Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
Noémie and I fall into a routine of sorts. Weekday mornings, she drives us to work. For the most part, our shifts fly by easily, and then once home, Noémie works out while I put the final touches on the third instalment of my graphic novel.
Almost every night, we eat something different. I’m getting exposed to so many different cuisines and wines. I try duck breast for the first time. I’m so hesitant to try it. The meat is pink and that trips me up. But Noémie assures me that’s how it’s supposed to be. All my life, I’ve been told not to eat meat that’s not cooked through. I’ve also been led to believe that white people don’t season their food. Noémie’s food never tastes bland—she’s testing my beliefs. Duck breast is now my favourite thing in the world—that crispy skin, it’s bomb. Tastes kind of like Hickory Sticks.
After dinner, I make it my job to get the kitchen in order while Noémie relaxes on the couch with a second drink. Before heading off to bed, we usually watch Netflix. Currently, we’re watching The Haunting of Hill House since it’s spooky season.
I’m not quite sure when the change happened, but I now sit beside Noémie on the couch, our legs touching. It’s bittersweet. As we spend more and more time together, I adjust to being constantly aroused. It’s somehow both easier and harder to be around her—if that even makes sense.
The Saturday before Halloween, I’m at the shop getting my motorcycle serviced for the winter when Sarah video calls me for the first time since she’s left.
“Hey, it’s been a while,” she says. “Whatchu saying?”
I turn up the volume on my phone to hear her better and step out of the noisy shop. “Nothing much, just at the bike shop.”
“Cool, cool,” Sarah says.
There’s something off about Sarah’s tone. “Everything good?”
Sarah sighs. “Veronica and I just got into a fight—a big one.”
“Fuck, sorry to hear that.” I sit down on a bench just outside of the wide garage doors. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
“I’d rather hear what’s up with you. What’s it like living with the Poutine Princess?” she asks.
“Not sure we can keep calling her that,” I say. “Her father cut her off, remember?”
“You find out why yet?”
I play back the conversation we had in her car on Thanksgiving. “She says that her father has expectations of her, and if she doesn’t fall in line, it’s a problem,” I say.
“So she basically didn’t tell you.”
I frown. When Sarah puts it that way, it does sound like Noémie skirted the question. Thinking about it, there are a lot of questions she hasn’t given me a straight answer to. Meanwhile, I keep going into greater specifics about myself and my past. It doesn’t sit well with me that I’m opening up and she’s refusing to bud.
Our new friendship is lopsided. Noémie won’t let me in, while it seems like she tells Wayne any and everything. At work, the two of them are always whispering and sneaking off to the stockroom to have secret conversations. I’ve been trying to let it slide. Things with Noémie are so good at home now, and I don’t want to break the peace. But I feel left out.
“So what’s it like?” Sarah asks, breaking me from my thoughts.
I slump down a bit on the bench. I don’t know what to say. What I should say? Frankly, I’m dying to talk to someone about Noémie. Usually, I go to Wayne with girl problems, but I can’t now, not when the source of my problems is his new bestie. He’s compromised and can’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut. I can’t risk my truth getting out. I don’t want to make Noémie uncomfortable. I don’t want to be kicked out.
I end up telling Sarah everything.
“Sounds like you’re catching feelings,” she says.
“It’s not that serious.”
“You just told me that you haven’t gone out in forever. You also said you’re planning to stay in on Halloween instead of partying in the Village? Like, who the hell are you? Where’s Jay? This straight girl is changing you, buddy.”
“I’ve gone out every Halloween for years,” I say. “Honestly, I’m looking forward to dressing up and handing out candy to kids.”
Sarah snorts. “You hate wearing anything that isn’t black, and you hate kids.”
I don’t bother denying it. Sarah knows me too well.
“Bruh, she’s domesticating you and you guys aren’t even smashing. Seriously, Jay, you need to get laid. Don’t wrap yourself up in this straight girl. You know you’re just asking for trouble.”
“I’m not wrapping myself up in anything. She’s my friend.”
