Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
I do up the last button on my collared shirt and debate about going for a more casual look by popping the top two open. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror—the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would have a closet the size of a small office. I feel the urge to pinch myself to check if this is all real. This home—this bedroom, it’s more than I deserve.
As expected, Amari hadn’t helped me and Noémie unload the truck. Instead, she’d politely asked for the location of the washroom and disappeared for twenty minutes. I doubt she actually used the washroom. It’s more likely she spent the time snooping. For whatever reason, she kept up her nice act whenever she was around Noémie. I’m worried about her motivations. My sister is never friendly for the sake of it.
Amari spat her venom only when Noémie wasn’t within earshot range. “You dun know she wants something from you. Ah-lie, this is some Get Out shit. Don’t trust it, fam,” she said, screwing up her face as she rubbed her socked feet against the wooden planks. “The floors are heated—Eediat-ting! The utility bills must be mad!” I didn’t bother commenting.
Shortly, after all my things were unloaded, Amari took off. I’m glad for it. She’s a special kind of toxic that poisons a space by merely stepping foot in it.
Full of surprises today, Noémie volunteered to help me unpack. I’d been quick to turn down her offer to help me. Just the thought of Noémie handling my clothes made my body run hot. But I also just don’t have a lot stuff. It didn’t take long to empty the boxes and trash bags. My clothes were unloaded in the closet, and I neatly stacked my father’s comic book collection on an actual bookshelf. I’m glad to have somewhere nice to finally display them. For the longest time, I kept them piled in a box.
After I finished unpacking, I spent the better part of the afternoon drawing on my tablet before taking a nap on my new bed. It’s the comfiest mattress ever. Something tells me that I might not suffer from back pain soon.
Now, it’s quarter to eight. I’m freshly showered, spritzed with cologne, and I’ve applied the barest of eye makeup. As I admire my reflection, I contemplate whether to put on a fitted Jays cap or leave my head bare. I’d gone to my barber less than a week ago —my fade still looks crisp. So I decide against wearing a hat. I also decide to pop open the top four buttons of my black collared shirt. Women love when I show off more skin. Over the years, I’ve gotten compliments on my collarbones and perky tits.
Tonight I’m in hunter mode. All hot and bothered from being near Noémie, I need to get laid.
Grabbing my leather jacket, I exit my new bedroom. A heavenly scent greets me as I descend the staircase. My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that the last thing I’d eaten was an everything bagel and double-double from Timmies around noon.
The party I’m going to doesn’t start until 10:00 p.m., but Kristen wants to meet early at a pub. She’s having girl troubles —Hailey’s being an ass again. Sometimes, I want to smack some sense into my friend. Why can’t she see that Hailey’s a loser?
If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late. But I’m drawn to see what Noémie’s up to in the kitchen.
In the main room, Céline’s asleep on the couch. Her tiny body is coiled like a doughnut. Her large dark eyes blink open for a second to register me. I fully expect her to start barking, but she doesn’t. Instead, her tail does the most pathetic wag and then she’s back asleep.
The overhead lights are dimmed, and the dining table near the sliding doors is set neatly for two. A decanter of red wine sits between the two settings. A large candle is lit, creating an almost romantic ambiance.
I know I have no right to feel irritated, but my skin prickles at the thought of Noémie having a romantic dinner with some dude. Then again, maybe he isn’t random at all. While I haven’t heard Noémie mention a boyfriend yet, that doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist. If the guy in the Ferrari shouting for her to get back into the car before peeling off is her boyfriend, she can do better. If I were him, I would never drive off without Noémie. I shake my head. What am I even thinking? I don’t do girlfriends. I would never find myself in that position.
My gaze wanders towards the kitchen, and I suck in a breath. Noémie’s bent over an open oven. She removes a bright-orange braising pot. Straightening, she nudges the oven door shut with her hip and places the piping hot pot on the counter. Turning around, she removes a pair of orange mitts and tosses them to the side.
When she looks up, she sees me. Her grey eyes widen, and she smiles. I melt. I almost smile back. But I manage not to and direct my attention elsewhere—to the dining table.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Expecting company?” My voice doesn’t betray me. I sound normal. Good.
“No. Why do you ask?”
Frowning, my gaze settles back on Noémie. Sassy, beautiful Noémie. And I hear Amari’s words echoing in my head, “You sleep with everyone.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I tell myself that I can’t flirt with Noémie. I tell myself that Noémie’s straight and that it’s never a good idea to pursue anything with a straight girl. I tell myself that I can’t do anything to fuck up this living arrangement—I can’t afford to live anywhere else.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “There are two place settings. Is one for Céline?”
Noémie chuckles. “She’s spoiled, but not that spoiled. I figured you’d be hungry after moving. But no pressure to join me,” she says. “Looks like you’re heading out.”
“I have time to eat,” I lie. In less than thirty minutes, I’m supposed to meet up with Kristen in the Village. We have a reservation at O’Grady’s. But I’m not in the mood for pub fare, and whatever came out of the oven smells delectable. Also, Noémie set a place for me at the table. It would be rude of me to leave now.
Noémie grins. “Have a seat. I’ll bring you a plate.”
