Chapter 37
CHAPTER 37
The reception is held in the glass pavilion. Large centrepieces holding a tasteful arrangement of orange, purple, and cream flowers are positioned at the centre of white linen-covered tables. Chandeliers dazzle above our heads.
Chatter fills the room. The newlyweds have their own table at the front of the space up on a dais. Claude and Amelia look so happy and are laughing about something.
I clock Francois anxiously reading a crumpled paper—likely his best man speech. He mentioned being nervous about having to deliver it, explaining that while he has no problem talking to a camera, talking to an in-person crowd scares the shit out of him. I want to go to my friend and tell him that he’ll knock it out of the park, but I can’t leave Noémie’s side.
Directly in front of Claude and Amelia, at a table just below the platform, sit Hugo and Hélène St. Pierre. A knot forms in my stomach as Noémie navigates us towards them. Her grip on my hand tightens a little more the closer we get.
“I can always just go,” I whisper to her. “You don’t have to do this.”
Noémie shuts me down with a look and continues forward.
When we reach the table, Claude is the first to notice us. He beams at me. “Salut, Jordan, I’m so glad you made it,” he says.
Interested to know who their son is welcoming, both of Noémie’s parents turn their heads. Their scowls are immediate when they notice my fingers laced through their daughter’s.
Hugo’s chair scrapes against the floor as he bolts to his feet. “Noémie, what is the meaning of this?”
If it weren’t for Noémie’s death grip on my hand, I’d never guess at her inner turmoil. On the outside, she is completely calm. “Jordan’s my date,” Noémie answers cooly.
I’d never thought clutching pearls was a thing, but Hélène does it as her mouth drops open.
“Your date?” Hugo shouts, his face turning beet red.
“Not sure why you both seem so surprised. Didn’t we go over this already? I’m a lesbian. I date women.”
“Tabarnak, you do not! You are not.” Hugo’s teeth mash together. The veins on his forehead protrude, threatening to burst.
“Pourquoi joues-tu avec nous?” her mother says. The woman is almost a carbon copy of Noémie, but thinner and with lighter hair. She has an unmovable expression, likely due to Botox. I’m not sure how old she is, but she doesn’t look a day over forty.
“I’m not playing games, Maman,” Noémie says.
“Whether this is a trick or not, she has to go,” Hugo spits out, pointing a stubby finger at me. “And perhaps you should leave as well, Noémie.”
“No one is going anywhere,” Claude says, approaching the table. “I invited Jordan, and if you have a problem with her being here then the two of you can go.”
“You have some nerve, boy.” Hugo’s eyes narrow on his son. “I paid for this wedding. And I?—”
“And I’ll pay you back, if that’s what you want,” Claude says. “But what you won’t do is tell me who I can and cannot have at my wedding. You have no right.”
From there, I lose track of the conversation as they all start screaming at each other in French. There’s a noticeable dip in the conversation of the tables around us. Sparing a quick look to the side, I see that many guests are focusing on us. It makes me uneasy. I kind of wish Noémie had just let me go. I hate that I’m the cause for this argument.
“I have every right!” Hugo snaps in English, and I think it’s because he wants me to understand. “I am your father. It’s my job to steer you two on the right path.”
“No, you cannot tell us what to do or who we can love,” Claude shouts back. “Your bigotry is disgusting, Father. The only path you are steering Noémie down is away. Is that what you want? Do you really want to lose a second daughter because of your hate?”
At the mention of Antoinette, both Hugo and Hélène flinch. Seconds pass with them looking dazed, and then Hugo scowls and shakes his head. “Hélène, we are leaving,” he announces, reaching for his walking stick. Then, to Claude, he says with a sneer, “I will have my secretary invoice you for the cost of the wedding.”
There’s a noticeable tightness to Claude’s jaw. “I will pay it the moment it arrives.”
Noémie’s mother rises from her seat, looping her arm through her husband’s. Then, without another word spared to their children, they leave. A few other guests follow suit, likely a show to demonstrate their fealty to the Poutine King.
I look at Noémie. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she admits, offering me a shaky smile.
I pull her into my arms and kiss her forehead. “Anything I can do?”
“You’re here. That’s all I need.”
Claude is staring at us with a wide grin. Despite the explosion with his parents, he looks rather pleased.
Amelia comes to stand at his side looking quite unbothered—like she couldn’t care less that my presence ruined her special day. She threads her fingers through her husband’s. “It’s good to see you again, Jordan. I know Claude was worried you wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“I’m so sorry about everything,” I say.
Amelia waves away my apology. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” she says, smiling like she means it. “But please sit. I fear we need to get the speeches started soon before Francois gives himself an aneurism. Poor man, I don’t think he even noticed what just happened.”
My eyes search for my friend. I spot him sweating in a back corner.
Claude chuckles. “I really don’t get what he’s so worried about.”
The married couple return to their table, and Noémie and I take our seats.
