We both laugh softly because of course I know what Cole is like on the phone. Sometimes it feels like having a conversation with Darth Vader; all you get in response to half your questions is ominous heavy breathing.
"Still," Monroe continues, "he honestly seemed really good. I followed the tour updates online, and apparently it was a huge success. Cole said JP only almost got bit by a snake twice."
Again, we laugh to ourselves. The image of JP let loose in Australia is equal parts amusing and terrifying.
"Cole was...pretty messed up when you..." Monroe trails off, and a pang of guilt twists my stomach.
That was the hardest part of leaving. I knew I had to do it, but causing him that much pain haunted every step I took away from him.
"Look, I agree with your decision to leave, one hundred and ten percent. You both needed it. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, but I think to understand what it means for me to say he's doing good now, you have to know how...not good he was before. It was kind of scary, Roxy. I thought about calling you every time I left his apartment. He could barely feed himself, and then his aunt..."
I feel my spine stiffen. "What happened to his aunt?"
Monroe shifts her weight around on the couch like she's feeling guilty. "I didn't think it was a good idea to tell you when it happened. You would have jumped on a bus right back here. She’s fine now, but she had a heart attack. It was a close call."
"Aheart attack?"
Cole's auntie means the world to him.Christe alors, he's a hulking, tattooed rock star, and he calls herauntie. She’s the only mother he's ever known. I can't imagine what the fear of losing her must have been like for him.
Another wave of guilt hits, and I know Monroe was right; I would have been heading back to Montreal the second I found out.
"She made it, though," Monroe assures me, "and so did Cole. Things with his family are better now. He seems strong. He really does. He's always been strong,but this is like...like he's built a new foundation for himself or something. Before Australia, he went and met James Stepper. I think it had some kind of mind-altering effect on him."
"HemetJames Stepper?"
I'm fangirling just by proxy. One of the few things you can actually count on Cole to rant about is The Whirlpools and specifically James Stepper. He's been his hero for as long as I've known him.
"Yeah, he went down to Miami and stayed with him for a bit, at my prompting and insistence, might I add." She fluffs her hair up and brushes off her shoulders.
"You're honestly a lifesaver, Monroe."
She sighs dramatically. "Oh, I know."
I let out a sigh of my own, but mine isn't pretend. "He really does sound like he's doing well. That's...That's all I wanted for him."
The sound of the TV show we've both forgotten fills the silence for a moment.
Monroe nudges my foot with hers. "You miss him, don't you?"
There's no point hiding it. "Of course I do. I miss him...Sacrement, Monroe, I miss him every second of every day. It's not that I need him. I don't. I know that now; I'm okay with being me. It's like your nerdy ouroboros thing; I broke the cycle. It's just...what Cole and I had—all those years together, everything we went through—that's not something you find again. That's a once in a lifetime thing. I just can't see anything else ever being able to—what's that English phrase? About candles?"
Monroe squints at me for a second. "Hold a candle?”
"That's it, yeah, hold a candle. I can't see anything else holding a candle to us, and maybe that's good. Maybe I don't need that again, but...Câlice, it just felt so damn perfect sometimes."
My voice nearly breaks, and Monroe shuffles closer on the couch so she can wrap her arm around my shoulders. I lean my head against her, and we sit like that in silence as the rest of the show plays out. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say; sometimes all you can do is hold on.
* * *
I getmy apartment back in December, and a few days later, Monroe’s friend at the microbrewery calls to say I got the job they interviewed me for. The role doesn’t even have an official title yet, and they’re not sure if it will be permanent, but I’ll be overseeing their entire transition into becoming a cafe/bar operation instead of just a bar. It’s a big enough task to make my work at Café Alexandre feel like I was playing house, but I’m ready to face it. My head is already whirring like a set of gears as I make my way up Avenue Mont-Royal to meet Monroe and DeeDee for a celebratory brunch date—that is, if DeeDee manages to wake up early enough to join us.
Monroe is in early at Taverne Toulouse this morning to catch up on paperwork, and I’m meeting with her there before we’re supposed to head down the street to one of our favourite restaurants. I tug my black scarf a little tighter around my neck and quicken my pace as the bar’s familiar sign comes into view; it’s going to snow any day now, and I really should have thought to bring gloves.
All the lights inside are off, but the door still opens, and I assume Monroe’s cooped up in her broom closet of an office. I step off the street and into the dim space that always smells like spilt beer and sticky-sweet mixers, no matter how many times the floors get mopped.
The office is empty, and so is the back of house area. When I call out Monroe’s name and am only met with an echo, I pull out my phone to give her a call.
“Sorry!” she greets me. “I had to do an emergency run to the store for lemons and limes. I’m going to kill whoever filled out the stock sheets last night, and then I’m going to fire them.”
