Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
It’s the middle of June when I get the wedding invitation in the mail. Claude and Amelia have invited me to their wedding. The paper stock is thick, with embossed gold lettering. Orange and purple flowers frame cursive writing. Guests are encouraged to dress in shades of tangerine or lilac. The wedding is set to take place in a week at Casa Loma—fancy.
I’ve only visited the historic castle once. Sarah sponsored my ticket to participate in one of their escape rooms. It was really fun, even if our group hadn’t made it out on time.
I’m not sure why I’ve received an invitation. They must know that Noémie and I aren’t friends anymore; we haven’t spoken in months. She quit working at the coffee shop right after our fight with no notice, and without messaging me. I got the news from Wayne.
I’m receiving the invitation on such short notice too, which is also weird. Not that it matters. I’m not going to go. Tossing the invitation in the garbage, I grab my backpack, wave goodbye to Sarah, who’s gaming on the couch, and exit our apartment.
Francois is in town, and we’re meeting up for lunch. I’m super stoked to catch up in person after speaking to him almost every day virtually. With his help, I’ve sold over two thousand units on my Kickstarter, and I’m staring down a payday that’s half my annual salary. I can’t quite believe it. People are actually paying for my graphic novel. People want to read a story about a dyke assassin.
When I walk into the Irish Pub, Francois’s already there and seated at a booth. Upon seeing me, he gets up and we exchange a quick hug. He kisses me on both cheeks. We sit down at opposite ends of the booth. He orders fish and chips, and I order a burger. We dive into conversation. Francois tells me about a new idea for a story he has—a sci-fi revenge story that features mechas. I dig it—I would read it.
Our food arrives, and I’m so happy that I can finally hold a burger properly—with both hands. I would never recommend breaking an arm to anyone. As a right-handed person, I never realized how much I relied on my left hand.
Halfway through our meal, Francois’s phone buzzes. “Is it okay if I take this? It’s Claude, and with the wedding only a week away …”
“Of course,” I say.
Francois gives me an apologetic smile and accepts the call. “Salut, Claude, quoi de neuf?”
I can’t follow his conversation, it’s all in French, but at one moment, Francois gives me an odd look that makes me think I’m being talked about. The phone call lasts only a minute or two. Francois puts away his phone, and then drums his fingers on the table. “So, Claude will be joining us,” he says.
I nearly spit out my Pepsi. “What?”
“He wants to talk to you. I’m not sure what about. But I hope it’s all right.”
It’s not all right. The last time Claude and I were in close proximity to each other, he tried to pay me off to never see his sister again, and I threw liquor in his face. I’m about to tell him that I’m not interested in seeing Claude when Francois’s face lights up.
“Ahhh … there he is,” he says, waving to someone behind me.
Ten seconds later, I feel Claude’s overbearing presence behind my back. Francois rises to greet his best friend. I stay seated.
“Salut, Jordan,” Claude says, smiling down at me. “It’s good to see you.”
I eye him coldly and murmur, “I wish I could say the same.”
Francois’s eyes dart from me to Claude. I can tell he’s trying to discern why I’m being so bitter all of a sudden.
“Would you mind giving us a moment?” Claude asks his friend.
Francois looks at me for permission.
“Yes, it’s fine,” I say, even if it isn’t. But I’d be lying if I said that I’m not interested in why Claude is here, why he wants to speak to me.
Francois leaves us to go lean against the bar, and Claude takes the vacated seat across from me.
Not hungry anymore, I push my plate to the side. I cross my arms and stare Noémie’s brother down. “What do you want?”
“Did you get the invitation?” he asks, unfazed by the bite in my tone.
“Yes.”
“Will you be coming?”
“No,” I say. “Noémie and I are no longer on talking terms. I’m sure that makes you happy.”
He clucks his tongue, sets his elbows on the table, and leans forward. “You are wrong, I am not happy about your falling out. You were a good companion for my sister.”
“Bullshit.” I snort. “You tried to bribe me to never speak to her again.”
“Don’t make a devil out of me for trying to protect Noémie,” he says. “I assume you know about Cara. I never want anything like that to happen to her again. As you said to me in my study, Noémie is priceless. I only want to see her with someone who knows that.”
“So it was some sort of stupid test.” I grit my teeth. “I see that playing games runs in the family.”
“If it makes it better, I’m sorry for what I did. You had every right to throw your drink in my face. I deserved it. It’s my hope that you can forgive me,” he says. “It’s my hope that you can forgive Noémie.”
This whole conversation is unbalancing and unexpected. Not to mention that it’s been weeks since I’ve talked openly about Noémie. Bringing up her name stirs emotions inside me that I want to keep settled.
Wayne’s been on my ass, telling me that I should forgive Noémie because I forgave him, but it’s not that simple. My relationship with Wayne is different. He’s a colleague and a friend, and it’s in his nature to betray me for a designer handbag. Also, after grilling him, I uncovered that he’d been actively trying to get Noémie to be honest with me. Apparently, that’s what they’d been fighting about at the Christmas market.
“Do you know what she did?” I ask.
“The bet? Yes, I know all about the bet,” Claude says.
“So you understand why I can’t forgive her.”
“Forgiveness is a choice.”
“Maybe I don’t want to forgive her.”
“And why is that?” he asks, arching a brow.