“And you were my friend …” Sarah goes silent for a beat, and then I hear her sigh over the phone. “Like, I can speak about it easy enough now, but when I was deep in my feelings for you—fuck, it hurt so much. I don’t want that for you.”
“I hate that I hurt you,” I say.
“You never hurt me. I hurt myself. I knew we couldn’t be together, but I put myself in a position where I was always around you.”
I slump even farther down the bench. Propping the back of my head on the wooden back rest, I stare up at the sky. It’s a somber grey. There aren’t clouds. It’s just haze.
I don’t go out for Halloween.
While I totally agree with Sarah about needing to put some distance between myself and Noémie, I lack willpower. Besides, I already promised Noémie that I would stay home with her and hand out candy. I can’t back out of a promise, right?
Not to mention that Noémie would kill me if I ditched her. She takes Halloween very seriously. At least, more seriously than anyone I know. She went all out, decorating the interior of the Victorian with glittering orange pumpkin banners and fake cobwebs. Outside, three cartoon gravestones stick up from the tiny patch of lawn. A skeleton with glowing eyes hangs on the green door.
A week earlier, Noémie coerced me into carving pumpkins with her. Noémie’s jack-o’-lantern turned out picture perfect while mine boasted a lopsided grin with teeth that were too small. I should have used a template—I shouldn’t have winged it. According to Noémie, my carved pumpkin looks far better than hers, but I disagree. Both our pumpkins sit on the stairs that lead up to the entrance.
It’s almost 6:00 p.m., and I know that it’s just a matter of time before trick-or-treaters start ringing our bell. Noémie’s in the kitchen reheating leftovers for dinner while I sit on the couch, reviewing the third volume of the Zara Williams series one last time. The plan is to start outlining the fourth instalment next week.
The bell rings. Céline goes ape-shit and runs towards the front door. I hope her barking doesn’t scare the kids off.
“I can get it,” I say, tossing down my tablet.
I rise and tug back on the thick red cap with the M emblem on it that completes my Mario costume. I look fucking ridiculous and can’t take my reflection seriously. I’ve never dressed up before. Not even as a kid—but that had more to do with my mom deeming Halloween a pagan and ungodly holiday.
When Noémie first proposed the idea of us dressing up as Mario and Princess Peach, I laughed it off, thinking she’d been joking. The joke was on me. A couple days later she presented me with my costume and she’d been so fucking excited. I didn’t know how to say no to her. So I’m stuck feeling stupid and sporting the bristly faux moustache and the blue overalls with its large gold buttons. I can put up with a bit of discomfort if it makes Noémie happy.
“Trick or treat,” a group of six kids shout when I open the front door. There’s a little girl dressed up as Elsa and a boy dressed up as Buzz Lightyear. The other costumes are lost on me.
As directed, I drop two full-sized chocolate bars into each of their outstretched bags and wish them a good night.
Closing the door, I set down the candy bowl and shake my head. In grade school, some of my classmates bragged about getting full-sized chocolate bars on Halloween. Not once had I ever witnessed or received that miracle myself.
There’d been a few years where my dad secretly took Amari and I out trick or treating. My Halloween haul had mainly consisted of stale tootsie rolls, rockets, and those cheap lollipops that are always chipped or completely shattered.
But here I am, more than twenty years later, distributing two full-sized chocolate bars to each kid who knocks on my door. It must have cost Noémie a small fortune to buy all this candy. I wonder how she can afford it.
The doorbell rings again, and I pick the candy bowl back up. I get stuck at the front door for the next twenty minutes. There are so many kids! Where the hell did they all come from? I hadn’t known there were any children in the neighbourhood. The evidence of their existence isn’t anywhere to be seen. No bikes litter front lawns. No basketball nets hang over driveways. No chalk drawings paint the sidewalk. As I distribute the chocolate bars, I wonder when Princess Peach will make her grand appearance— she’s the one who suggested we do this together.
Finally, there are no kids in sight, and I’m able to escape my post at the door. I hurry back to the living room and discover what kept Noémie.
I go very still for a moment before my hands clench at my sides. I see red. “What are you doing?”
My tablet slips from Noémie’s fingers, dropping to her lap. She bites her lip.