Francois is called up to take the microphone a minute later. He’s sweating profusely, and I feel so bad for him. Tapping on the mic, he clears his throat and looks down at the paper in his hands. “Bonjour—hello, everyone. I’m Francois, the best man, and I’ve known Claude for a very, very, very long time …”
I don’t mean to tune out Francois, but Noémie takes up all of my attention. I stare at her long eyelashes, the bow of her lips, the glint of her hair—but what I settle on is the emptiness in her eyes and the faint signs of sadness. Noémie laughs when expected. She plays the part of the happy sister to perfection, and when she takes the microphone from Francois, she captivates the room with her words. She shares stories of Claude in his youth, and he turns several shades pink when his rakish partying days are brought up. There’s a round of applause when she closes her speech with a toast.
Throughout the meal, Noémie is mainly silent while Francois talks my ear off. I’d think he’d have questions about me and Noémie being together, but he doesn’t. He excitedly prattles about the launch of my graphic novel. And while I’m excited too, my heart just isn’t in the conversation. I can feel Noémie’s melancholy like it’s a tangible object pushing against me.
When Noémie gets up to go to the washroom, I fall into step behind her.
“Do you need to use the washroom too?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then I don’t need you coming with me.”
“Okay.” I stop in my tracks. We’re inside the castle, a few steps away from the staircase that leads to the restrooms.
“If that came out too harsh, I’m sorry.” Noémie sighs and presses a palm to her forehead. “I’ve just been through a lot today, and it’s taking a lot out of me to pretend to care about everything. I need a minute to myself to regulate. This is not me pushing you away, okay?”
Remembering what Claude told me about Noémie’s depression, I wonder if she’s still off her medication. Now isn’t the right time to ask her though.
“Understandable.” I birth a smile and pray it looks legitimate.
I guess it does, because Noémie brightens a bit and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for understanding,” she says. And then she disappears down the stairs.
The sun is starting to set, and guests are starting to ditch their tables for the dance floor. Charting music plays, and while I’m all for Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso,” it’s not the kind of song I’d bop too.
I don’t see Francois anywhere, so I don’t bother heading back to our table. Instead, after ordering a rum and Coke, I stand off to the side and entertain myself watching the mostly middle-aged guests on the dance floor. Some have moves. Most don’t.
“Lionel really outdid himself with that suit. Noémie’s jaw must’ve dropped when she saw you in a colour other than black,” Claude says. “You won’t believe how often I had to hear her complain about your wardrobe choices.”
“What?” I shake my head, finding it hard to imagine them having such a conversation. It implies a level of closeness between Claude and Noémie that I’ve yet to witness. Every time I’ve seen them together, they are arguing or shooting daggers at each other with their eyes.
“Oh yes,” Claude confirms. “You know, even knowing that it would piss off our parents, it was always her intention to bring you as her plus one, even if you came only as her friend. She was super excited to have an excuse to play dress-up with you. I guess you should thank me for saving you from that nightmare.”
This information is news to me. Noémie never mentioned wanting to bring me to Claude and Amelia’s wedding. “I don’t think it would have been a nightmare,” I say, sipping my drink.
“Oh, really?”
I shrug. “If it makes Noémie happy, what do I care?”
Claude shakes his head. “Have you ever been to a shopping mall with my sister?”
I have to think about it. “No,” I say.
“If you care anything for your sanity, maybe keep it that way,” he says.
“I’ll try to remember that.” I chuckle. “I see Amelia really let Noémie have her way with the decor.”
Claude arches a questioning brow. “Why do you say that?”
“Orange. Kind of a bold choice for a wedding.”
He clucks his tongue. “You do know that Noémie’s favourite colour is blue.”
I blink. It’s news to me.
“Orange was Antoinette’s favourite colour,” he clarifies. “I think Noémie adopted the colour into her wardrobe to always remember her, but I was the one who insisted on the colour being part of the wedding palette. I guess I wanted our sister to be a part of this special day too.”
“Oh … good to know.”
“Is it? Anyhow, I need to get a drink for courage. My wife will be out any moment in her evening gown and I will be forced to dance.” Claude makes a face.
“Don’t like to dance, huh?”
“No. I don’t have the coordination for it.”
I smile and can’t quite believe how much I’m warming to Noémie’s brother.
“What are you two talking about?” Noémie pins her brother with a threatening look.
“Your brother was telling me that he fears dancing.”
“I said nothing about fear.” Claude rolls his eyes. “But I’m off.”
When he leaves, I’m suddenly the focus of Noémie’s intense gaze. “What were you guys really talking about?”
“Claude told me that you hate my clothes and you want to play dress-up with me.”
Noémie laughs, and it’s a real laugh that reaches her grey eyes, making them sparkle. The sound makes my chest grow warm and fuzzy. “I want to play a lot of things with you. But I don’t hate your clothes. I just think it’s a shame that you languish in black when you’re obviously a soft summer.”
“Soft summer?” I repeat, not understanding the reference.
“That’s just a guess. We’d have to get your colour analysis done first to know for sure what season you fall under,” she says, sounding a lot more like herself.
“Is that something you want me to get done—a colour analysis?”
“I think it’d be fun.”
“Then let’s do it,” I say, smiling. “Maybe I need a little more colour in my closet.”
Noémie beams at me and takes my hand. Leaning over, she kisses my cheek. “Je t’aime,” she whispers.
The words are French, but for once I’m not confused. I know their meaning.
“I love you too.”