Page 11 of Playing for Keeps

EMMA

I met Simon outside the bar just as a light drizzle started to fall. He had a clear plastic, dome-shaped umbrella with him.

“Hey, Emma,” he said, tucking me under it. “Your hair looks like it’s staging a protest.”

“Rude,” I huffed, smoothing it down. “It’s the weather’s fault.”

Inside, the bar was warm and amber-lit, with little fairy lights draped over the shelves of spirits. Everything was the colour of beer and polished wood. We found a small table under a framed poster for an indie band and slid onto the stools. The place smelled of fried foods.

“What are you drinking?” he asked. “And I swear if you say ‘whatever’s cheapest,’ I will exercise my right to be dramatic.”

“I was going to say just a sparkling water,” I told him, having a look at the menu. “But since you’ve threatened performance art, I’ll go for a margarita.”

“Bold,” he said. “I’ll do the same, but with the rim salted like a proper snow plough.”

He weaved through the crowd to the bar and flashed a smile, tilted a shoulder and said a word to the bartender who nodded. No matter where he went, he always seemed to be both a regular and brand new. It was a gift.

He returned with two margaritas beaded with condensation. “The barman says if we want nachos, we should order in the next five minutes because the kitchen is about to explode.”

“Explode?”

“Not literally,” he said. “The game’s about to start. He meant emotionally.”

I took a sip. It was tart and icy, the lime salted enough to bite my tongue. “I don’t want nachos. We’re going dancing after, remember?”

He gulped down his drink and leaned back. “So,” he said, “I promised you quirky Canadian traditions.”

“Yes! Let’s hear them.”

“Okay, number one: milk in bags.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“It’s real,” he said, placing a hand on his heart. “You buy a big bag that contains three smaller bags inside. You put one in a pitcher, snip the corner, and pour. It looks like you’re deflating a cow.”

“That sounds like a prank,” I said. “Like something your older brother tells you to do so he can watch you struggle.”

“The joke’s on you; I’m the older brother,” he said. “And I absolutely made my younger brother do it when he was five. I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when she saw him covered in milk.”

I laughed. “All right. What else?”

“Tim Hortons,” he said. “It’s not just coffee, it’s a cornerstone. Morning, night, road trip, break-up, doesn’t matter. Everyone ends up there.”

“I’ve seen the cups,” I said. “So it’s basically a national ritual.”

“Exactly. Like double-doubles and Timbits. Or saying sorry when someone else bumps into you.”

“You Canadians apologise automatically.”

“True,” he said. “Sometimes we say sorry for things that haven’t happened yet. It’s preventative, like using sunscreen.”

“You’re being silly,” I said, and smiled at him over my glass.

“And then there’s cottage season,” he continued. “Which is when half the population disappears every Friday to a lake with a dock and a blue cooler and four hundred mosquitoes that have done CrossFit.”

“Do you actually call it ‘cottage season’?”

“Of course,” he said. “We also say toque for beanie and loonie for a one-dollar coin.”