DOUBLE: twice the amount of liquor regularly included in a single drink
Câlice de criss.
I almost kissed Zach.
I was so close to moving my hands behind his head and pulling his mouth down to mine. I wanted to rub little circles into the back of his neck with my thumbs. I wanted to sigh against his lips. I wanted to lean into him and bend my knee the way girls do when they kiss boys in cheesy movies.
I didn’t just want to make out with him on a dance floor; I wanted it to beromantic.
“Tequila. A double. And a beer.”
Renee raises her eyebrows at me from behind the bar. “Ready to party?”
“Always.”
That is what I need: to party. I need to dance. I need to clink glasses with friends. I need to pull my boyfriend onto the dance floor and throw myself into his arms like a girl in a movie. I do not need to do that with Zach.
Only my boyfriend isn’t here.
The last time he texted was to say his shift at the club got switched and he’d be late. That was hours ago. He didn’t answer my text when I told him I finished early. He hasn’t answered any of them since.
I feel like the crazy stalker girlfriend, but I send him another one while I wait for my drink to arrive.
I cheers Renee when she finally brings my drinks and down the shot. Then I sip my beer and wander through the crowd. I know a few people in the room—I know a few people everywhere in Montreal; it’s what happens when you’re a bartender—but I’m so bad with names I just smile when they call out mine. I finish my beer way too fast and end up dancing with a big group of people who keep trying to steal my flower crown.
The music and the lights don’t swallow me up like they usually do.
They just make me think about Zach.
I wanted to run my hands up his chest. I wanted him to hold onto my hips while we moved to the music—while we moved with each other.
I wanted a lot of things.
Grabbing my flower crown back from some drunkmecwho can’t figure out how to fit it on his head, I push my way through the crowd and head to the back to grab my jacket. It’s time to go home.
I feel dumb calling an Uber to only go a few blocks, but I do it anyway.
Maybe if Clém had just taken an Uber...
I’m being stupid. Uber wasn’t even a thing back then, and even if it was, bad things can still happen in cars. I play with my grandmother’s ring the whole way over to X’s place, eyes on the driver in the rear-view mirror. My breath comes out in a big whoosh when I’m finally on the sidewalk, and I speed-walk over to the apartment building’s door.
I only remember to be mad when I start climbing the stairs. It’s two in the morning, and he still hasn’t sent a fucking text.
Is that music?
There’s some kind of rock song blasting behind the door.
That fucker better not be sitting at home.
I have a lot of angry French words on my tongue, ready to spill out as I pull the door open and face the crashing sound waves pumping full volume out of the stereo.
It takes me a minute to realize I’m also facing crashing people too.
As in, X’s dick is crashing into some girl’s mouth as she kneels in front of him while he sits on the couch.
He’s got his head thrown back and his hands wrapped in her hair. She has a long, pastel-coloured ponytail just a few shades off from my bright pink dye job. X moans something as she starts bobbing her head faster, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
He can’t hear me either. He doesn’t hear when I move inside. He doesn’t hear when I pull the door closed behind me. He doesn’t hear when I take two steps forward into the living room and stop just a few feet away from the couch.
