Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
The New Year is four hours away. Noémie descends the staircase looking like a goddess.
I shouldn’t gawk the way I’m gawking, but I can’t help it. Noémie is heartbreak wrapped in orange, and I’m starved for what she’s serving. The dress is the same strapless one she’d been wearing the night of Sarah’s send off—the night I walked her home.
Wayne elbows me in the ribs. I glare at him, even though I’m thankful for the distraction.
Reaching the foyer, Noémie smiles. “Ready to go?”
We’re all dressed to impress. We’re going to hit up a queer bashment in the Village to ring in the New Year. The event mainly draws a Black—Caribbean centric—crowd, but everyone is welcome. Even straights show up sometimes. All in all, it’s always a good time.
I have mixed feelings about Noémie’s attendance. While I want to celebrate the New Year with her, I’m also horny as fuck and want to hook up.
So the question is, do I have the willpower to quit simping for Noémie long enough to make a connection with someone else tonight?
“Yeah, I’m good to go,” Wayne says.
I nod. “Me too.”
“I’ll call the Uber then,” Noémie says, reaching into her Chanel purse to retrieve her phone.
Five minutes later, our trio steps out of the Yorkville residence and into the cold night air. The Uber is a black Honda Civic. Wayne takes shotgun, and Noémie and I slip into the back.
For the duration of the car ride, I keep finding myself staring at Noémie and then internally chastising myself. Sometimes, I feel like I can stare at her forever and never grow tired. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could ever give her up. Whoever that sucker is, I curse him to always step in a puddle after putting on a fresh pair of socks.
Toronto’s city streets are alive. Rambunctious partygoers clog the sidewalks, and the traffic is so bad that it feels like we’re being transported via tortoise instead of vehicle. A part of me considers calling for the driver to stop and walking the rest of the way, but it’s winter and I’m not trying to freeze my ass off.
Finally, we arrive. There’s a line wrapping around the block to get into the venue. But lucky for us, Corie, Kristen, and Hailey arrived earlier and are holding spots for us near the front of the queue. It’s their first time meeting Noémie. They eye her with appreciation—even Corie, who as a rule isn’t into feminine women like herself.
I dive right into the introductions. “Everybody, this is Noémie.” I nod at Corie. “Noémie, meet Corie, the resident femme of our group.”
Noémie greets her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Very nice to meet you. I love your outfit.”
Corie blushes, and it’s got nothing to do with the cold. “I’m so glad to finally be meeting the infamous Poutine Princess. I’ve heard so much about you.”
The colour drains from Wayne’s face.
Noémie drills me with a scalding look. “Poutine Princess?”
I raise my hands in defence. “Hey, that was Wayne’s nickname for you.”
Noémie directs her ire at Wayne.
He glares at me. “Thanks for throwing me under the bus, Jay.” To Noémie he says, “I’ll have you know that the nickname was retired the moment you started working with us when we realized you weren’t the spawn of coffee Satan.”
“Spawn of coffee Satan?” Noémie repeats in a serious tone. And then she chuckles, breaking the tension. “I wasn’t that bad. It’s not my fault that you guys kept messing up my order.”
“Your order was fucking ridiculous. Who the hell mixes whole milk and almond milk?” I say with a laugh.
“And exactly half a pump of vanilla syrup and hazelnut syrup,” Wayne adds.
“Are you guys done?” Noémie flips her hair over her shoulder. She smiles at Hailey and then Kristen. “I didn’t catch your names.”
Hailey speaks first, thrusting her hand out. “I’m Hailey, and this is my girlfriend, Kristen.”
Noémie shakes the outstretched hand. Kristen doesn’t offer hers. Instead she gives Hailey a dose of side-eye, which tells me something is up. I wonder what they are fighting about this time.
The line moves, and the cold is really starting to seep into my bones. I’m not Canadian enough for winter in Toronto.
