Page 47 of Glass Half Full
I like your sweater? Really?
I’m turning into an adolescent boy.
Do not talk to her in the Batman voice again.
“Thanks.” She glances down at the table. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I, um, thought you might like it if I wore white...”
Renee Nyobé getting flirty with me will be the cause of my death. I’m calling it. I’m betting ten thousand dollars that one of those shy glances from under her eyelashes will put me in the ground.
“You thought right,” I agree. “You look...really beautiful today.”
She cocks her head to the side. “You sure you don’t need that thesaurus?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a little shit?”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I don’t realize just how at ease she makes me feel until I’m a few sips through my coffee and she’s all done with her latte. That’s when she reminds me we’re here to talk about something.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I somehow totally forgot?”
“Honestly, so did I,” she answers. “This has been...so nice.”
I mouth the word ‘thesaurus,’ and she reaches over to bonk me on the arm with her empty cup.
“How about we walk and talk?” I suggest. “Gotta work off some of this caffeine.”
“Oh yeah, the danger is real,” she mocks me. “You have the scars to prove it.”
I tug my jacket on, and Renee pulls a big plaid scarf out of her bag before draping it around her shoulders like a poncho.
“What is this garment called?” I ask, tugging on the fabric as we step outside the cafe.
“It’s a blanket scarf.”
“A blanket...scarf?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s fashion, Dylan. Just go with it.”
We start walking up the street. Along with Avenue Mont-Royal and the famous Boulevard Saint-Laurent a few blocks over, Rue Saint-Denis makes up the heart and soul of this neighborhood. The brightly coloured and sometimes dangerously sloping buildings we pass are filled with restaurants, bars, and boutiques, but mid-morning on a chilly Monday, the sidewalks are mostly clear.
“I love this part of town,” Renee muses. “I wish I lived closer.”
“Where is your place?”
“We’re in Rosemont,” she answers. “Like, the far end of Rosemont.”
Right. She lives with her family. She’s twenty-one years old. She’s recovering from a severe breakdown, and I kissed her in an alleyway two days ago after she had an anxiety attack.
We do have things to talk about.
“So...talking,” I prompt. “We should do that.”
She tugs her scarf—blanket scarf?—tighter around her shoulders. “Yeah. We should. I’ve thought a lot about what happened, and...I do want this. I know we’ve only just come back into each other’s lives, but what I feel for you, what happens when we’re together—it’s not something I’ve ever felt before. I don’t know if you—”
“Never,” I interrupt. “It’s never been like this for me before either.”
She lets out a laugh. “Okay good. I was a little bit worried.”