Not waiting for an answer, I rush over and snatch the device and click the screen off. Anger and embarrassment ripples through me like a gong. If I were a cartoon character, I’m sure steam would be whistling from my ears.
I point a finger at Noémie. “What the actual fuck—you had no business going through my shit.”
Noémie has the audacity to roll her eyes. “Je m’en fous. I don’t get why you’re so pissed.”
“I’m pissed because you know—you know that I didn’t want you to see …” My words trail as my anger mixes with panic. How much did Noémie read? Did she see the resemblance between Zara and myself—Pamela Cross and herself?
Noémie shakes her head. The movement makes her crown topple. She’s quick to right it. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you upset. I guess I shouldn’t have looked,” she says. She stands and comes over to me. Her dress makes her look like Pepto-Bismol threw up all over her. Somehow, she’s still so fucking hot.
Our eyes meet, and I look away.
“I really don’t get what the big deal is. Why do you insist on hiding your work? I read about two chapters and it’s so fucking good. You’re so talented, Jordan. You’re doing a disservice not sharing your art with the world.” She tries to take my hand in hers, and I pull it back.
I give her my darkest look. She stares right back at me. There’s an electric current between us. Can she feel it too?
Noémie licks and bites down on her lower lip. My eyes follow the movement. Feelings overload my system. I’m pissed off, anxious, and horny. The room is too hot.
The doorbell rings.
Céline starts barking. Noémie takes a step back, blinking. She adjusts her crown and runs her hands down the puffy skirt, smoothing it out. Rushing out of the main room, she dismisses me like I don’t matter.
Gritting my teeth, I fling off the stupid red cap and stomp upstairs to my room. Fuck Noémie. She can hand out candy by herself. I’m done for the night. I tear off the fake moustache and trade in the overalls for a black tee and a pair of sweatpants.
Throwing myself down on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling. My hearts thumps so hard in its cage that I fear it might escape. Scrubbing my face with my palms, I groan. I should have listened to Sarah—I should have gone out tonight. But maybe it isn’t too late. The night’s still very young. A spark of bad judgment makes me text Audrina.
Jordan, 6:57 p.m.
Watchu saying tonight?
Almost immediately, three little dots pop up on the screen. They disappear as fast as they came. Twenty minutes pass, and I decide that Audrina has finally had enough of me. Not surprising. It’s about time.
I tap onto the TikTok app and scroll. For how long, I don’t know. Sometimes, I’m grateful for the time portal that is social media. Other times, I hate that hours will fly by in a wink—a whole day gone.
There’s a knock on my door. I sit up.
“Jordan, can we talk?” The door muffles Noémie’s question.
It’s only after I reply, “Yeah, sure,” that it dawns on me that I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to see her.
Noémie steps inside my bedroom. She looks absolutely ludicrous in her bubble-gum pink dress with its puffed sleeves. But she only looks ludicrous because she’s out of character—not smiling. Princess Peach shouldn’t look miserable.
She takes a seat on the edge of the bed and turns to face me. “Look, I’ve been thinking, and I’m sorry that I snooped,” she says with a sigh.
I snort. “You don’t sound sorry.”
“Well, I am sorry.” Her cheeks colour. “Clearly, I overstepped, even though I don’t get what the big deal is.”
“I draw for myself, nobody else.”
“And why is that?”
I don’t owe Noémie an answer. Not when she’s been tight-lipped about herself. A friendship shouldn’t be one-sided. She doesn’t need to know that I reached for my dream once only to crash and burn. She doesn’t need to know that I gave up drawing for years only to pick it back up to escape my grief. I miss my dad so much. Even though we barely saw each other towards the end, I never questioned that he was my biggest fan. If he was still around … maybe I could try to dream again.
A ball forms in my throat. I sniffle.
“Jordan?” Noémie whispers. She rests her hand on my leg.
“Why do you even care?” I say, moving so her hand falls onto the mattress.
Silence steeps as seconds tick by.
“You know … Antoinette was really into comics and manga,” she says finally. Her voice wavers. Noémie stares down at her lap. There’s a glimmer in her eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so sad and small. “She was gay—I don’t think I told you. And you know how my father is …”
I do know how her father is—homophobic.
