“Oh really?” I challenge, going along with the stupid game. “Maybe I can proveyouwrong. Maybe I can make you want what I want instead.”
“You said six weeks, right?” he asks. “That sounds like ample time to accomplish this.”
I gawk at him. “Are you serious?”
“Very. We give ourselves six weeks to win one another over to our points of view, and we keep seeing each other in the meantime.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I proclaim, “and childish, and really not going to work.”
He shrugs. “Probably not, but I...”
He trails off and his fingers stop tracing patterns on my leg. Instead, he just stares at me, and there’s a pain in his gaze I’ve never seen there before, an ache so deep I’m almost ashamed to look at it, but I do. I stare back at him, trying to find the source of where he’s hurting, trying to find a way to make it stop.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a chance on anyone,” he says softly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a chance on myself. Almost everything in me is telling me to run from this , to give it up, to walk away before I hurt you. I should do it. I should. I just—”
“It’s okay,” I murmur, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay.”
I don’t know what he’s thinking about. I don’t know where he’s gone in his head, but I try to comfort him all the same.
“It’s selfish,” he continues, “and it doesn’t make it any easier knowing how unselfish you are, but I can’t help wanting more of you. I know I’m not in a position to ask it, and you’re not in a position to give it, but still I...Je veux te connaitre. Je veux que tu me connaisses.”
I want to know you. I want you to know me.
The words are simple, free from the weighted loads hanging off terms like ‘relationship’ or ‘love,’ and yet there’s an even greater heaviness in their simplicity. It’s the weight of silence, of expectation, of empty space waiting to be filled.
“Je veux te connaitre,” I repeat, as he lowers his forehead to press it to mine. “Je veux que tu me connaisses.”
* * *
Roxanne perches on a barstool,sipping the fancy coffee drink she made herself with Taverne Toulouse’s barely-used espresso machine. I sit facing her on the other side of the bar, plugging away at a spreadsheet on my laptop.
“This is a really fun friend date,” she drawls, rocking the barstool back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, glancing up with what I’m sure must be manic-looking eyes to shoot her an apologetic frown. “I’ll be done in like five seconds. I just have to get this wrapped up. I’m so behind this week, and Fucking Félix Fournier is already pissed enough as it is. He’s really picked a great time to actually show an interest in his own business.”
The call from the police might have had something to do with that. A full week has passed since the night my employees now refer to as ‘The Incident,’ and Fournier is still grumbly enough that I think it might take a blood sacrifice to appease him. He’s been demanding all kinds of reports and information from me that he usually doesn’t give a shit about. I suspect it was spurred on by not being able to answer basic questions from the police about his business. He called me after they interviewed him and yelled for so long I just put speakerphone on and got a few things done around the house while he finished.
He really doesn’t need to make a show of being angry anymore. There’s no impending lawsuit, and the police left us alone as soon as Julien declared he wouldn’t be pressing charges. ‘The Incident’ did get a brief mention on a few news sites, but miraculously, that seems to have increased sales this week rather than send them down even more. Friday and Saturday night actually outsold what we made on the same dates last year.
If it couldn’t have so easily gone horribly, horribly wrong, I’d almost say the night was a blessing in disguise.
“I’m teasing, Monroe,” Roxanne assures me. “I know you’re busy. It must be hard fitting all that dick into your schedule. Very hard. Rock hard, even.”
“Roxy! Don’t make me regret telling you about it.”
“You’re going to tell me lots more about it,” she insists. “That’s what we’re getting together today for,non?”
“I thought we were getting together to talk about bridesmaid stuff.”
DeeDee’s supposed to be meeting us here any minute before we head off for Sunday brunch—that is, if she’s actually managed to drag herself out of bed before mid-afternoon.
“Colour schemes, hair accessories, dicks—it’s all on the agenda for today,” Roxy jokes. “DeeDee doesn’t even know about you and Frenchy yet.”
“I know.” I sigh. “I’ve just been so busy.”
“With the French dick.”
I reach for a coaster and throw it at her. She’s aiming to return the shot when DeeDee barges through the door, huge sunglasses on and her pink hair tossed up in a lopsided bun. She’s belting out the chorus of Macy Playground’s ‘Sex and Candy,’ butchering the words with her heavy Québécois accent.
