“Yeah, I’m meeting a work friend for happy hour, so I’ll be gone around the same time.”
“Work friend? What’s their name?”
“Emily. We work on the same team, and she’s based out of Montreal.”
A silly grin spreads across his face. “Oh, nice. Are you gonna try to tap that?”
I choke on my sip of seltzer and wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater. “Yeah, of course, I’m straight now,” I deadpan. “Spending the past week with you has killed off my attraction to men.”
Stefano gasps. “Now that’s mean.” He throws a peanut at me, and I catch it before lobbing it right back at him. “Whatever. You can win back my love by inviting me to your cottage this weekend.”
I let out a strained chuckle. “You’re invited by default. My parents love you.”
“Awesome!” he says. “I’m always down to crash the Tremblay cotty.”
Laughing, I grab my jacket, slip my shoes on, and brace myself for the frigid early-winter air. The bar where I’m meeting Emily isn’t far away, so I only spend a few minutes trying not to slip on ice. I head inside and grab a small booth toward the front, and Emily arrives shortly after that, unzipping her gray jacket.
“Hi, Luke!” she says, ripping a red hat off of her brown hair.
“Hey, Emily.” I stand up and we share a corporate-friendly hug before settling into the booth. “Have you been here before?”
“Nah, I normally stick to my old haunts around campus. This is a little corporate for me.”
I nod, and we’re only given around thirty seconds to browse the menu before a tall server approaches, greets us with a cheery bonjour-hi, and prompts us to order.
Emily asks for a gin and tonic, and the server switches to English to confirm the brand of gin. Then she turns to me, and I order in French because, well, we’re in Montreal.
She leaves us and Emily narrows her eyes at me. “Since when could you speak French?” she asks.
“Since I was born? My dad is French. Quebecois, notFrenchFrench. My last name is Tremblay, after all.”
“Huh, I lived here for four years and barely got to practice.” She sighs. “It won’t matter, though. I have to move to Toronto for work.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, that’s nice! You’re from the area, right?”
Emily’s expression tells me it’s anything but nice, at least for her.
“GuesswhyI have to move,” she says. “Our company, in all its competence, forgot to renew its accreditation with the accounting board here. I had a choice between Ontario and Alberta to keep getting the approved work experience I need for my license.”
My mouth hangs agape. “No. You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “Unfortunately not, and Toronto is less cold than Calgary, so I’m going back home.”
Emily’s glum announcement calls for another round, which comes out quickly. We move on, and at first, we do the usual small talk about work until Emily asks me if I drink beer to prove a point, or because I actually like the taste.
That loosens us up, and the conversation shifts. We share crazy university stories and former roommate woes. Then, out of nowhere, she assumes I was in a frat, which mildly intrigues me, and I’m about to defend myself when the server comes overand informs us that it’s last call for happy hour, so we ask for the bills.
The server returns to drop off the receipt, saying that we can pay through the QR code on the table and split however we want, which is convenient. Emily picks up the receipt first and frowns at it.
“Huh,” she says. “The waitress wrote her number on the bottom.”
I finish my drink and scan the payment code. “Oh, okay. For you?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Hey, I don’t know!” I shrug. “You two seemed friendly and stuff.” At least that’s how it looked to me.
She tosses the receipt over. “It says texte-moi on the bottom, you’re the only one who spoke French to her, and she kept twisting her hair when you were ordering. How the hell are you so blind?”
