Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
Light streams in from the large bay window, leaking in through the gaps between the blinds and painting bars across the bedsheets and my face. I squint and adjust so the band of light isn’t in my eyes.
A warm body is draped on top of me. The woman smells like smoke, liquor, and sex. She’s got stringy auburn hair and pale skin peppered with freckles. Last night—four drinks in—I thought she looked like a taller version of Noémie. This morning, I see that she’s a complete counterfeit to the real thing. I try to recall her name, but it eludes me.
Her brown eyes flutter open. “Morning,” she says, her voice raspy. She smiles.
“Morning to you too,” I say.
She shifts her weight, laying her body flat against mine. She’s completely naked, while I’m topless in a pair of Calvin Klein boxers.
Her breasts feel good pressed against my own. Without the filter of alcohol. She looks nothing like Noémie, but she’s still quite beautiful.
She rocks her hips against me, stirring my desire. “You’re so fucking hot,” she says.
Our lips touch, and I roll her beneath me. I fuck her with one hand and get myself off with the other.
I don’t want her to touch me. I never let anyone touch me.
She cries out my name as she comes and tells me she loves me. It’s kind of weird, but it’s happened before. Women say things they don’t mean when they orgasm. I don’t love her. We just met last night, and I’m only just remembering her name—it’s Nicole.
About an hour later, we are downstairs in the foyer and Nicole is stuffing her feet into a pair of Vans that look fresh out the box.
“I’m free later if you wanted to grab dinner,” she says, shoving her hands down her jean pockets.
I scratch the area behind my ear. “I don’t do dates,” I say, refusing to meet her eyes. From experience, I already know what I will see in their depths—confusion and hurt. Sometimes, there’s anger.
When Nicole slips through the front door without another word, I release a sigh and head for the kitchen. I almost jump when I see Noémie. She’s standing by the island, a bright-orange protein shaker bottle in her hand. She’s dressed in workout gear—tight-fitting yoga pants and an apricot sports bra. Her hair is bound in a high ponytail. Just the sight of her makes me want to run back upstairs and get off again.
“Good morning,” I say with a forced smile.
Noémie doesn’t smile back. She does the opposite. Her grey eyes drill into me, and she slams down her protein shake.
I flinch. “Did I do something?”
Instead of answering, Noémie gives me her back. I watch her tug open a cupboard and remove a bottle of what looks to be vitamins. Twisting the top off, she shakes out two pills and tosses them into her mouth.
My heart races. I hear it pounding in my ears. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Noémie’s lips curl with disgust. “Esti de calice de tabarnak, c’est pas possible d’être cave de même!”
I have no idea what she just said, but I know it can’t be good. Fuck!
“What’s wrong?” Noémie points a finger at me. “What’s wrong is that I’m not running a brothel. I don’t want random women in my home!”
Oh, she’s not happy about Nicole. While I understand, I think her reaction is overblown. Still, I realize that I need to tread carefully. The last thing I need is her kicking me out over this.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t think?—”
“Maybe you should start.”
“I won’t do it again.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Noémie rolls her eyes and storms out of the kitchen with her shaker bottle.
Collapsing onto a stool, I scrub my face with my palms and groan. It’s been one day of living together, and I’ve already fucked things up. I should have asked Noémie if it was okay for me to bring women over. We’re definitely going to have to discuss ground rules for this living situation. I need to know what else she’s not okay with.
A long drawn-out whine disrupts my thoughts. I look down.
Céline’s large beady eyes stare up at me. She paws at the base of the stool. Her nails clink against the metal.
I don’t know what the dog wants, but I find myself sliding off the stool and sitting down beside her. The floor is pleasantly warm on my backside. Noémie’s hydro bill must be massive. Is what I’m paying in rent really enough to cover her utilities?
Céline climbs into my lap like she owns it and curls up. It’s a new experience for me. I’ve never been so close to a dog before. Lifting a hand, I awkwardly scratch Céline’s head. She leans into my touch. I decide that I like Céline. Her presence is calming and nice.
What isn’t nice is Noémie’s attitude. I’ve never seen her so bratty. All week, at work, she gives me the cold shoulder. She refuses to speak to me or acknowledge my presence, which is a problem since I’m her manager. It’s hard to manage someone who’s actively ignoring you.
Wayne’s acting as a buffer, filtering our communication to each other. It’s so awkward. Not just for me, but for everyone on my team. Wayne isn’t on my side, which kinda hurts. In his opinion, Noémie has every right to be angry at me. According to Wayne, I need to give the girl space until she gets over it. I don’t even know what Noémie needs to get over. I told her I’m sorry already. And I have no intention of repeating my mistake. What else could she want?