Once, Noémie called him confused, but I have seen enough of his interviews to know that he’s an awful, hateful man.
I remember how Noémie’s voice faltered at the coffee shop when she identified herself an ally. Had she been reminded of her sister then? Is that why she stumbled over her words?
While I’m super glad Noémie’s opening up, I question her disclosure. Why now? What’s changed? Is she only opening up because she fucked up and went through my shit?
To date, our deepest conversations happened on Thanksgiving. Our friendship is surface level—as deep as thin-crust pizza. We stick to safe subjects. We talk about TV shows and movies. We talk about food and fashion. We talk about work. We don’t talk about anything that really matters. I don’t know Noémie’s position on the conflict in the Middle East, and she doesn’t know mine. I’m a Liberal, but I don’t know if Noémie’s a Conservative like her father. I don’t know if we have shared values. I have no insights into her past relationships beyond the tiny morsel she fed me on the balcony. She never mentions her friends or family.
Sure, I don’t offer much up either, but I’ve definitely shared a lot more.
Noémie clears her throat. “My sister used to complain so much, and Claude was so annoyed. I don’t remember being annoyed, but I didn’t get her constant need to talk my ear off about the lack of queer representation or feeling forced to stay in the closet. She whined so much about having to hide her L Word DVDs and Batwoman comics,” she says. Wiping her eyes, she stares up at the ceiling. “I’d give anything to hear her complain again.”
A magnetic force pulls me towards her, I scoot down the bed until we are sitting side by side.
Noémie tenses when I place my hand on top of hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.
She locks eyes with me. “I’m sorry that I looked at your artwork. I didn’t mean to, I swear. It’s just that the display was on, and I glimpsed an image of two women holding hands, and I was reminded of Antoinette’s obsession with Batwoman. And I just …” Noémie releases a breath with her entire body. She goes quiet for a beat. “You’re so talented, Jordan, and the world needs more stories like yours. There aren’t enough.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s hard to think when she’s looking at me with pained intensity. In the dim light of the bedroom, Noémie’s eyes look more blue than grey—she’s so fucking beautiful.
I’m not angry anymore, but I’m not sure I fully forgive her. I don’t like that Noémie has seen a side of me that I’ve reserved for myself. Still, I hate seeing Noémie so upset even more. I want to pull her into my arms and hold her until the hurt in her eyes recedes. It occurs to me that I can do that. I wouldn’t be crossing any lines by hugging her. We’re friends. Right? Friends comfort friends. Right?
Deciding to go for it, I lean forward.
My phone vibrates. I look down at the screen. There’s a message from Audrina.
Audrina, 8:47 p.m.
Heading home around 10pm
Want to come over tonight?
I’d love for you to tear my nurse costume off with your teeth
“I didn’t know you were still talking to Audrina,” Noémie says. There’s a bite to her tone. “At least …Wayne mentioned something about her being crazy and not being able to take a hint.”
I turn my phone over face down. “You really are such a snoop,” I say, almost playfully.
“I guess I am.” Frowning, Noémie rises to her feet. “It’s been a day. I’m going to sleep.”
“You don’t want to finish watching The Haunting of Hill House ?” I ask. I’m in the mood to watch it, and we only have one episode left. We decided to save it for tonight. I want to sit close to Noémie on the couch. I want to talk some more. I want something more than I can have.
“No,” she says. “I’m exhausted.”
I nod and try to hide my disappointment when I say, “Okay.”
Before she leaves, Noémie pauses in the doorframe. She looks over her shoulder at me. Her mouth opens like she’s about to say something. But she doesn’t. She exits my room, closing the door behind her.
My phone vibrates again. I flip it over. I’m met with a selfie of Audrina looking every bit the part of a naughty nurse in her white corseted outfit.
I heart the photo, and then reply to her last message.
Jordan, 8:51 p.m.
Yeah, sure. Can you pick me up?
It’s probably not a good idea to keep stringing Audrina along like this, but if I can’t be with Noémie, I might as well be with someone else tonight.