I open my mouth to speak, but my throat has closed up again.Mamanturns to me.
“Youarehis son. Every time I look at you, I see him.” Her voice falters, but she goes on. “It’s not because you’re successful or driven or ambitious. That’s not what I loved about him most. That’s not what I’m so grateful he passed onto you. When I look at you, I see his kindness. I see his loyalty. I see his devotion—not to things, not to projects, but to people. People he loved. You have so much love in you, Julien. I don’t want you to hide it or throw it away.Papawouldn’t want that either.”
I take her hand in mine. It’s all I can do to murmur, “Je t’aime.”
She smiles like she can hear every other word I want to say, and I realize she probably does hear them. She knows me. She’s my mother. Just like the time she bought a thousand dollar dog for me when she knew I needed a friend, she knew exactly what I needed to hear today.
AtMaman’sinsistence, it’s only another two days before I leave France. I would have stayed as long as she asked, but I couldn’t hide my relief when she told me I needed to book a ticket back to Monroe or she would book it for me. I considered sending everything in a text, but there are things Monroe needs to hear from me face to face.
I’m ready for this to start, and I want to start it right.
I should feel nervous when the wheels of the plane touch down in Montreal, but instead, I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before. I’m filled with energy, with drive, with motivation and will—with all the things that have gotten me where I am and have never failed me before—but there’s something new this time, a new flavour whose taste makes me thirst for it all the more: purpose.
My purpose.
Twenty
Monroe
ATTENUATION: The process by which sugar is absorbed and converted into alcohol during the brewing of a beer, determining its alcohol content and how sweet or bitter the resulting flavour will be
I’ve hadmy key to Taverne Toulouse since I was barely more than a teenager. It’s the same one the bar’s old manager gave me when I officially became a shift opener. The original key has filtered down through so many copies you have to know the exact right way to jiggle the lock, but I’ve never replaced it.
That’s mostly because Fournier wouldn’t approve the cost of re-doing all the locks in the bar, but still, it doesn’t make it any less tragic to think of sliding the piece of metal off my dorky Celtic knot key ring and dropping it in Fournier’s hand.
Two weeks from now, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. They settled on handing the property over in mid-July. It will screw with Julien’s timeline, but I’m sure he’s thrilled with the deal he got.
Not that I’m bitter.
Not that I’m completely shattered and utterly gutted every time I even think about it.
He called me for days and left me an essay’s worth of texts saying he had an explanation and that he needed to see me in person. At one point, I actually gave in to my morbid curiosity and told him to meet me at my apartment. He replied saying he had left Montreal and didn’t know exactly when he’d be back. Apparently he had a good, needs-to-be-delivered-in-person explanation for that too, but I’m done with games. This is so far beyond a game. I asked him not to call me anymore, and he was smart enough to listen.
I pretend I don’t miss him. I pretend he’s not the last thing I think about at night. I’m holding out for the day I won’t have to pretend anymore, but I’ve got a feeling I’ll be holding out for a long, long time.
I stop fondling my keys like a senile old woman who can’t remember why she’s leaving the house and lift my bag onto my shoulder before heading out of my office. It turns out closing a bar down is even more of a logistical nightmare than keeping one open, and I’ve been working even longer hours than usual. In a cruelly ironic twist of fate, business has been booming all week while our staff dwindles more by the day, which means I’ve had to put in some time out on the floor to keep things afloat.
“You two okay to close?” I ask DeeDee and Zach, the only staff I have available to handle a nearly full house.
“It’s slowing down now. We’ll be fine,” Zach assures me. “This ain’t our first rodeo.”
“Va-t’en, putain!” DeeDee adds.
Her order of, ‘Get lost, whore,’ is typical DeeDee, but luckily I know her well enough to understand she’s really trying to say I’ve worked hard and deserve to go home.
“Call me if you need me,” I order as I make my way through the bar gate.
I pause for a moment to watch Zach load up DeeDee’s tray with the pints he’s pouring, his face lit up like a Christmas tree as he laughs at whatever she just said to him. Honestly, he’d probably still be looking at her like that if she told him she had to go take a piss.
If anything good comes of this bar closing, it will be the impetus for that boy to grow a pair and tell her how he feels.
“Goodnight!” they both chorus as I’m leaving.
It’s almost nine o’clock, but the sky still holds a fading imprint of daylight as I make my way home. I trudge up the staircase to the landing outside my door, and I can’t help remembering what a pain in the ass it was to move here. I lived in a dorm for my first year of school and then shared an apartment downtown with some girls from my program. When I finally decided to get my own place, the first item on my list of requirements was that it be within walking distance of Taverne Toulouse.
I guess there’s no point in that now. I could end up working all the way across the city. For the first time in years, I have no idea what the next month of my life is going to look like.
I pull the door open and reach for the entryway’s light switch. It’s only once I’ve got my shoes off that I notice the crumpled yellow envelope on the floor. It must have been wedged in the doorframe.
