“Where’s Louis?” James asks her, leaning on his pool cue. She can tell he’s trying to act blasé, but he looks worried.
“He left.”
“Oh.”
James turns back to the pool table.
“You’re jealous of Louis?” she asks him.
“Yeah. I am.”
She smiles.
“You’ve spent every day of the last month with him,” James says, wiping chalk off his hands onto his jeans. “He’s probably in love with you.”
“Probably.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m in love with you,” she says. “He’s not my type.”
“Isn’t he?”
“No. Why? Because we’re the same age?”
“He’s a separatist.”
“That doesn’t make him my type,” she says. “You think I want to sleep with every separatist in the province?”
“No, just Louis.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“I’m sure your father would love him.”
“I’m sure he would,” Véronique says. “But he’s not my type. You’re my type.”
“We’ve been arguing a lot lately,” he points out. “And every time I turn around, you’re with Louis.”
“The referendum will be over soon. We’re both tense. The whole province is tense.”
“I love you,” he says.
She reaches out to touch his chin. “You’ve got chalk here,” she tells him, rubbing it off with her thumb.
“Will you marry me?”
“What?”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Obviously, this is not how I imagined proposing—in this shithole with blue chalk all over my face—but you’re the one for me, V. I can re-propose later with a ring and everything. I’ve got my grandmother’s wedding ring.”
“I don’t care about a ring.”
He drops to one knee, takes her hand. “Véronique Fortin, will you marry me?”
She strokes his hair and tosses her head back, laughing. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
“Let’s do it tomorrow,” he says, standing up. “Let’s go to the courthouse—”
“No. No way. We’re not rushing to get married two days before the referendum.”
“Screw the referendum.”
“What are you afraid of?” she asks him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His expression is uncertain; he doesn’t quite believe her.
“I’ll marry you after Quebec wins its independence,” she says. “And then we’ll raise little Quebec citizens.”
“And if you lose on Monday?”
“I’ll marry you anyway,” she says, kissing him. “I promise, win or lose, I’m not going anywhere. Now rack ’em up and let’s play.”
James goes over to the other end of the table and grabs the triangle. She starts rolling the balls to him, and he arranges them inside the triangle for the break. Her cell phone rings. She signals for James to give her a minute. His face falls. The only people who call on her cell phone besides him are Camil, Marc, and Louis—none of whom he can stand. She can tell he’s pissed.
“Véro? It’s Marc. Can you talk?”
“What is it? I’m in a bar. It’s hard to hear.”
“My dad has a new distributor in Ottawa,” he says. “He wants to know if you’d be willing to go back.”
“Who is it?”
“The nephew of one of Camil’s Hells Angels friends from Howick. He’s in his second year at Carleton. He lives in the residence. He’s super keen. I’ll be with you. There’s nothing to worry about with this guy.”
“I don’t know if I want to get involved with that whole scene again.”
“Think about the money, cousin. Think how much you can make and save up before you go back to school.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Also, Callahan is dead.”
The words land like a brick to the solar plexus. She stops breathing.
“Véro?”
“How do you know?”
“My dad’s been trying to reach him for a while,” Marc explains. “Callahan’s father finally answered.”
It can’t be true. It can’t be true.
“How?” she asks, trying to calm down. Her hands are shaking so hard the phone is wobbling against her ear.
“He overdosed.”
She doesn’t believe him. She hangs up and leans against the pool table to stay upright.
“What is it, V?” James’s voice sounds far away, but he’s right beside her. “What is it? What happened, V? Are your parents okay?”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her uncle did this—she’s sure of it—or he hired someone to do it. Not just as payback for what Callahan did to Véronique, but to clear the path for a new distributor so that Véronique would return and make him more money.
Maybe Callahan did OD, she tells herself. It’s possible. Still. The timing. It’s too much of a coincidence.
“What’s wrong?” James is asking, shaking her shoulders. “Talk to me.”
“Callahan overdosed.”
“Shit. Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
Without a word, James pulls her against his chest and holds her there. He doesn’t say anything, which is a relief.