Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
Noémie barely speaks to me the rest of the night, and I’m fine with that. The drive back to Yorkville from Scarborough is quiet, minus the drone of the music.
I go to bed convinced she’s mad at me. I’m mad at her too, even though I have no right to be.
I’m fully expecting to go through the same silent treatment bullshit as before. So imagine my surprise when I find Noémie waiting for me by the front door the next morning. She smiles at me, rousing the butterflies in my stomach. All the anger I feel swirls down an invisible drain.
“It’s raining,” she says, tucking her hair behind an ear. “I thought you might wanna ride into work with me.”
My tongue ties and I’m tripping over my words. “Umm … yeah, thanks.”
The rain isn’t coming down hard. It’s a sad, pathetic dribble. It’s the kind of weather that extinguishes my motivation to do anything.
Noémie pulls up to a curb and parks. I swing open the car door and step out into the cold.
Wayne’s huddled under an umbrella near the front doors to the shop. He waves at Noémie and makes room for her to join him under the canopy. The two of them dive into a conversation that I can’t quite hear as I fiddle with the store keys.
Once inside, our ritual begins. I rush to disarm the alarm, Noémie starts arranging the seating area, and Wayne does nothing until I remind him that he should be working.
I’m just finishing loading the cash register when I hear Wayne screech, “Jay has never extended me an invitation to meet her family.” He pops a tray of frozen croissants into the oven and slams the door.
I snort. “Like you would even want to.”
“You know that I’m dying to meet Amari,” he says. “I have a hard time believing half the things you say about her. She can’t be that bad.”
Noémie chuckles and sets down a spray bottle she’d been using to wipe down the front counter. It’s sticky for some reason, and whoever mopped the floors Sunday night did a piss-poor job. There are shoe prints all over the place.
“Whatever Jordan told you about her sister, it’s probably an understatement,” Noémie says.
I arch a brow at her. “How do you figure that? You two barely spoke.” Also, Amari continued being extremely polite to Noémie, for whatever reason.
“She brought Popeyes for herself when there was an entire spread of delicious home-cooked food. I don’t think she ate anything that was prepared. Like, your mother and grandmother must’ve been so upset.”
“They’ve gotten used to Amari’s particularities,” I say. “My sister hates Jamaican food. She hates anything that isn’t McDonald’s, pizza, or Popeyes.” I pick up a syrup bottle and frown because it’s empty. And where the hell is the whole milk? There’s none in the fridge beneath the counter.
I make a mental note to have a chat with Gordie, the evening shift manager—the night staff are not carrying their weight.
“I don’t know how anyone can hate Jamaican food,” Noémie says. “C’est délicieux.”
I like it when Noémie speaks French. It’s sexy. But I know the reason my chest suddenly feels warm is because Noémie voiced that she enjoys Jamaican food—a part of my culture.
The coffee shop opens and the rush starts almost immediately. But it isn’t chaos. The shift passes by smoothly—too smoothly. There hadn’t been a single complaint or slip up, and I can’t remember another time of that ever happening.
Noémie’s quick on the espresso machine. We work well together, almost operating like a fine-tuned engine, pumping out americanos, lattes, and macchiatos like we’re competing in the barista Olympics.
After work, I stay back fifteen minutes to give Gordie a piece of my mind. When I exit the shop, Noémie is outside scrolling through her phone, leaning against a wall. She looks up at me and grins, and I want to bottle up her smile to preserve it forever.
“Thought you might want a drive home,” she says, pushing off the wall and sliding her phone into her pocket.
The warmth I’d felt earlier spreads throughout my entire body like a fungus. Why is Noémie being so thoughtful? I can’t quite believe she waited for me. Part of me wishes she was the complete bitch that I once thought her to be. How will I ever get over my stupid crush if she’s nice to me?
Once home, Noémie swaps her work clothes for work out gear and heads down to the basement gym.
After a fast shower, I slip into a black hoodie and a pair of baggy sweatpants before collapsing into my favourite spot on the couch. I get comfy, arranging the cushions in the way I like, and begin to draw on my tablet.
I’m in the process of sketching out one of the last scenes for the third volume of The Diaries of Zara Williams when Noémie struts into the main room. Fresh out of the shower, all the makeup is scrubbed from her face. Still wet, her hair looks more dark brown than auburn in its ponytail. She wears an oversized grey cardigan that looks almost like a robe, a white camisole, orange leggings, and her favourite Givenchy slides.
Noémie is so fucking beautiful it hurts. Like, I actually fucking hurt. There’s a painful ache developing between my thighs. I’m not someone who usually uses words like yearn , but that’s what I feel. I yearn to touch her, even if it’s just trailing a finger down her cheek, even if it’s only for a second.
I bite down on my lower lip.
“You ever going to show me what you’re working on?” she asks.
I turn the tablet face down in my lap. “I’m not working on anything.”
“You’re such a bad liar,” Noémie says, moving into the kitchen.
She begins rummaging through the fridge and cupboards, and I go back to drawing. Or, at least, I try to. I’m feeling self-conscious.
The scene I’m working on depicts Zara Williams and Detective Pamela Cross kissing after barely escaping a shootout that broke out in an abandoned warehouse. Zara isn’t a hundred percent match for me—her hair is much shorter than my own and she’s a tad more feminine, with her pop of red lipstick and thick eyelashes. Pamela is also not a carbon copy for Noémie, with her green eyes and mole just above her lip. But there are enough similarities between us and my characters for me to be anxious about Noémie getting the wrong idea if she were to catch a glimpse of the drawing.
I peer over my shoulder. Noémie’s deep in concentration chopping up some vegetables. Deciding the coast is clear, I go back to my sketching.
