Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
Dinner is catered. While it looks appetizing, the arrangement of meats, salad, and sides are a far cry from the fancy meals Noémie lavishes me with at home.
Claude insists that I sit beside the man with the goatee—the gentleman I’d seen earlier on his phone.
The moment I’m told his name, I discover why he looked so familiar. Francois Lafontaine is an uber successful digital artist and YouTube influencer. I’ve seen his videos before, and I know his story.
Sitting beside him makes me nervous.
He’s got the type of resumé I can only fantasize having. He’s worked for big companies like Ubisoft and CD Projekt Red. Early in his career, he designed characters for popular console games. Now, he makes a living uploading videos and selling prints of his work directly to his fan base. Francois’s got a following in the millions, and a little over a year ago he launched his first Kickstarter campaign to fund the release of a comic book series. Within minutes of going live, his Kickstarter surpassed all its stretch goals.
I’m a little envious of him, but I try not to let it show in our interactions.
Noémie sits directly across from me, slathering too much butter on a slice of crusty bread.
The conversation around the table is about Francois’s latest project, which he is describing as being a cross between Macbeth and Resident Evil . It sounds really interesting; I would read it.
“You know, Jordan is also working on a graphic novel,” Claude says.
I nearly choke on my wine. My gaze snaps to Noémie’s. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before she glares at her brother.
“Is that so?” Francois asks, sounding genuinely interested.
And suddenly all eyes—except for Noémie’s—are on me. I feel the flame of embarrassment on my cheeks. But I don’t just feel embarrassed, I’m hurt. How could Noémie betray me like this? She knows how I feel about talking about my art. And she doesn’t even like her brother, so why would she tell him about my graphic novel series?
I realize that Francois is still waiting for an answer. I say, “Ummm … yeah.”
“What’s it about?” he asks, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip.
I reach for my own drink. The crystal feels heavy in my hand. It wobbles. I decide to abort and set the glass back down.
The table is hushed, all forks and knives hovering over plates as everyone awaits my answer.
God this is awkward.
I clear my throat. “It’s about a woman …who works as an accountant by day, but secretly she is one of the country’s deadliest assassins. And … there’s, like, a detective investigating her crimes, so the assassin snuggles up to the detective to sabotage the case.” I feel sweat dripping down my spine. My heart is thundering. “Anyways, it’s like my version of a queer Death Note , minus anything supernatural.”
“You’ve sold me, I love Death Note ,” Francois says.
“It’s really, really good,” Noémie exclaims from across the table.
I scowl at her, and all I can think is that I should have never given in. I should have ignored all her begging and pleading. I shouldn’t have allowed her to read all three volumes.
The table goes back to eating. Cutlery clinks and scrapes fine bone China. The hum of conversation picks back up. Paul mentions something about the weather being perfect for skiing, and there are a few agreements.
“I really would love to read it,” Francois says.
I really don’t want him to. He’s like really, really incredible at drawing, and I’m … good but not great. He’s probably just being nice. There’s no way Francois Lafontaine actually wants to see my work.
Wagering the likelihood of him actually looking at my graphic novel is zero, I say, “Yeah, sure, I can send you a digital version of the first volume.”
“Awesome,” he says.
I ask him for his email, and he pulls a business card from his wallet. I didn’t know people still carried business cards.
After dinner, I grab my jacket from the closet and venture outside for a smoke. I bought a fresh pack the night my heart broke watching Noémie kiss Felix. I bought another the day I almost kissed Noémie. My most recent pack, I bought after going out to a party with Kristen and Hailey and finding all the women there lacking. When I got home around 2:00 a.m., Noémie was still up and she was plastered. We got into the stupidest fight over me leaving the dirty French press on the counter. Noémie’s not a nice drunk. Noémie’s not good for my lungs.
The cold air feels surprisingly good on my skin. After burning through a cigarette, I immediately light another. Alone on the porch, I stare up at the night sky. It is very dark and a smattering of stars twinkle back at me. It’s a sight meant to be admired, but I don’t. The weight of my emotions is cutting off my ability to marvel at the beauty above me. How could Noémie betray me like this?
I pull out Francois’s card. His name and contact information are engraved in a shiny red cursive font. I should probably crumple the card and toss it in the nearest trash bin. But a small part of me doesn’t want to. A small part of me wants Francois to look at my work.
Hope is stupid, but I end up shooting Francois an email on my phone with the first volume attached. I got the Wi-Fi password earlier. Outside, the signal is weak, so it takes minute for the email to send.
