Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
There’s an empty space on the road near the coffee shop, and I back my bright-green motorbike between a mud splattered Nissan Sentra and a shiny Range Rover.
Cutting off the engine, I dismount and remove my clunky black helmet that’s got the hideous Bell logo stamped on the front. For the last two years, I’ve seriously contemplated spray-painting my helmet to match the colour of my Kawasaki Ninja. But I don’t think an entire can of spray paint can hide how hideous of a helmet it is. I’d rather just replace the darn thing, but the helmets I lust after are uber expensive. My wallet can’t handle the expense.
I cross the street, toting my helmet by its thick chin strap. My steps slow when I catch a glimpse of her. Noémie hovers over Wayne’s shoulder. They are staring down at his phone and laughing like best friends. The sight is odd. I never envisioned Wayne getting along so quickly with the Poutine Princess. I don’t know how I feel about it.
Wayne took forever to warm towards me. Usually, he’s so catty towards new hires, and he tends to stay catty until he uncovers something about them that he likes. Sometimes, there’s nothing to like, and he stays cold.
It’s also weird seeing Noémie in uniform. The purple t-shirt, with Grind That Bean printed across the chest in big bold white letters, swallows her. The hem of the shirt almost reaches her knees. I’ll have to check again to see if there’s a smaller size hiding somewhere in the back office. But even dressed down in khakis and an oversize tee, Noémie’s allure is undeniable, especially when she’s smiling the way she’s smiling at the moment.
“Dancing videos?” I ask, coming to a stop near the store front.
They both jump slightly at the sound of my voice. So engrossed by whatever was on Wayne’s phone, they hadn’t noticed my approach.
“Grindr,” Wayne corrected, slipping his phone into a front pocket.
“Only a week ago you were telling me that you were done with that app,” I say. “I thought you were looking for something real, something more than just a hookup.”
Wayne rolls his eyes. “I’ve decided to do both: look for something real while also hooking up.”
I snort. “You aren’t good with casual—you get too attached.”
He pouts.
“Morning, Jordan,” Noémie says softly, almost shyly. It’s strange.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say my name before. And usually, I prefer to be called by my nickname. But my name rolling off her tongue makes my skin tingle.
I nod curtly to acknowledge her greeting.
When the three of us enter the coffee shop, I dash to disarm the alarm and Wayne flips on the lights.
Looking at Noémie, I cock my head towards the seating section. “You can start by taking down the stools.”
Noémie hesitates. She looks like she wants to say something but decides not to. She saunters towards the tables and begins pulling down the chrome stools.
I head for the back office and hang my jean jacket and helmet on the hooks near the stockroom.
I sense Wayne’s presence behind me. “I can’t believe she’s actually working here,” he says in a hushed voice.
“I can’t believe it either,” I say, entering the office and shutting the door behind us so we can talk freely.
I grab a stack of shirts and looked for a small or medium size, but everything’s extra-large. Noémie’s out of luck.
Squatting, I punch a code for the safe. When the light blinks from red to green, I open the door and remove the money from within.
“She was such an annoying customer—always bitching and complaining—such a Karen.” Wayne leans against a filing cabinet. “I wanted to kill you for hiring her. I thought she’d be a total bitch and drive me crazy.”
Bills and rolls of coins in hand, I nudge the heavy door shut with my toe. The mechanized pins whirr as the lock reengages. “So you’ve determined that she’s not a bitch?”
I can’t help but recall my encounter with Noémie outside of the lounge last Friday night. She’d been pretty bitchy that night, but maybe there’d been a reason for her attitude. Again, I find myself wondering about the man in the Ferrari. The man who she’d been arguing with. Were they dating?
“Oh, she most certainly is, but there’s a good reason for it—she’s a Gemini,” Wayne states. “She’s got a personality to match every season.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“Maybe not for you since you’re a moody Cancer, but I’m a fire sign, so the Poutine Princess gives me life,” he says. “And she has exceptional taste in men. At least, we share the same type.”
I can do without hearing about Noémie’s type of man. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Wayne taps on his Apple Watch. “Technically, I don’t start for another five minutes.”
I snort and exit the office with the cash in hand. Out in the front, I load the register.
Noémie slips behind the counter and comes to stand about a foot away from me.
I freeze. My grip on the register drawer tightens. I’m so annoyed by how her nearness affects me that I slam the drawer shut, not meaning to. I side-step to put distance between us. For the thousandth time, I question why I hired her in the first place. What had I been thinking? She’s going to be such a distraction, and I seriously doubt that she has the work ethic to cut it at a shop as busy as ours. She’s a spoiled rich girl who likely hasn’t worked hard a day in her life.
Wayne shuffles out of the back and ties on his apron.
“Can you show Noémie how to work the ovens?” I ask him. “And then show her how to operate the till?”