There’s something relaxing about drawing to a background soundtrack of sizzling oil and pots and pans clinking. Back at the basement apartment, I hated the constant reminder of living with someone and neighbours above me. But I don’t mind Noémie’s noise.
A heavenly aroma fills the space, making me salivate. My stomach growls, and I take that as my queue to warm up some instant noodles.
I try not to get in Noémie’s way as I reach into the cupboard to grab the red-and-white package of Indomie.
“What are you doing?” Noémie asks, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “Dinner will be done in a bit.”
I blink. “Oh.” I shut the cupboard.
“If you wanted to help to set the table, I’d appreciate it,” she says with a smile.
After I nod, Noémie gives me clear directions—I guess I set the table wrong the last time. I arrange the mats and flatware as specified.
Around seven, dinner is ready, and we sit at the table together. Seared salmon with a citrus breadcrumb crust is the star of the dish. According to Noémie, the side is made up of sautéed peppers, shaved fennel, preserved lemon, parsley, and olives. A thick orange sauce decorates the side of the heavy white plate.
Failing to remember my table manners, I dip a finger in the sauce and lick it off. When I look up, Noémie is staring at me oddly. Her lips part, and a subtle crease forms between her brows.
“It’s good, what is it?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
This is the third time we’re sitting down for dinner together, and I feel more nervous than ever. Why is that? I’m not sure, but I’m hyperaware of how domestic the atmosphere is.
Growing up, it was a rare event for my family to eat a meal together. More often than not, I ate off cheap plastic plates with mismatched cutlery in front of the television or at my desk.
Noémie pours us each a glass of white wine and she responds to my question. “It’s a saffron orange butter sauce. Pairs well with most fish.”
“Cool, cool, it’s very good,” I say, nodding like an idiot. My ears burn. My face burns. I just burn all over. I hope Noémie can’t tell.
“I’m glad you like it.” She reaches for her wine, her long fingers wrapping around the stem. She takes a long-measured sip, and my gaze dips to the movement at her throat as she swallows. I stare down at my plate and decide that I won’t look back up until I’ve finished eating.
Noémie’s a hell of a cook, and it takes effort not to wolf everything down. But even trying to eat slowly, Noémie’s only halfway through her meal by the time I’ve cleaned my plate.
I’m on my second glass of wine, and the alcohol makes me feel looser, more relaxed. Setting down my knife and fork, I lean back in my chair. I’m feeling chatty all of a sudden. “I hope Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t too awkward last night,” I say.
“It was wonderful—magnifique.” Noémie pops a small forkful of fish in her mouth. She chews.
“Really?”
“Yes, I loved the food. You’ll have to get me the recipe for the soup and that oxtail dish.”
I scrunch my nose. “I hate oxtail. Love the gravy though.”
“Why?”
“It’s slimy and there’s barely any meat.”
Noémie laughs. I really like it when she laughs. “I’ll try to remember that,” she says.
“So, just to confirm, you didn’t feel too awkward.” Yes, I’m probing, which is weird for me to do, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’d been the slightest bit upset with me last night.
“I had a good time,” Noémie confirms. “I’m happy you invited me.”
“I’m happy you’re happy. But … it just seemed to me like you were a little annoyed towards the end.” I really don’t know why I can’t let this go. Usually, I’m not the type to push for information.
Noémie’s lips press firmly together. “I guess I was a little irritated that you didn’t find a way to break me away from Ezra. I was clearly giving you signals to get me out of there,” she says. “Somehow, I ended up giving him my number, and now he’s texting me. Ugh …”
I frown. She’s kidding right? She’s got to be gaslighting me. She had totally been flirting obnoxiously with my cousin, laughing at all his stupid jokes and touching his stupid arm.
“I thought you were enjoying Ezra’s company,” I say.
“He’s so not my type,” Noémie states. “And if you were paying any attention, you would have realized that I was pretty much begging to be whisked away.”
“I was paying attention,” I argue. “But whatever signals you were flashing weren’t loud enough.”
Noémie rolls her eyes. “My signals were obvious. I couldn’t have been more obvious without coming off as rude.”
Was that true? Had my jealously skewed my vision, making me see things that never happened? It’s possible.
“I’m sorry. In the future, I will try to be more observant.”
Noémie grins over the rim of her wine glass. Her grey eyes sparkle. “Thanks.”
“So if Ezra isn’t your type, what is?” I ask. It’s a bold question. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer, but I want to know.
Noémie frowns as she contemplates her answer. “Naturally, an appreciation for good food and wine is a must. I like confidence, but not cockiness?—”
“Ezra’s one cocky bastard. He’s definitely not for you.” I chuckle.
There’s a flash of a smile on Noémie’s lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her expression sobers, and she stares down into her wine glass. “Trustworthiness is probably at the top of my list,” she says.
Clearly, that comment is directed at her ex—the one who did a number on her, turning her life upside down. I wonder what he did to break her trust. Had he cheated? Men always cheat. On a balance of probabilities, that’s likely what happened. It’s hard to believe that anyone would cheat on Noémie. Then again, even Beyoncé got cheated on—Beyoncé! Most men are dogs. I’m thankful that I’m hopelessly gay and never have to deal with the opposite sex romantically.
After dinner, I insist on tidying up. It’s only fair since Noémie cooked. It takes me half an hour to load the dishwasher, scrub the pots and pans, and wipe down the counters. While I clean, Noémie sits on the couch with a second glass of wine and Céline curled in her lap.
Noémie pivots in her seat and looks at me over the back of the couch. “Did you want to watch something?” she asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
A minute later, I plop down on the couch on the opposite end from Noémie. It’s a calculated decision. I want to be near her, and that’s why I need to stay far away.