Like a repeat of our first meeting in this very spot, I stand on the sidewalk gawking at his figure in the doorway with all the sophistication of a startled baby cow.
“Sorry,” he tells me, misinterpreting my stare, “I sound like a...Mais, as you’d say in English, like a douchebag.”
I should leave it at that. I should respond with, ‘You said it, not me,’ and bolt for Taverne Toulouse. I should get out of here.
But the words demand to be uttered.
“No legacy is so rich as honesty.”
My voice is soft, a whisper in the night.
Julien’s whole body seems to tense up for a second, to flinch with the same reflex I felt when he spoke those lines to me. It was the sensation you get when you catch sight of your reflection somewhere you weren’t expecting to see it: the ice-water shock of recognition, the stinging spark of familiarity that comes without time to prepare.
He shakes his head from side to side, a rhythmic motion I can’t look away from as the alarm in him fades to amusement.
“From...Much Ado About Nothing?”
I can’t keep the smugness off my face. “All’s Well That Ends Well.”
“They’re both comedies. I think I deserve half a point.”
“I don’t give half-points.” I take a step back. “I’m going to go get that dolly now. I’ll meet you at your back door.”
I practically flee to Taverne Toulouse and try to pull myself together as I stride through the front of house and into the kitchen.
He’s just a guy who knows Shakespeare. Lots of people know Shakespeare. Anyone with a high school-level education has been forced to read at least one Shakespeare play.
Dylan gives me a curious look as I haul the dolly out and wheel it over to the back door.
“Didn’t you leave like fifteen minutes ago? And what’s getting delivered at night?”
“They need help next door.”
He pauses where he’s pulling a plate of nachos out of the oven and gives me a doubtful look. “I heard next door is the new enemy? Oh wait, this is you we’re talking about. You’d probably ask a serial killer if he needed a glass of water before he murdered you.”
Dylan’s been around long enough to know he can get away with some sass, but I still respond with a muttered, “Just remember I make your schedule.”
Julien’s already standing outside with his back propping the door open, letting light spill into the otherwise shadowed alleyway where all our deliveries show up. I don’t know what his tile company was thinking dumping goods on Avenue Mont-Royal. If I was him, I’d be calling them up and demanding compensation before vowing to never use their services again.
While still remembering to say please and thank you, of course.
“Do you know the owner there or something?” Julien greets me. “It can’t be normal for customers to just walk through the back of the bar, even if they are regulars.”
“Don’t ask questions of your saviour.”
“Right.” He throws both his hands up in the air and suddenly exclaims, “Deus ex machina!”
I try my best to look unamused. “Don’t make classical Greek theatre jokes at your saviour either.”
“You’re not a fun saviour at all, Monroe.”
“Do you want the dolly or not, Julien?”
He steps aside so I can wheel it past him, holding the door open for me with the tips of his fingers.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name.”
His tone begs me to look back at him, to let those arctic eyes bore into me like they’ve already done way too many times tonight. Julien seems to possesses this weird ability to liquefy everything around him, to make the world ebb and flow with a tide that’s difficult to fight—a tide that’s difficult towantto fight.