Wayne and Corie begin talking about sports, of all things. Corie says something about Caitlin Clark being able to beat Steph Curry in a shootout, and Wayne is having none of it. “Gurrl, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
The line creeps up some more, and finally we’re the next group to be vetted by venue security.
“This is so exciting,” Noémie says, latching onto my arm. “I haven’t been out in ages.”
My stomach flips. “This your first queer party?”
“Nope,” Noémie replies, not offering up anything else.
Noémie detaches from me when she’s called up by a female bouncer built like a football player. After handing over her I.D., Noémie is frisked and a flashlight gets beamed into her purse. All clear, the venue door is opened for her and she disappears inside.
It’s my turn next. I go through the motions that I know all too well, and a part of me feels like I’m getting too old for this crap. I’ll be in my mid-thirties soon, and then I’ll be just a hop and a skip away from the graveyard.
I guess I’m happy to be out tonight. But to be honest, it might have been nicer to be at home with Noémie. We could’ve binge-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and ordered pizza. Noémie could’ve cracked open a bottle of champagne from her collection. We could’ve celebrated the end of a turbulent year together.
“You’re good,” the bouncer says.
I blink out of my thoughts and step through the door being held open for me. I climb the staircase leading to the party.
Noémie and the rest of the group are waiting for me by the ticket seller. The woman behind the register is a cute Southeast Asian woman with a wolf cut mullet. Her name tag reads Sabrina . I smile at Sabrina, and she smiles back. And for a moment, I feel reinvigorated, more in my element. I can’t have Noémie, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea, and I know how to lure them. I can be funny and interesting. I can be suave and mysterious. But it also doesn’t hurt that I’m a pretty stud—and there aren’t many of us.
We all buy our tickets and check our coats, and then Sabrina stamps the insides of our wrists.
“I like your haircut,” I say as she stamps a blue star onto my wrist.
Sabrina meets my eyes and grins. “I like your vibe,” she says, biting down on her lower lip.
I consider asking for her number. Someone tugs on my arm, pulling me away from the ticket stand. I’m slightly irritated, and then I see that it’s Noémie dragging me away and I become jelly. We slip past the satin red curtain and enter the club. Everything is black—the walls, the sticky floors, the couches that rim the area. The main dance floor is only half full, but it’s only a matter of time before it gets packed. Dancehall music blares so loud that I feel the vibration on my skin.
Noémie guides us towards the nearest bar and gestures for the others to follow. She orders a round of tequila shots for the group and drops my hand to grab a few twenties from her purse. Six shot glasses are lined on the bar top and filled with a sloppy flourish. The bartender tops each with a lime wedge.
“Tequila. I see you’re looking to get wild tonight,” I say in Noémie’s ear.
She forces a shot glass in my hand. “Hell fucking yes!” She reaches for the salt, sprinkling some on the back of her hand. She licks it off, downs her shot, and bites down on the lime.
Mesmerized, I watch her. I shake myself out of it to perform the same ritual. The tequila makes me shudder. I hate tequila—I’m more of a rum and Coke or beer person. And I guess, Noémie has turned me into a wine person now too.
“Not a fan of tequila?” Noémie asks.
“Nope.”
“I am,” she says, signalling for the bartender. Noémie orders another shot for herself and downs it after clinking glasses with Wayne.
I order a bottle of MGD.
Corie sets off for the middle of dance floor and begins swaying to the music. I stare at my friend in wonder. I don’t know how people do that—go out on to a dance floor alone and sober. I’d say that I’m a pretty good dancer, but I need liquid courage do to something other than a one-two-step or a lean-with-it-rock-with-it.
“Let’s dance with Corie,” Noémie says.
Still waiting for the alcohol to hit, I shake my head. “I don’t feel like dancing yet. You go.”
Pouting, Noémie latches onto Wayne, a willing victim, and pulls him out onto the dance floor.
Hanging back with Hailey and Kristen, I lean against the bar and sip my beer. I try not to focus on Noémie, but she’s like a beacon of light in the dark and I’m a pathetic fly—I’m drawn to her despite knowing that getting too close will get me zapped.
