6Oublie Moi || Coeur de Pirate
ROXANNE
“Notre Père, qui es aux cieux...”
The old lady standing beside me in the pew takes my hand as the congregation starts to chant the Our Father. She usually takes the seat next to me when I come to Mass, but we don’t talk much, other than to say hello and offer each other the Peace of Christ when we’re told to. I still like to think we have a sort of friendship between us.
I haven’t believed in God in a long time—not really, at least—but I come to church a few times a month. It helps me clear my head. All the standing and sitting and chanting has a kind of hypnotic comfort to it. I still have enough Catholic Guilt left in me to feel bad for using Mass as free therapy, but I keep coming here anyway.
“Et ne nous laisse pas entrer en tentation, mais délivre-nous du Mal,” I finish the prayer with everyone else as the choir starts up a chorus of Amens.
Their voices echo and swell all the way up to the vaulted ceilings of the basilica, soft morning light streaming in through the blue stained glass panels. I think Saint Patrick’s is the most beautiful church in Montreal. The arches that extend up from the pews to the ceiling are quietly graceful, and the warm tones of all the wood detailing almost make you feel like you’re sitting in a forest.
I grew up going to church semi-regularly. It was one of the only pieces of stability that life with mymamanever had. There might have been a new guy in our apartment every other week, but Sunday mornings were the same repetition of prayers and making the sign of the cross. I even played violin in the choir for a while, although ‘choir’ is a stretch; they were two grey-haired ladies who’d been singing the same hymns for at least half a century.
Mamanstopped taking me to church when I was around thirteen. I guess she figured she’d fulfilled her duties as a Catholic parent by then. Looking back, I’m almost surprised she ever took me at all, but I’ve felt for myself the weird, nearly eerie effect that Catholicism can have on people. It keeps the most base and instinctive part of you devoted long after the rest of you has given it up. I doubt shewantedto haul me to church every Sunday, where she’d sit in the pew with sunglasses on to dull her near-permanent hangover, but like the crucifix she kept on the wall in our living room, taking me to church wasn’t really a sign of faith—just an inability to fight the pull of something bigger than her.
The Mass progresses until we all stand as the priest exits to the sound of the final song. My neighbour wishes me a good day and shuffles out with the rest of the crowd, but I stay where I am, sinking down onto the hard wood of the pew and waiting until I’m one of just a handful of people left.
This is when I like to think.
The only reason I could fall asleep last night was because I knew I’d have this chance to let myself sort through everything that happened between Cole and I at Taverne Toulouse.
I almost kissed him.
If I’m honest with myself, I almost fucked him last night too. I glance around the basilica like the few people in here can tell what I’m thinking, but it doesn’t stop me from remembering how desperately I craved his skin on my skin, how close I was to wrapping my legs around his waist as he held me against the wall. We would have kissed until we were breathless, and then I would have taken him home. I would have woken up beside him this morning, and I’d still be in bed letting him worship my body instead of sitting in this pew, pretending to worship here.
I tilt my head back to stare at the curled designs etched on the ceiling. I can still feel the heat of Cole’s breath on my lips and reach up to run a finger along them.
I’ll take whatever you can give me. I’ll take just one fucking piece of you.
He could have his pick of pieces. If he really wanted to, he could pry me open and keep whatever he liked. However this ends, we’re not getting out of it intact, but I saw something new in him last night. I watched him crack in places he’s never given way before. He may not have said it in as many words, but his confession told me that if I go on this tour, it will be on my terms. He’ll still fight to have me in his life—that much is clear—but he won’t ask for more this time if I’m not willing to give it.
It’s what I wanted. It’s what I know is right. It still feels like watching a plant you’ve watered for years shrivel up and die.
I blow out a breath, and someone in the pew across the aisle from me stares. They’re not the only one wondering what the hell is going on with me lately. JP left me a very hungover voicemail this morning, asking if I’d made up my mind about the tour and telling me he was serious about the coffee on the bus thing. Even Matt sent me a very professional-sounding text about their unsuccessful hunt for a replacement violinist and how much of a favour I’d be doing the band if I came.
ItisCole’s fault they’re in this mess, but I know I’m the only one able to fix it, and after last night, I can’t help but think there’s a chance going on the tour could fix more than Sherbrooke Station’s problem.
What Cole and I need is a rational discussion: a fixed period where we aren’t fighting or fucking, just existing as two people with a long and turbulent past trying to figure out a future where they don’t end up destroying one another.
I don’t know if it’s even possible for us, but maybe that’s what this tour could be.
* * *
“If I go,it’s not so we can start having sex again.D’accord?”
“What?” Cole asks.
In his defence, I didn’t really give him a lot of context starting off a phone call with that statement.
I wedge my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I use both hands to load the dishwasher in the back room of Café Alexandre. We’re short-staffed today, and I’m helping the team keep up with the Monday morning rush.
“If I go on the tour,” I clarify, “it’s to do a favour for your band and to give you and I a chance to talk some shit out. I don’t want it to turn into another one of our ‘we’re not together but we’re hate-fucking at every possible opportunity’ phases.”
“But thosearefun,” he shoots back, in a rare and very poorly timed example of Cole humour.
“I’m serious, Cole,” I protest. “We’re running out of time to fix this before it becomes unfixable.”
