“Shit.” Julien’s whole face falls. “That’s the emergency work ring tone.”
He’s the only person I’ve met besides me who has multiple ring tones for varying levels of work-related issues.
I let my arms drop from around his neck and step back. “You better get it.”
Our nights together usually include a few phone calls or texting interruptions, both on his side and mine. It’s a relief to not always have to be so apologetic about it the way I am with people who aren’t eternally chained to their occupation.
“Oui, allô?” Julien turns away and greets whoever’s on the other end of the line. “Quoi? Encore?”
His tone takes on a note of exasperation as he asks a few more questions before ending the call. He doesn’t turn back to me right away. I see his shoulders rise and fall as he pulls in a few heavy breaths.
When he faces me, he’s the picture of regret.
“You have to go,” I summarize before he can speak.
I try not to sound disappointed. I shouldn’t be disappointed; this is saving me from a decision I’m not sure I’m ready to make, and more than that, it’s a situation I should be able to understand. I’ve been on the other side of it so many times.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I—”
“No, Monroe. It’s not okay, and it’s not enough to just say I’m sorry. I...” His eyes drift up to the top of the staircase. “I hate this. I hate that I always have to put something else first. I want...”
He doesn’t tell me what he wants, and I don’t dare guess. Whatever it is, it’s waiting for us up there in my apartment.
Maybe we’ll never take those steps. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe this is a sign, some sort of cosmic intervention, but—
“I’ll come with you.”
He gives me a questioning look. “What?”
“I’ll come with you, wherever you’ve got to go tonight. We’ll get the problem sorted out, and then...Then maybe we can continue where we left off.”
“You really don’t need to do that. It’s late. I don’t want to drag you all over the city,” he insists.
I don’t budge. “Where are we going?”
“The damn sink at one of the Frango Tango locations is broken, and the manager on duty isn’t answering his phone. We won’t get a plumber in until tomorrow, so I’m heading over there to see what I can come up with for tonight. But you don’t have to—”
“I know a thing or two about makeshift plumbing solutions, Bordeaux boy. The pipes in Taverne Toulouse are awful.”
I force him into ordering us an Uber, and we climb into the car a few minutes later before riding all the way out to Lachine.
“How late is this place open?” I ask as we get out in front of the restaurant that sits next to a few fast food places in a big shopping complex lot.
“Nine, but there’s someone in late tonight prepping catering for tomorrow.”
We’re met by a very frazzled cook who brings us over to the sink in the back room. The high pressure hose is spewing water out with rapid and unstoppable force, and it looks like it’s been duct taped to the wall above the basin for some reason.
“I don’t know what happened!” the cook insists in French. “I was rinsing some dishes, and then it wouldn’t shut off. I had to tape it up because if you try to hang it on the hook, it just sprays all over the kitchen.”
“You got everything done for tomorrow, though?” Julien asks.
“Yes,” the cook hurries to inform him. “Everything we can do in advance, yes.”
“Great. You can go home, Antoine.”
“But—”