I know the answer, but I’m not going to tell Noémie’s brother that I’m terrified of opening up my heart to another assault. Every relationship I’ve ever had has taught me a hard lesson. It’s clear—now, more than ever—that I am not cut out for love. I think Noémie can break me as a person. If we did get serious and things exploded, I’m sure I’d blow up too. And for the first time in a long time, I’m moving towards something good. I don’t feel stuck.
I don’t want love to destroy everything I’ve been working on personally and professionally.
It’s been almost a month since my last smoke, and I’m drinking and partying less. My videos are getting more and more views—I’m gaining about fifty new followers a day. My Kickstarter exceeded my expectations. My new apartment with Sarah is above ground, and there’s no faux-wood panelling or ants to be seen. Yes, all’s good—except for the crater named Noémie that hollows me out.
“Noémie hasn’t being doing well,” Claude says, snapping me from my thoughts.
I give him a look, asking him to expand.
Claude leans back, and sighs. “Something broke in Noémie when Antoinette died. You know about our sister?”
I nod my confirmation.
He bites his lip in the same way Noémie does when she’s anxious. Their resemblance really is uncanny. “There was a period of time where I really thought she might hurt herself. But then she started going to therapy and taking medication, and it was like I had her back. She finished her program at culinary school and got a position at a very prestigious restaurant in the city. Our father was in talks with her to open her own restaurant if she completed an MBA program. Everything was going so well for her … until the incident with Cara.”
“I didn’t know she was in therapy,” I say.
“I would have been surprised if she’d told you. Noémie hates being on antidepressants,” he says. “She wouldn’t be happy about me telling you now.”
“So why are you telling me?”
“Because I’m desperate. She’s refusing to take her medication, and I fear that once she doesn’t have the wedding planning to preoccupy her, she will spiral into her hole and not bother trying to crawl out of it,” he says, exhaling a deep breath. “Back last year, things got really bad after Cara took the money and our father freezed her out. Noémie quit the job she loved and refused to get out of bed. I was sick with worry and tried my best to get her to leave the house.
“But then she met you, started working at the coffee shop, fell into a routine, and her spark came back. You make my sister very happy—happier than I’ve ever seen her. And I know she makes you happy too. I know that you love her—I saw it in the way you looked at her on Christmas.”
“It doesn’t matter if I love her. I can’t trust her,” I say.
“Merde.” Claude spears me with a look. “Don’t forsake Noémie for making a mistake—she’s so young. Are you telling me that you’ve never made a mistake before?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already said. But I’m also still digesting everything Claude revealed. I hate that Noémie’s not good. I can’t imagine a version of her that isn’t sassy and vibrant.
Claude stands and removes his wallet from the interior pocket of his blazer jacket. He pulls a card and flicks it on the table. It lands a couple inches away from the edge. “If you change your mind about attending the wedding, please visit my tailor. There’s a strict dress code, and I’d wager you don’t have an orange or purple suit lying around. You can tell Lionel to charge me the cost.”
Claude exits the booth, but before leaving, he claps me on the shoulder. “I really hope you come. Noémie would love to see you, and so would I.”
Francois slips back into the booth. I try to carrying on our discussion, but my mind is pre-occupied. I keep replaying the conversation with Claude in my head.
When I get back home, Sarah catches me rummaging through the garbage.
“What the hell are you doing, Jay?”
I pull the wedding invitation from the bin and give it a cursory look. There’s no disgusting food juice on it.
“What’s that?” Sarah asks.
“An invitation to Claude’s wedding.”
She frowns. “Noémie’s brother?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Odd … he’s gotta know you and his sister aren’t on talking terms,” she says.
“He does know, but he wants that to change.”
“Wait, wait, wait. So you’re telling me that the guy who tried to pay you off to unfriend his sister now wants you to get back together with his sister?” Sarah says. “The math isn’t mathing.”
I sigh and go over my conversation with Claude. Sarah leans back against the kitchen counter, listening with interest. When I reach the end, she asks, “So what are you going to do?”
I stare down at the invitation in my hands. “I don’t know.”
“Do you still love her?”
Groaning, I sag against a wall and stare up at the ceiling. “What does it matter if I still love her?”
“It matters, Jay,” Sarah says. “Look, I’m not team Noémie. She did you dirty, and I don’t think I can ever fully forgive her for hurting you. But I don’t think you’re actually all that mad at her for the bet and?—”
“What?” Of course, I’m mad at Noémie for the bet. She lied to me about everything. She toyed with my emotions. She faked a relationship to make me jealous.
Sarah holds up her hands. “Can I finish my thought?”
I grit my teeth. “Fine, whatever.”
“I think you’re clinging onto your anger about the bet because you’re looking for a reason to not make things work with Noémie,” she says.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sarah shakes her head. “I know exactly what I’m talking about, Jay. You never want to put in the hard work for anything unless you’re a hundred percent sure there’s an upside,” she says. “But that’s not realistic, and it’s not a way to live.”
I want to say that Sarah’s got it all wrong, but she’s right. If Francois hadn’t expressed interest in my graphic novel, I never would have taken the steps to get my work published. And the first time Noémie told me that she loved me, I couldn’t say the words back because I needed assurance that she hadn’t misspoken. And there are probably a thousand more examples I can pull from in my life.
I think back on the night I slept with Noémie. I think about how she held my face and looked at me with eyes brimming with hope and love. She must’ve been so hurt when I stayed silent. Maybe that’s why she immediately ran off to the bathroom. I hope she hadn’t been crying in there. I hate the thought of her crying over me. I hate the thought of her being depressed. I hate that I might never get to see her smile again.