I shuffle over to the table and sit down. Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text to Kristen.
Jordan, 7:55 p.m.
Hey, I won’t make it to O’Grady’s. Meet you at the party.
Kristen texts back almost immediately.
Kristen, 7:56 p.m.
Ur joking right?
Jordan, 7:56 p.m.
Sry. Something came up.
Kristen, 7:56 p.m.
u suck
Jordan, 7:57 p.m.
Luv you too :P
Guilt twists my insides, but only for a moment. When a wide-brimmed bowl is placed in front of me, I forget about Kristen and her problems with Hailey. Steam rises off the dish, perfuming the air with notes of garlic, herbs, and seared meat. My mouth waters. It’s some kind of stew. Large chunks of beef mingle with root vegetables and pearl onions in a rich brown broth. A sprig of thyme sits on top of it all as a garnish. In its fancy, heavy white bowl, the meal doesn’t look home-cooked, it looks professional—like something out of a restaurant or from the pages of a Food Network Magazine .
Noémie sets down a basket of crusty bread before taking her seat beside me.
I fiddle with the end of my knife. I’m eager to dive in, but I don’t want to start eating before her.
To my dismay, Noémie doesn’t reach for her utensils. Instead, she grabs the decanter and pours a glass of red wine for me and then herself. Noémie performs an odd ritual that I’ve seen on television and film but never in real life. She raises her glass, tilting it slightly to observe the wine. I’m not sure what she is looking for and I don’t want to come off as stupid or uncultured, so I don’t ask. She swirls the glass and brings the rim to her nose. She inhales deeply and finally takes a sip.
Her grey eyes narrow on me. “Do you not like beef bourguignon?”
“Thought it’d be rude of me to just dig in,” I say.
“Take a bite. I want to know what you think,” she says, taking another sip of wine. Her eyes are still on me, and the weight of her gaze feels like a caress.
My hand trembles slightly as I reach for my fork. I stab a piece of meat and put it in my mouth. The beef is so tender that I barely need to chew it, and it’s well seasoned. I close my eyes and moan my pleasure. “Fuck, this is so good.”
Noémie’s cheeks colour from the compliment. “Glad you like it.”
We eat mostly in silence, and the clinking of metal against porcelain acts as an awkward symphony. So many times, I think about saying something, but each question I form in my mind dies on my tongue. All the questions I want to ask seem forbidden. Like, I want to know what happened between Noémie and her father. What could be so bad that he’d cut her off? I want to probe Noémie about the restaurant she dreamed of opening. I want to inquire about the man in the Ferrari—is he her boyfriend? But Noémie and I aren’t close, and I don’t want to come across as nosy. So I keep quiet and focus on enjoying my dinner.
Bowl wiped clean with a piece of bread, I pop the last bit of food in my mouth and sit back in my chair. I reach for my glass and finish my wine.
Red wine is not really my thing. I’m more of a rum and Coke kind of girl, but I have to give credit when it’s due because the wine Noémie chose pairs so well with the beef stew.
“So where are you off to?” Noémie asks.
“Going to a party in the Village.”
“Alone?” She sits back in her seat.
“Nah, with a friend,” I reply.
“Wayne says you don’t date,” Noémie says. “Why is that? I’m sure there are plenty of women who’d want to date you.”
Her question is so direct and unexpected that my jaw almost drops. Of all the questions that she could’ve asked, why’d she have to go and ask this one? There’s no way to truthfully answer without going into details about how messed up I am.
Samira tried to convince me to seek counselling or therapy. She told me that I needed to sort my shit out so that I could finally heal. She told me that she needed all of me and not scraps. She told me that crumbs can’t feed a relationship.
My ex is right. I probably do need to speak to someone, but there’s a tax on healing. Therapy is expensive, and it might not even help. Bringing up my past trauma might just make things worse. Why revisit the issue, if the wound is gone? Besides, I think my scars are here to stay.
Amari is the only person who knows everything. I went to her crying the moment after it happened, and she didn’t believe me. My sister shut me down and told me to get over it.
I thought about telling my mom, but I didn’t want her to know my shame. Paulette put up with enough bullshit at work at the hospital and didn’t need my crap adding to her load.
If a relationship means having to explain myself—why I am the way I am—then I don’t want one. Shrugging, I try to ignore the stinging behind the back of my eyes. “Relationships just aren’t for me,” I lie. “I get bored easily.”
Noémie reaches for the decanter and pours herself another glass of wine. “Oh, okay, makes sense.” I sense judgment in her tone, but it’s subtle.
In a world where marriage is still prized as one of the greatest milestones, many can’t conceptualize why anyone would willingly stay single. It bothers me that Noémie likely thinks less of me for my answer.
My phone buzzes and then buzzes again. I don’t need to look at the screen to know that it’s Kristen.
My chair scraps against the floor as I stand. “I’m so sorry, but I have to get going. Thanks for the meal, it was delicious.”
I bend to pick up my dirty plate, but Noémie swats my hand away. “Don’t worry about clearing the table. I can do it,” she says.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Noémie says. She takes a long drink from her glass. “Have fun tonight.”