Noémie pouts. There’s a challenge in her voice when she says, “You’re not going to show me how to make drinks?”
I grit my teeth. “If you’re still here in a month, you’ll be taught how to work the espresso machine.”
Frowning, she folds her arms.
“You got a problem with that?”
She releases an exaggerated sigh. “Kind of. I want to make drinks.”
“Well, you’re not going to,” I say. “Wayne will show you how to work the till, and that’s that.”
Noémie looks like she wants to argue some more, but she rolls her eyes and goes over to where Wayne is standing by the ovens. Ugh, what had I been thinking hiring her? The last thing I need to deal with is her piss-poor attitude first thing in the morning.
All in all though, Noémie’s first day isn’t a complete disaster. Far from it, in fact. The Poutine Princes hadn’t lied—she does learn fast. She picks up how to input orders quickly, and during her entire shift, she only errs on two order entries.
The same cannot be said for Corrine, who works alongside me on the Faema espresso machine. Corrine keeps messing up, leaving me and Wayne to deal with more than a half-dozen customer complaints. But even with all her mistakes, the morning rush flies by with relative ease.
In the slow hours, I constantly catch Wayne and Noémie chatting instead of working. Their tones are hushed, like they are conspiring. It makes me think they are talking about me.
My suspicion is confirmed when I happen upon them in the back near the office. I only catch the tail end of their conversation.
“I always get what I want,” Noémie says. The confidence behind her statement grates on my nerves. The girl has probably never wanted for anything while most people want for the basics.
Growing up, I learned how to do without or find ways to get things I really wanted. In grade school, when everyone in my class was trading Pokémon cards that my mother couldn’t afford to get me, I started drawing pictures of Charizard and Blastoise and exchanged my illustrations for cards. I managed to collect a 120 out of 151 Pokémon without having opened a single pack.
Noémie doesn’t know what it’s like to have to hustle. She might be struggling a bit now that her daddy has cut her off. But it’s only a matter of time before they make up and she’s back to her regular program.
“Not with this,” Wayne says. “And when I win, you’ll have to give me anything I want from your closet. Jay will—” Noticing me, he snaps his mouth shut.
“Jay will what?” I ask, coming to a stop near the shelves that house the flavoured syrups.
Noémie’s face goes red—like, really red. She throws Wayne a look that I have a hard time understanding. They both stay quiet.
“Jay will what?” I ask again.
Wayne sighs. “Noémie thinks she can sweet talk you into letting her operate the espresso machine this week, and I bet her that she couldn’t.”
Wayne and his stupid bets. He loves to gamble on anything and everything. I used to play his stupid games, but I don’t anymore. I’m a sore loser, and Wayne almost always wins. I can’t quite believe that Noémie would risk losing one of her expensive purses on such a trivial bet. But what do I know? Maybe the girl’s got more than one Birkin.
“You’re supposed to be training her,” I say. “Quit messing around.”
“You’re such a micromanager,” Wayne says.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Just get back to work. Seriously.”
I’m happy that Wayne listens to me. He trains Noémie on how to operate the panini press, and he shows her how to restock supplies.
For the most part, I keep my distance from Noémie. Being near her makes me feel too much, and I don’t want to give myself away.
Apparently, I give the impression that I’m in a bad mood. Corrine asks me more than once if I’m okay, and Wayne tells me that I look like I have a stick up my ass.
I can’t put a number to how many gorgeous women I’ve slept with, but only Noémie and Samira have made me choke on air when they get too close. It’s aggravating.
One week flows into the next, and things don’t get better. I can’t stop thinking about Noémie. I wake up thinking about her. I go to bed thinking about her. I brush my teeth thinking about her.
On a YouTube video, I learned there’s a word for this type of unhealthy obsession—limerence.
Is it only because Noémie is out of reach that I want her? Or does the allure come from knowing she’s from another world—one of money and privilege? I can’t think of any other reason. There’s nothing else about her I like. Her personality sucks.
She isn’t as bad as I first thought she’d be though—she’s far more useful than Corrine—but she distracts Wayne too much. I’m a little jealous of how fast they imprinted on each other.
Used to be that Wayne and I would chat when the rush died down. But now, he’s always with Noémie. And I’m avoiding her, so I barely get any time alone with him. Maybe I’m being dramatic, but it kind of feels like I’m losing a friend. And with Sarah gone, I just feel so lonely.
Over the weekend, I view two bachelor apartments. The first place I look at is in the gaybourhood, and it’s walking distance from the coffee shop. At 360 square feet, it doesn’t have a layout to accommodate my double bed. But on the plus side, the unit recently underwent renovations and features new laminate floors, ensuite laundry, stainless steel appliances, and a dishwasher. I’ve never had a dishwasher before. Also, the windows are large, letting in so much natural light. I can see myself living there. Unfortunately, the property manager tells me that the rent’s been increased from $1,600 a month to $1,900. I can’t afford it.