I want to ask her, but she’s made it impossible to. After our shifts, Noémie dips out of the coffee shop so quickly, taking off in her Tesla. And at home, whenever I try to talk to her, she stomps upstairs to her bedroom. Usually I’m the one who is childish when it comes to having tough conversations, but I’m nowhere near as bad as Noémie.
I’ve thought about following her up to the third floor. I’ve thought about knocking on her door and demanding that she talk to me. But thinking about it is as far as I’m willing to go. I need to tread carefully with her. If I’ve learned anything in our short time working or living together, it’s that Noémie is volatile. You never know what side you’ll get—sugar or spice. She really is a Gemini.
The silent treatment is killing me, especially since I’ve been given a glimpse at just how amazing living with Noémie could be. Our first night together, she made a space for me at her table. I think she’d been trying to befriend me. This last week, Noémie has cooked every single day. She eats and drinks alone. While I don’t have any expectations of being fed, it also kind of sucks to see butter chicken simmering on the stove while I prepare my Indomie noodles in the microwave.
By the time our shift ends on Friday, I’m seriously considering changing the roster at work and moving Noémie from mornings to evenings. Wayne says she needs space, but I need space too. I can’t deal with Noémie’s negativity twenty-four seven. If I can’t escape it at home, I refuse to be subjected to it at work.
After wishing Wayne and Kevin a good weekend, Noémie rushes out of the coffee shop, heading home. It’s raining, and it would have been nice if she offered me a lift since we’re going to the same place. But she isn’t considerate like that.
I step out into the cool wet air and unfurl my umbrella. Heading for the subway station, an imaginary argument between us plays out in my head. I tell Noémie that her behaviour is juvenile and unprofessional and tell her that I’m slotting her to work nights. She doesn’t like that. She gets angry. She shoves me. And then she kisses me.
I step in a puddle. “Fuck,” I mutter. The cold water soaks through my shoe. Is there anything worse than a wet sock? Seriously.
Noémie’s white Model X is parked in the driveway when I get home. Normally, she parks it in the garage.
Stepping into the foyer, Céline bounds towards me. She carries a squeaky toy in her mouth. When I bend down to pet her, she turns and runs away.
I chuckle. The dog is really starting to grow on me.
I go to my room, where I strip down and change into a pair of sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, and a fresh pair of socks. Ripping my tablet from its charging cord, I head back downstairs and go to the main room.
While the desk setup in my room is decent, I’ve always preferred to draw curled up on a couch. And unlike the dark basement apartment, Noémie’s living room is bright and her couch has wide arms and cushions that are just perfect. It’s my favourite spot to draw.
Usually, it’s just me. And it’s quiet—so quiet. It’s a beautiful thing. I can concentrate in a way I’ve never quite been able to before. The result: I’m drawing faster than ever. Sometimes, I get so absorbed in what I’m doing that I don’t make note of Noémie’s presence until she slams a cupboard door or runs the faucet.
Throwing myself down on the couch, I click on the side table lamp and adjust my seating position until it’s just right. I enter my flow quickly, transferring the images I see in my mind’s eye onto the digital page.
With every stroke of my stylus, Zara Williams and her story become more real to me. As I add layers and depth and shading, I trick myself into thinking that what I’m producing is actually good—something worth sharing.
“What are you always doing on your iPad?”
Startled, I drop my pen. It falls in the crease between the couch arm and seat cushion.
“Nothing,” I say, clicking the button on the tablet. The screen goes black.
Noémie leans against the archway leading to the main room.
I’m still annoyed at her for making me walk in the rain. I’m still annoyed at her for making my week hell. But my traitorous heart races the moment our eyes meet. All I can hope is that Noémie can’t hear it. If she ever knew how much I wanted her, I’d probably find myself kicked out on the street.
I can’t shake the feeling that part of Noémie’s weeklong tantrum has everything to do with the fact that my guest had been a woman. Maybe it grosses Noémie out that two women had been fucking under her roof.
With Wayne, Noémie plays the role of an ally well. But she’d been raised in a homophobic household. Her father hates gay people. He’s been quoted saying that gay, trans, and non-binary people are mentally ill and need help. Noémie doesn’t look much like Hugo, but over the last week I’ve seen glimpses of him in her glares and dismissive gestures.
This evening, Noémie wears black Lululemon yoga pants and a cropped Billy Talent t-shirt, exposing the smooth plain of her stomach. Billy Talent is one of my favourite bands. In high school, I drove Amari crazy listening to “Try Honesty” on repeat. I doubt Noémie is familiar with any of their songs. In her early twenties, the Poutine Princess is a Gen Z—Billy Talent is way before her time.
Crossing her arms, Noémie approaches the couch. “Seems like it’s something,” she says.
