“Oh.”My heart gives a little squeeze. I was supposed to go to NiagaraFalls this month myself. “That would have been nice.”
“Yeah,it would. I’ve been to the Falls before, but always in the summeror autumn. I’m actually disappointed not to see the Festival ofLights.”
“Youcould still go on your own. Niagara Falls isn’t that far fromToronto.”
Hemakes a non-committal sound. “I think it’s still a bit too raw. Youknow those people who go on their honeymoon even though the weddingdidn’t happen and they end up miserable because they imagine allthe things they’d be doing with their new spouse? And even thoughnobody else knows, itfeelslike everyone knows and pities them? I think I’dfeel like that. Maybe next year, though.”
“Youcould pitch it as a piece forTheBuzzif they haven't already done it. Thatway I could read about it and live vicariously. I’ve always wantedto visit Niagara Falls and see the Festival of Lightsmyself.”
“Whyhaven’t you?”
I consider takingthe easy way out and simply saying I haven’t had the time oropportunity. But Cole opened up to me, and that couldn’t have beeneasy, so I decide to do the same. “I was actually supposed to gothis month,” I say slowly. “My best friend told me we’d go for mybirthday, but…”
“Whathappened?” he asks.
“Ihonestly don’t know. Things have been a bit strained between usthis year; she made some new friends and we’ve been growing apartever since. She was the one who came up with the idea of going tothe Falls. She said we’d go all out and celebrate my birthday instyle: get a nice hotel, have fancy dinners and cocktails, do a bitof gambling and shopping, plus see the lights. Then last week whenI asked if she’d booked a hotel, she said she had to cancel. Well,technically, she said ‘postpone’, but I’m not holding mybreath.”
Cole reachesacross the table and lets his hand hover over mine where it restson the table. I think he’s going to cover it with his, but hebrushes my knuckles with his fingers and retracts his hand. “That’sreally shitty. I’m sorry, Sylvie.”
I lift oneshoulder and attempt to smile, hoping it doesn’t look too much likea grimace. “Thanks. It is what it is. I haven’t felt like apriority with her for a long time, and this just cementedit.”
“Still,it has to hurt,” he says. All I can do is nod. “Could you go onyour own?”
“Ipurposely picked up extra shifts after my birthday plans gotcanceled. The next week is going to be intense at the Village, andI couldn’t leave them hanging. Besides, like you said, if I went onmy own I’d likely spend the entire time imagining what could havebeen.”
Now it’s Cole’sturn to nod wordlessly. I’ve never had anyone look at me with suchkindness and sympathy before; I don’t think he pities me, justgenuinely feels bad about the situation.
“Hey,maybe we’ll both go next year and we’ll run into each other,” Isay, hoping to lighten the mood.
He lets out aquiet laugh. “You never know. Could happen.”
It’s unlikely; thefestival runs from November through most of February, so the oddsof going at the same time are extremely slim. Still, it’s a nicethought, and I succeeded in making Cole smile again with mysuggestion.
We finish ourfood, and I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. On my way there, aflyer on the notice board catches my eye. It’s an advertisement forthe gallery down the street; they’re open every night this week andthey’ve waived the usual entrance fee, but are requesting donationsfor the local food bank. Now I know where I’m going when Cole and Ileave. Maybe I can even convince him to stick around for anotherhour or so to accompany me.
When I return tothe table, our plates have been cleared and mine has been replacedwith a huge slice of chocolate cake.
Cole grins when hesees me. “I considered asking them to make a big thing ofit—y’know, stick a candle in, sing the birthday song—but didn’tknow if it would embarrass you. Personally, I hate thatstuff.”
“I dotoo,” I say as I slide back into my seat. “Thank you so much forthis.”
“Ofcourse. I hope you get to do something fun on your actual birthday,but I liked the idea of getting to have a small, early celebrationwith you.” His voice is soft and his smiling eyes are locked withmine.
Asudden, intense sense of longing kindles inside me. Longing forhim, forthis.Laughter and food, meaningful glances, sharing bits and pieces ofourselves. And more: fingers lacing, lips brushing, bodiesentwining. What would it be like? That familiar ache of lonelinessI’ve felt for months creeps up again, settling in my chest like aheavy weight.
It disappears asquickly as it came when Cole hands me a fork and raises one of hisown. “Bea brought two forks. I know you didn’t want to share yourpoutine, but how do you feel about sharing cake?”
I clench the handin my lap, digging my nails into the skin of my palm to shake offthe last of the melancholy. “Normally? No dice. But for you, I’llmake an exception.”
I clink my forkagainst his and we dig into the cake. We keep the conversationlight now, talking about work and our plans for the holidays: he’llbe spending Christmas with his brother, who’s a single dad to theniece he mentioned earlier, and I’ll be visiting various familymembers between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day. The cake is asdelicious as it looks, but I don’t think I’m the only one eating itextra slow to prolong our time together; I saw the bites Cole tookwhile eating his poutine, and they were nothing like the almostdainty bites he takes now.
When we reach thelast mouthful, he sets down his fork and pushes the plate closer tome. I take my time eating it, savoring the chocolatey goodness andwhat might be my last few moments with Cole.
A beeping sounddraws his attention away from me. He rifles in the pocket of hiscoat and pulls out his phone, glancing briefly at the screen. “Ireally hate to say this…”
“Yourcar’s ready?” I ask.
He nods. “I wishwe had more time, but I should get going. I’m going to be up halfthe night at this rate.”
