“It’s spring. I’m being optimistic.”
I happen to have a rosé in the kitchen’s built-in wine fridge and bend down to pull it out. “Zinfandel okay?”
“I honestly know nothing about rosé. I was just trying to put you on the spot.”
I pour us each a glass, and she follows me to the couch. It’s L-shaped, and we each take a seat on either side of the corner. Monroe tucks her legs up under her, and the intimacy of the moment strikes me again—not in a sexual sense, but with the realization that I’m seeing a side of her reserved for private spaces, and she’s seeing the same in me.
“To staying up past our bedtimes,” she proposes, holding her wine up for a toast.
“To unorthodox interpretations of Shakespeare and to your delightful polka dot socks.”
Her laughter is as pure as the clinking of our glasses.
I can’t remember the last time I drank rosé. It’s usually far from my favourite, but tonight, the sweetness hits me just right.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had another person in my living room like this. Despite being here for six years, I don’t have many friends in Montreal. Most of my evenings out are purely strategic business opportunities; I don’t have much time for leisurely chats over a bottle, and as far as dating goes, I’ve been sticking to one night stands and the occasional weekend fling since Fleur.
I’ve learned not to promise more than I can give.
The fact that I’ve cleared my entire evening’s schedule for Monroe, that I’m sitting here with her long after I promised myself I’d be in bed—I didn’t even think to consider the possibility of her coming home with me—catches up with me all of a sudden. It’s enough to raise a cold sweat on the back of my neck.
This isn’t what I have to offer. This isn’t what ‘normal’ looks like for me. I’m leading her on. If the way she’s stretching her body towards mine and grinning at me over the rim of her glass is anything to go by, I’m letting her fall for a fantasy that doesn’t exist.
She makes me feel like someone else. She makes me feel like someone I’m not sure I know how to be.
My phone starts to buzz in my pocket.
“Merde. I’m sorry.” I sit up enough to pull the phone out. “I have it set to only ring if it’s work. I have to take it. I’m so sorry.”
“I understand,” she says lightly.
I get up and answer the call in the kitchen. It only takes a few sentences from Cavellia’s manager before I’m on full alert.
“What are you talking about?” I demand once he finishes. “Urinals don’t just fall off walls!”
I get a few more details on the situation before I hang up and toss the phone down on the counter with a sigh.
“What was that about?” Monroe calls out.
I rest my face in my hands. “Apparently my night club is flooding.”
“You have to go in, don’t you?” I can’t tell if she sounds disappointed, concerned, or amused. It might be a mix of all three.
“I’m so sorry.”
She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and stands. “I understand—really, I do. You can’t really ignore a flood, can you?”
You can’t, or you won’t?
“I can see myself out,” she continues. “I assume you’ll want to change before you head out.”
Right. I’m not exactly dressed to take command.
“At least let me call you an Uber.”
“I can handle it.”
She’s already halfway to the door.
