the drunk boys.
They continue to throw crude comments her way. One of them makes a lewd gesture, acting out giving a blowjob. It’s disgusting. It’s the kind of behaviour that once sent me into a panic. Now, all I feel is anger. I want to hurl insults at them—attack their manhood and take shots at their mamas. But that’s not wise. There’s ten of them, and I’m smaller than them all. Luckily, they are gone as fast as they came.
I turn to face Noémie.
She looks visibly upset, and she holds her clutch tightly to her chest. Her body shivers, but that might just be because it’s chilly outside.
“Where are you headed?” I ask.
Noémie blinks. “Home.”
“Are you going to call a Lyft or Uber? I can wait with you.”
“My phone is dead, so no, I won’t be calling a Lyft,” she says. “But, I don’t live far. I can walk.”
“I don’t think you should walk home alone,” I say.
Personally, I don’t consider Toronto to be dangerous. For the most part, I am left alone. I became almost invisible to the male gaze the day I chopped off my hair and began dressing more masculine. But, even so, I’ve learned that it’s never a good idea to be a single woman going anywhere alone, especially not at night. And especially not at night while intoxicated.
“It’s a good thing I don’t need your permission,” Noémie mutters. She begins walking away from me, her off-balance strides taking her east along Richmond Street.
Annoyed at being dismissed again, I grit my teeth and start back towards the lounge, then stop at the entrance. I want to put this run-in with the Poutine Princess behind me, but I can’t in good conscience go back inside. I need to make sure Noémie gets home safe. And so, I follow after her. If Noémie notices, she gives no indication.
Turns out that the Poutine Princess lied—she does not live close to the lounge. She lives in bloody Yorkville. It takes almost forty-five minutes to reach her semi-detached home. By the time we get there, my feet are crying. I’m not sure how Noémie managed the trek in heels.
Noémie climbs the short staircase up to the front door and then turns to finally acknowledge my presence. She doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t smile. Frankly, she looks rather unimpressed. When she disappears through the front door, it dawns on me that I’ve been M.I.A. from Sarah’s party for over an hour—fuck.
Perhaps Wayne is right. Perhaps I do malfunction around Noémie. The entire walk, all I thought about was her—how annoyed with her I was, how rude she was, how beautiful she looked in the orange dress. Everything else, I forgot.
My phone is almost always on silent mode. Tonight is no different. When I dig it out of my pocket, I see a slew of messages from Sarah, Paula, Kristen, and Corie. They want to know where I am, and if I’m okay. Shit.
I shoot off a text message to the group chat.
Jordan, 10:55 p.m.
I’m good, but I’m heading home. Sry. Will explain tmrw.