Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
Early Christmas morning, I awake to see that Noémie’s not in bed. I find her in the kitchen with her apron on and dozens of pans, bowls, and utensils around her. It’s organized chaos. She’s in the process of measuring and chopping all her ingredients. The name for this, Noémie taught me, is mise en place—everything in its place.
The sun is just starting to poke its head through the window, streaming thin ribbons of light into the kitchen.
My stomach roils like the Atlantic in a storm as I cross the main room. My fingers bite into the thin wrapping paper. I clutch Noémie’s gift to my chest. It’s not the necklace with the orange stones that I saw at the Christmas market. But it’s something I think Noémie will appreciate, and for me it’s kind of a big deal. The mixed media artwork that I slaved hours over is the first piece of artwork that I’ve made for someone in a long time.
The last person I painted for was my father—almost a year before he passed. I’d done a portrait of him because he begged and guilted me into doing it. I can still recall the way a smile broke out over his face when he saw his portrait. He’d been so impressed by it. I hope I can hold on to the memory forever. I hope I won’t forget the brightness of his light-brown eyes or the dimples that pierced his cheeks.
According to Noémie, the Christmas gift exchange is scheduled to take place after dinner, but I don’t want her opening my present in front of an audience. I don’t want people calculating the time it would have taken me to cut out each printed letter and picture. I don’t want people diving in to skim their fingers over the varnished impasto. And most importantly, I don’t want anyone reading between the lines and seeing my love for Noémie written out in every chaotic brushstroke.
To be quite honest, I thought about destroying the piece upon completion. But I couldn’t bring myself to take a palette knife to Noémie’s painted face. And she’d been so nice inviting me to the chalet, I felt obligated to give her something special. As broke as I am, the only thing of value I can offer is my time and my art.
I near the kitchen and catch the scent of nutmeg, cloves, and cardamom. Deep in the flow of things, with her AirPods in and her head bopping to music, Noémie doesn’t see me. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a neatly plaited ponytail. Flour lightly dusts her red apron that reads, Keep Calm and Merry Christmas .
I don’t understand the “Keep Calm” craze. I’m not sure I want to understand it.
Noémie picks up a French rolling pin and begins beating the shit out of some whole pistachios in a Ziploc bag. She frowns as she punishes the nuts.
Watching her, I feel a pang of longing in my heart. I want her so badly, and I’m starting to think that I will never be able to shake off my feelings for her. If anything, they grow a little more each day.
When Noémie catches sight of me, she jumps. “Calisse,” she says, clutching her chest. She taps her phone, muting the music. “I didn’t expect anyone to be up yet.”
“I thought I could help out,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
Noémie’s gaze drops to the gift that I’m holding, and she smirks. “That for me?”
“Maybe.” My heart hammers in my ears.
“We will be exchanging gifts after dinner,” she says, wiping her hands off on the towel tucked in her apron. “You should put it under the tree.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, I know, but I’d rather you open it now.” I pretty much shove the package at her.
Noémie raises a questioning brow but takes it. “This wrapping paper is great,” she says.
The paper is red with cartoon Yorkshire terriers wearing Santa hats and sunglasses. When I saw it at the store, I knew I had to buy it.
“I thought you’d like it,” I say. “Any Céline status updates from Wayne?”
Apparently, the dog gets nauseous during long car rides and hates the chalet. I didn’t know animals could be so finicky. Lucky for Noémie, Wayne was more than happy to house sit and watch over Céline.
“She’s doing good, Wayne sent me a video of her yipping in her sleep last night. I’ll send it to you.”
I chuckle. “You better.” Over the last few months, I have gone from never interacting with a dog to being super obsessed with them. A couple of times, I joined Noémie at the local dog park and found myself striking up conversations with dog owners, and not because I was just being polite, I was actually interested to know about their pets.
“Are you sure you want me to open it now?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Biting her lip, Noémie slides a finger under the tape, and I hold my breath as she extracts the framed portrait. The wrapping paper floats to the floor.
Noémie frowns.
Why is she frowning? I get a little lightheaded and reach to brace myself on the counter. “You don’t like it?”
Noémie blinks, stopping her inspection of the portrait to meet my eyes.
I forget how to breathe as I wait for her response. I’m drowning under the current of Noémie’s stare. My lungs burn.
“No, I love it,” she finally says. Her voice is thick with an emotion I can’t name.
“Oh … awesome, great.” I let out a breath.
Noémie takes a step towards me. We’re only a few inches apart, and I feel that charge again. I’m compelled to bridge the gap between us. I gaze down at Noémie’s lips. It hurts to know that even this close, she’s still so out of my reach.
I’m startled when I look back up and see a strange look on her face—I’m not sure I’d call it desire. But she isn’t moving away from me. In fact, she seems to be leaning in.
Someone coughs.
Both Noémie and I jerk apart.
Claude is standing by the fridge with his arms crossed. His expression is only shades away from anger.
“Bonjour, Jordan. Noémie,” he says.
I force a smile. “Merry Christmas, Claude.”
The siblings stare intently at each other, holding a silent conversation that I can’t follow. They do that a lot. It’s annoying.