“You fuck her yet?” Hailey asks.
Kristen frowns. “You don’t have to answer that, Jay, but have you? Just curious.”
“No, she’s my friend.”
“Sarah was your friend. Weren’t you fucking her?” Hailey says with a cackle before taking a swig from her own bottle of beer—Molson Canadian. She’s got terrible taste in beer.
Kristen elbows her girlfriend, but Hailey doesn’t take the hint. Instead, she doubles down. “I don’t know how you live with a piece like that and not go insane, especially when she seems down.”
Noémie down? I shake my head. “She’s straight.”
“Spaghetti’s also straight until it gets wet.”
“Seriously, Hailey, shut the fuck up,” Kristen snaps.
Hailey rolls her eyes and doesn’t shut the fuck up. “If Noémie was my roommate, she’d get it.”
“She wouldn’t want your fat ass. I’m going to get some fresh air.” Folding her arms, Kristen turns and walks away.
“You should go after her,” I say.
Hailey grunts and makes no move to leave. I really, really despise her.
Downing the rest of my beer, I slide the empty bottle on the bar and chase after my friend. Outside is freezing, and the line to get into the party is longer. I’m not sure that everyone who wants to get in will get to. The city streets buzz with chatter, laughter, and frequent car horns. I find Kristen bumming a cigarette from a group of thick-built studs sporting intense expressions and snapbacks. The group makes both me and Kristen look femme. Normally, Kristen isn’t a smoker. She must be very upset.
I sidle up beside her, offering up a lighter. Kristen pops the cigarette in her mouth, and when I spark the flame, she leans in close to light the tip. Smoke whirls around her in the cold winter air.
Kristen sags against a wall. I light a cigarette too and go to stand beside her. “Want to talk about what’s bugging you?”
“Do I even have to say it?”
“Hailey is an asshole,” I guess.
“Yup.” Like me, Kristen is a pretty masc. She’s even lighter skinned than myself, and she’s got the neatest dreadlocks I’ve ever seen. Considering how women are constantly stumbling over their words around her, I really don’t know why she chooses to anchor herself to Hailey’s dead weight.
“For real, why are you guys still together?” I say.
“I really don’t know,” Kristen mutters, staring down at the cigarette between her fingers.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask again.
Kristen shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Okay.” I rub my arms. It’s really fucking cold.
“I am curious though,” Kristen says, puncturing the silence.
“What about?” I ask, taking a final drag from my cigarette. I crush the butt under my heel and exhale a cloud.
“You and Noémie—you really haven’t hooked up?”
“Why is everyone so surprised?”
“You don’t have the best track record, and Noémie is … gorgeous.”
“She’s also straight.”
“And when has that ever stopped you?” Kristen raises a brow.
Everyone keeps saying that and it’s really starting to grate on my nerves. I’ve never had an active agenda to turn straight girls. It’s been my experience that curious women are the ones to make a move on me, not the other way around.
“We work together. She’s my roommate. She’s my friend. There are so many reasons why it’d be a bad idea to even try to pursue anything with her,” I say, shoving my hands down my front pockets in an attempt to warm them back up. “But most importantly, Noémie isn’t interested in me—I would know if she was. If there’s one thing that I’m good at, it’s reading women.”
“You didn’t know Sarah was in love with you.”
I frown at my friend. “You knew about that?”
“Everybody knew. It was kind of hard to miss.”
My jaw clenches. “Noémie’s not Sarah.”
“You sure about that? I swear, when you aren’t looking, she stares at you like you hang the moon. And you stare back at her the same way. It’s disgusting.”
Kristen’s got to be wrong. Sure, there’d been a few sexually charged moments between us, but it’s likely that I was the only one who felt anything. Noémie doesn’t want me. She can’t want me—that would make things too messy.
“Let’s go inside,” I say. “It’s fucking cold out here.”