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My temporary bedroom, the Provence room, is even more sumptuous than staying at a posh hotel. When Cress moved in with Max, she looked at half-empty, undecorated rooms and made redecorating a priority. This room, all yellows and blues, has enormous windows that let in plenty of light from the garden. The furniture is French provincial, with a king-sized bed that has a duvet cover decorated with Van Gogh’sStarry Night. A beautiful Aubusson carpet covers the hardwood flooring. Just like elite hotels, there’s even a small refrigerator with bottled water and a basket of snacks, all without a card telling you how much each item costs.
They’d probably let me stay indefinitely, but I need a job and my own place. And JL. I need JL. I throw myself face down on the bed and have my little pity party.
* * *
JL
Yannick’s sofa is old and too soft to be comfortable. In the end, I throw the cushions on the floor, wrap up like a mummy in the duvet, and try to ignore the cold rising from the uncarpeted tiles. His dog, Brioche, wakes me up with her slobbery tongue. She wants something but I don’t know if it’s a walk, breakfast, or just playtime. The sound of rain beating against the aluminum siding makes me reach for my phone.
AIR CANADA: Your 8:30 flight to Chicago is delayed. It is now scheduled for 11 a.m.
ME: Fuck you and fuck the rain. (Not sent)
Yannick sounds like a moose in the woods, loud snores rolling down from his second floor. When he bought this little house, he gutted the whole second story and turned three tiny bedrooms into one large room with a state-of-the-art self-care center, as he calls it—Jacuzzi, sauna, power shower—instead of a master bath. His basement is a professional-grade gym. This is definitely a bachelor pad.
I let Brioche out, and she’s back in minutes, already soaking wet. The copper-colored standard poodle shakes herself off and now I am just as wet. I lock her into the kitchen and fetch towels. Once we are both merely damp, I make coffee in Yannick’s fancy espresso machine. Two doppios later, I check my phone again.
AIR CANADA: Your flight is now scheduled for 1 p.m.
ME: Tabernak. Va te faire foutre (not sent)
Yannick walks in, stretching. His T-shirt rides up and he scratches his stomach. “Ah, café.”
I start the machine to make him a cup.
“It’s late, JL. Why didn’t you wake me? We’ll barely make it in time for your flight.”
“Plenty of time,” I say with an accompanying growl. Brioche must think I’m talking to her and she growls back.
“It’s seven and your flight is at eight thirty.”
“Air Canada wanted us to sleep in. My flight is at one.”
“Calisse.”
“I’ve told them that.” I laugh, handing him the unsent text messages.
“Coward. Why didn’t you send them?”
“And have my ticket revoked?” I hand him the cup and make a third double for myself. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Now that we have time, I have eggs, croissants, potatoes, ham, back bacon, and sausage. Bread too, if you want toast.”
“Let’s just eat it all.”
My mobile rings. Max. Forestalling the inevitable, I don’t bother with hello. “Coming back today.”
“When? I’ll meet you at O’Hare.”
“When Air Canada stops holding me hostage. The rain and wind are heavy enough that my flight has already been delayed twice. How’s the weather there?”
Yannick slips a plate to me—fried eggs, toast with butter and jam, fried potatoes with ham, rounds of back bacon, and two fat sausages, well browned.
“Sunny here, but windy.”
I spear a sausage and take a bite. “Not too bad then.” With a mouth full of succulent meat, I must be hard to understand. Not that I care.
“You eating?”