A basement apartment in Chinatown is the second listing I look at. Somehow, it’s still not in my budget despite being in worse condition than my current shithole.
I haven’t had any luck finding a roommate. I’ve posted an ad on Facebook Marketplace and Kijiji, but I’m getting no bites. No one is interested in living in Scarborough.
On a Thursday, just after three in the afternoon, the coffee shop is quiet. There are only a few customers in the seating area. Noémie and Kevin are chatting near the cash register. Keeping my distance, I try to instill an outward image of looking cool and disinterested.
Engineer in the making, Kevin Wong used to be one of my favourite employees. He’s great at his job. He never drops shifts. He’s always on time. And he’s got exceptional customer service skills. But he flirts with Noémie at every opportunity and follows her around like a puppy. I hate it.
Wayne emerges from the back, toting a plastic sleeve of purple-branded cups. He sets the stack down on the counter and settles in beside me. “Man, you’ve got it bad,” he whispers with a chuckle.
I glare at him. “I don’t.”
“Seriously, you should see your face. You’re scowling so hard at Kevin right now.”
“I’m not—what the fuck do I care if Kevin is making a fool of himself?”
“Yeah, you don’t sound jealous at all,” Wayne teases.
My eyes dart over to Noémie and Kevin to verify that they hadn’t overheard what he said. “Shut up,” I say.
Wayne nudges me playfully. “Somebody’s got a crush on the Poutine Princess.”
“I don’t. Go away.” I shove him lightly away from me.
Wayne begins to laugh loud enough that Noémie and Kevin look at us and walk over.
“What’s so funny?” Kevin asks.
I shoot Wayne a look of warning, silently conveying that I will kill him if he says anything. “I was just telling Wayne about this apartment I went to see over the weekend. The property manager wants $1,900 for a 360 square-foot bachelor pad.”
“Doesn’t sound funny to me—just sad,” Kevin says. He stands very close behind Noémie. I really don’t like it.
“Kevin, go wipe down the tables,” I say.
My tone makes Kevin wince.
“I wiped them down twenty minutes ago,” Noémie says.
“They still look dirty.” I pretend to survey the seating area. “Just go and wipe them down.”
Beside me, Wayne laughs harder and slaps his knee.
Kevin exchanges a look with Noémie before shrugging. He moves away from the group and grabs the spray bottle and cloth.
Noémie cocks her head to the side, regarding me with interest—like she’s trying to puzzle me out. Then, she shoots a look at Wayne, and he sobers immediately.
I wish I could read their thoughts. I’ve got a feeling they’re speaking about me telepathically, but I can’t begin to guess what they’re talking about.
Wayne smirks and shakes his head.
Abandoning me, he snatches up the sleeve of cups from off the counter and walks over to the espresso machine. He begins replenishing the dwindling stack of purple cups. He isn’t too far away. That’s on purpose. The devious devil wants to eavesdrop on whatever exchange Noémie and I have.
“So you’re apartment hunting?” Noémie asks.
“Sort of,” I say. “I either need to find myself a new roommate or find a new place.” I opt not to say anything about my best friend U-Hauling across the bloody country. There’s no reason to go into details about my life. Noémie and I are not friends.
Frankly, there’s no reason for us to be talking now. I motion to turn away when Noémie asks, “What kind of place are you looking for?”
“Something affordable,” I say. “If I’m lucky, close to work.”
Noémie bites her bottom lip. There’s the slightest crease between her brows, and I can tell she’s contemplating something. Sliding her hands into the front pockets of her khakis, she rocks back on her heels. “I’ve been thinking that it might make sense to rent out one of the rooms in my home,” she says, and then adds, “I could use the money.”
I go really still. I must’ve misheard. Noémie’s not suggesting that I could move in with her—like live together.
I’m probably looking at her like she’s sprouted a second head, because her face reddens. Noémie looks uneasy. As I continue to stare at her, I’m not sure what to think. Silence slams between us.
A flash of annoyance registers on her face. “Forget it,” she says, crossing her arms. “It’d probably be weird right? Living together? I’m your employee, but I just thought it makes sense. You need a place, and I’ve got a spare room.”
I can’t forget it.
An image of the semi-detached home in Yorkville flashes in my mind. Noémie’s home isn’t that far from the coffee shop. On a nice day, I could even walk to work.
The thought of living with Noémie seems like torture. Hell, I can barely handle working with her. But at the same time, I’m quite desperate. Fact is I can’t afford my shitty Scarborough basement apartment on my own, and I’d rather die than move back home with my mom. There’s also a part of me that is curious to see Noémie’s place of residence. Is it as luxurious on the inside as it appeared on the outside?
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing it,” I say. “Unless you think it’d be too weird.”