Page 19 of The Bar Next Door
“Youdropped out of Cambridge University?”
She lays both her palms on the table like she’s steadying herself.
“You make it sound like I committed a murder.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t tell if dropping out of Cambridge is just plain sacrilegious, or if it makes you even more badass than going to Cambridge in the first place.”
I chuckle. “Most people wouldn’t describe studying at Cambridge as the definition of ‘badass.’”
“Most people have an underdeveloped appreciation for academia. What did you study?”
“Economics with a minor in English.”
She dips her chin down in a nod. “Well-rounded.”
“And what didyoustudy? And where? Are you about to tell me you’re an Oxford honours grad and that I’m just Cambridge shit?”
“IwishI was an Oxford honours grad.” She claps her hands to her cheeks and gets glittery-eyed at just the thought. This is the most passionate I’ve seen her since she talked about that run-down bar she loves. “I went to school here in Montreal. I took a bunch of different courses before I settled on a major in English and a minor in classical studies. After that, I did my Masters in English.”
“You have a Masters?”
“Are you surprised?”
“No. No, not at all,” I hurry to backtrack. “It’s just...It’s impressive. I couldn’t even get through my undergrad.”
The server comes back, and we have to admit that neither of us has even looked at the menu. I glance over the wine offerings and ask the server a few questions before settling on a glass of Merlot. Monroe orders a cocktail called the Brandy Kiss.
“So how does a French Cambridge dropout end up in Montreal?” she asks me after the server heads off.
“I was filled with a desire to see the New World.”
She scoffs again. “Okay there, John Smith.”
“My father was from Montreal,” I explain, opting for the truth this time. “We came back to visit a lot after he decided to buy property here. When he...passed away, the property went to me, and I decided to come live on it. That was six years ago.”
Most people look away when I talk aboutPapa. They have to glance at the floor or the wall for a moment, have to distance themselves from the pain and the pity before they can turn back and tell me how sorry they are. I understand that urge; it’s an intimate act to witness someone else’s loss, especially when that person is a stranger.
Monroe doesn’t even blink. She wears her concern the same way she wears her confusion: with a child-like sincerity. Her voice goes soft—not with the affected gravity we all use to placate grief, but with genuine compassion. It’s almost unnerving to feel so clearly seen, so clearly understood.
“You must have been young when he passed.”
“Twenty-six,” I find myself telling her. “It was cancer. No one saw it coming.”
Her hand twitches on the tabletop, and the urge to reach for it—to feel the way her fingers would fit wrapped up in mine—is so strong it’s only the arrival of our drinks that stops me from doing it. The moment releases us, and we each reach for our glasses.
“Wine again,” Monroe mutters as she takes her first sip through her straw.
“What’s wrong with wine?”
“Nothing. I should learn to expect it from a Bordeaux boy.”
I let out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a ‘Bordeaux boy’ before. It has a nice ring to it.”
“Are your family wine makers or something?”
I set the Merlot back down. It’s decent enough.
“We arethewine makers,” I tell her, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “My mother’s family is...Well, picture whatever comes into your head when I say the words ‘French heiress.’ That’s my mother. Her family owned an estate in Bordeaux for over a century, but they didn’t do much besides own it. It looked good to have a winery, you know?”