Claude breaks eye contact first and yawns. “I need coffee,” he says, motioning towards the coffee station.
I’m about to echo the sentiment when Noémie grabs my hand, tugging me out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and down the hall. I don’t understand her urgency. I ask her to tell me what’s up, but she doesn’t.
It isn’t until we are in our room that Noémie drops my hand. She begins to pace a bit before sitting on the edge of the bed. She gently sets the portrait down on the mattress beside her.
“I thought I told you to stay away from Claude,” she says.
Okay, now I’m super confused. Where is this even coming from? “Besides saying hello, I’ve barely said a word to your brother.”
Noémie blinks. “Oh, I thought …” She scrubs her eyes with her palms and sighs. “Sorry. Forget it.”
“Sorry about what? What did you think happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like it’s nothing,” I huff, approaching the bed.
Noémie wrings her hands. “My brother is just very protective of me. He’s never liked any of my friends,” she explains, her expression shifting from irritation to sadness. “I just don’t want him upsetting you. I invited you here to relax, and it just seems like the opposite is happening …”
I think she’s deflecting, not telling me what the actual issue is, but I can’t even guess at what the actual issue could be. Noémie doesn’t tell me anything. She keeps me at arm’s length. I’m so sick of being shut out. I want to be let in. But I don’t want to whine about it. I want her to want to tell me things.
Sighing loudly, I rub my forehead.
“How long did it take you to make this?” Noémie asks, so softly that I think she never meant to voice the question aloud. Her fingers glide over the painting’s textured surface.
“Not long,” I lie.
“I love it,” Noémie says for the second time. “It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The praise makes my stupid heart flutter. “That’s because it’s your face, and you’re full of yourself.”
“Anyone who looks like me would be full of themselves,” she replies. Rising to her feet, Noémie moves towards the closet. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
I exaggerate rolling my eyes before closing them.
There’s some rustling, and then I sense Noémie’s presence in front of me. “Okay, you can look now.”
I open my eyes. Noémie’s holding out an exquisitely wrapped gift with a large red bow. “Joyeux no?l,” she says.
“I thought gifts were going to be exchanged after dinner?”
Noémie shrugs. “I got to open my gift, so you get to open yours early too.”
I take the box—there’s some heft to it. Sitting on the floor, I put it on my lap. Noémie kneels across from me.
It’s my turn to carefully pick off the tape. The wrapping paper is thick and patterned like a candy cane.
Upon uncovering the Shoei brand name, my hands still. I stare at Noémie with disbelief.
“Do you like it?” she asks. “It’s the same size as your current helmet. I wasn’t sure what colour to get, but since you always wear black, I got you black. But if you don’t like it or if it doesn’t fit, there’s a gift receipt—you can exchange it.”
Shoei is top of the line. It’s like the Gucci brand of motorcycle helmets. They aren’t cheap.
I shake my head and push the box towards her. “I can’t accept this.”
Noémie’s eyes narrow on me. She pushes it back. “Why not? You’ve been complaining nonstop that you need a new helmet.”
“I know, but …”
She grits her teeth. “If you don’t like it, you can exchange it.”
“It’s not that. I love it. Like, this is possibly the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten. But it’s too much.”
With a dismissive wave, Noémie says, “It really isn’t.”
“It is,” I say. “Can you even afford it?”
Silence hangs between us for a beat until Noémie severs it. “Merde,” she says, exhaling a loud breath. “Jordan, if I couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t have bought it for you. Why are you so difficult? You’re like one of my best friends. I hate knowing that you ride around on that death trap with that banged up helmet. Also, it’s rude to turn away a gift.”
I want to ask her where she got the money from, but I know the question won’t go over well. So I don’t. I don’t want to get into it with her right now. It’s Christmas. We shouldn’t be fighting.
“Fine, I’ll accept it,” I say.
“You say that like you have a choice,” she says, leaning back on her hands. “Put it on. I want to see it on you.”
“You’re so bossy.”
“You love it,” she says.
I really do. Ugh.
I open the box and remove the sleek black helmet. It slides over my head like a glove—the fit is perfection. “How do I look?” I ask, flipping up the visor.
“Very cool,” Noémie replies. Pulling out her phone, she snaps a quick photo of me before I can stop her.
“Delete that.” Ugh, she better not post a photo of me. Noémie’s back on her social media game, but instead of posting get ready with me videos, her content is mostly about food now.
“No, I don’t think I will,” she says with a grin. “How’s the fit?”
“Comfortable. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she says. Her gaze drops to her watch. “I really need to get back to the kitchen. I’m on a strict schedule.”
I pull off the helmet. “I’m happy to help.”
Holding up a hand, Noémie shakes her head. “Nope. I appreciate the offer, but if I let you help then Amelia will also insist on helping, and my brother’s fiancée should never be near anything edible.”
I chuckle. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
When Noémie leaves, I put the helmet back on and check myself out in the mirror. While I absolutely fucking love it, it doesn’t sit well with me that she must’ve dropped at least a grand. Where is her money coming from? Didn’t her father cut her off?