I only go back inside when I can no longer stand the cold. Not in the mood to mingle, I retreat to the bedroom. I get ready for bed, and then slip under the covers. The mattress is softer than a cloud, and the cool sheets feel like velvet against my skin. Letting out a sigh, I feel some of the tension seep out of my muscles. In that moment I register just how tired I am.
I’m just about to turn off the bedside table lamp, when the bedroom door opens and Noémie steps inside.
“Hey,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
Noémie wrings her hands. “Are you mad at me?”
I’m not in the mood to fight with her now. I’m exhausted. “No,” I say flatly.
Noémie exhales a loud breath. “Okay.”
I roll over so that I’m facing away from her.
I hear the bathroom door click shut and then the sound of running water.
Reaching over, I flick off the light and close my eyes. I start to drift to sleep, but my brain turns back on the moment the bathroom door opens and a beam of concentrated light spears the darkness.
Noémie flips the switch and the room is once again black.
The bed dips as Noémie climbs into it.
I’m hopeful that she will think I’m asleep. Of course, I’m not so lucky.
“Jordan,” she whispers, moving past the middle of the bed, past her section of the mattress. “Are you awake?”
I let silence hang in the air between us, almost ignoring the question. I want to ignore it. The last thing I want to do is talk, but I mumble, “Yes.”
Noémie moves even closer. She’s so close that I can feel the heat of her body and smell her perfume—citrus and spice.
“Don’t be mad at me.” Noémie slings an arm around me and tugs me to her. Her breasts press against my back. My breath hitches.
I hope Noémie can’t sense how hard my heart pounds. It’s pretty much all I can hear.
“I’m not mad,” I manage to squeeze out. Please let me go—never let me go.
“You are, I can tell,” she says against my neck. Her breath on my skin feels too good. “I get that you have every right to be angry with me, but I was trying to help.”
“I don’t see how telling your brother helps anything.”
Noémie sighs. “You underestimate your talent, Jordan. I couldn’t put your graphic novel down, it’s so good,” she says. “And I’m not just saying that because Pamela is based off me.”
“She’s not. You’re so conceited,” I say. “You shouldn’t have told Claude. I draw for myself. I make stories for myself.”
“So you’re really telling me that you never once thought about getting your work published?”
I did once. I don’t respond.
“You never once thought about putting your work out there?” she pushes.
“Why does it even matter?” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Because it does,” Noémie says. “If it’s what you want, you should do it.”
I try to pull away from her, but she wraps her arm tighter around me.
“I know it’s scary, putting yourself out there,” she says. “Especially when it’s something you’re so passionate about.”
I feel the sting of tears in my eyes. I’m recalling the rejection. Recalling being told that no one wants to read a story about a dyke.
Sniffling, I wipe my eyes.
Noémie senses my sadness and rubs my arm.
“I can’t do it again,” I say when I’m sure my voice won’t break. “I can’t put myself back out there.”
“You can,” Noémie says.
I shake my head. “It’s not so simple.”
“It really is,” Noémie says. “It won’t be easy. Nothing worth having is ever easy. But if it’s what you want, you need to go for it.”
Right now, what I want more than anything is to kiss her. But that would be a huge risk. Going after something also means being okay with the possibility of losing something.
“I don’t think I have it in me to …” I sigh. “It’s just, like, I put so much of myself into my work. What if nobody wants to read it? What if people hate it? What if nobody cares about a story with a dyke for its main character?”
I feel Noémie stiffen. “Did somebody tell you that?”
“Pretty much.”
“Whoever told you that is a homophobic asshole, and they’re wrong. I loved it, and I’m sure Francois’s going to love it too,” Noémie states. She sounds so confident.
I don’t say anything.
“Look, I didn’t mean to say anything to Claude. But after I finished reading it, I just—je ne sais pas. I wanted to help, and Francois is literally my brother’s best man, so I asked my brother if he could introduce you to Francois. Of course, I never imagined that his idea for an introduction would be to invite Francois here for the holidays—merde.”
“You shouldn’t have underestimated him,” I say with a sad chuckle. I feel lighter. “I really shouldn’t forgive you—you’re the absolute worst.”
“Really, I’m the bad guy for pushing you to reach for your dreams?”
“Yes, yes, you are. I kind of hate you for it.”
“Shut up. You love me, and you know it,” she says.
I do know it.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Since you are forgiven, you can go to your side of the bed now.”
“Is it okay if we stay like this?” Noémie asks, nestling her face against my neck.
I should say no, but I say okay. I’m dancing on a dangerous ledge. There’s a part of me that wants to fall off.