While I’m happy Noémie’s finally talking to me again, I’m not interested in telling her about my passion project. I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. Never again. Pitching my first graphic novel had been the hardest thing I’d ever done. All these years later, I still taste the bitter residue of rejection.
Noémie’s grey eyes shimmer with curiosity. She’s waiting for me to say something. I keep my mouth shut.
“Digital art?” she asks.
I grit my teeth. “Yes, I like to draw,” I confirm. “But don’t bother asking to see it. I’m not comfortable sharing.”
When Noémie nods instead of pushing for me to show her what I’m working on, I almost sigh in relief.
“Wayne mentioned once that you have a degree in fine arts,” she says, taking a seat on the thick armrest on the opposite end of the couch.
Wayne talks too goddamn much. What else had he told her about me?
Noémie’s gaze drifts upward towards the ceiling, and she leans back on her hands. She bites her lower lip, and her brows furrow in thought. It’s the expression of someone who wants to say something but is engineering their sentences.
“The beginning of October is always hard for me,” she finally says. “I know that I’ve been really bitchy these last few days, and I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you.”
Now it’s my turn to plan my words. I know what I want to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask why, but I have enough commonsense not to ask.
“You had every reason to be upset,” I say instead. “I should have asked you if it was okay to bring someone over.”
“Yeah, you should have,” Noémie agrees. “I would have told you that it wouldn’t be okay. I don’t want strange people in my home.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Am I allowed to have friends over?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if I meet them first.” She puffs out a frustrated breath. “I don’t really trust anyone, even people I know. So having people I don’t know in my space makes me uncomfortable.”
It’s my turn to nod. “I get and respect that.”
“Do you, though?” she asks.
Our eyes meet. I see vulnerability flickering in the depths of hers.
“Yes,” I say, meaning it. If Noémie doesn’t want me to have guests over, that’s fine. It’s not a big sacrifice. I almost never had anyone over when I’d been living with Sarah. But that was mainly because no one wanted to commute back with me to Scarborough.
Noémie looks away first and stands. “I am going to warm some leftover butter chicken,” she says. “Do you want some? It’s one of my favourite dishes to make, and it usually tastes better the next day.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, trying not to sound as excited as I feel. I hadn’t been looking forward to the frozen Lean Cuisine I’d planned on warming up for dinner.
“Did you want me to help with anything?” I ask, following Noémie into the kitchen.
“Wanna set the table?”
“Sure.”
Noémie pairs our meal with a crisp Riesling. It’s the second wine she’s selected that I quite like.
The butter chicken is succulent and packed with flavour—the best I’ve ever had. And the garlic naan is soft and buttery.
“You definitely should open a restaurant,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “I’d eat there—if I could afford it.”
Noémie’s lips curve. She’s not quite smiling, but I can tell the compliment pleases her. “Any plans tonight?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Usually, I go out Friday nights, but I need to be conservative with my money for the next little while. Winter is coming and I’ll need to get my bike ready to sit idle for the cold months. Getting it ready means bringing it into the shop for maintenance—and who knows what the mechanic might find wrong. Just last year, I had to change both tires. And there’d been something up with the brakes. All in all, it’s likely going to cost a lot.
“Do you want to watch something on Netflix?”
Noémie’s invitation surprises me. “Was there something you wanted to watch?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “But, I am down to watch anything that isn’t a rom-com.”
I arch a brow. “You don’t like rom-coms?”
“You’re telling me that you do?”
“I definitely do not watch How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days at least once a year.”
Noémie coughs up some wine as she laughs. “Oh my God—you don’t.”
“I really don’t see what’s so funny.”
“You just don’t look like someone who would watch a movie like that,” she says.
I guess that’s sort of true. I’m quite masculine presenting, and I probably come off as someone who’s a die-hard fan of the Fast and the Furious series—but I’m not. I can do without watching men measuring their dicks on screen for two hours, thank you very much.
“In my defence, Kate Hudson is a total babe in that movie,” I say.
Noémie dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “And Matthew McConaughey isn’t too bad himself.”
“Sure,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Noémie insists on clearing the table. I drop down into my usual seat on the couch while she starts up the dishwasher. Grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV and begin scrolling through the Netflix catalogue.
“Find anything interesting?” Noémie asks, sitting down—right beside me.
My entire body stills. Our thighs are touching, and I can feel the heat coming off her. This close, her citrusy perfume is more intoxicating than the wine I drank with supper.
“I asked if you found something to watch,” Noémie says.
I blink. “Ummm … no.”
She plucks the remote from my hand. “You snooze, you lose. I’m going to pick.”
I couldn’t care less about what we watch. With Noémie this close to me, I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on anything.