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“Who was that?”
Mike had a sip of his strawberry Earl Grey cider—that really was good shit—before answering Mason’s question. “A childhood friend. From when I lived in Ashton Corners.”
Mason frowned. “Ashton Corners?”
“A small town on Lake Huron. That’s where I spent much of my childhood.”
“I thought you grew up in Toronto?” Cody said.
“I went to high school here, but before that, we lived in a small town.”
“She was the other Asian kid in your grade?”
“Yup. She also lived next door.”
Mike had heard the other neighbors complaining about how Chinese people were taking over the street, just because there were two families next door to each other. Well, the man had used a word other than “Chinese,” which Mike had later looked up in the dictionary.
“Anyway, it was good to see Charlotte,” Mike said, all casual, as though it had simply been “good” and not the highlight of his week. “Got her number so we can catch up.”
He didn’t tell his friends about their plans for dating lessons. Nah, he’d keep that between him and Charlotte.
He glanced over at her table. She really did look lovely. She put a fry in her mouth—did she still douse her fries in vinegar? He used to tease her about how she loved vinegar on fries, and salt and vinegar chips.
Mike, on the other hand, was a ketchup guy. Lots of ketchup on his fries. Ketchup chips. That was the way it should be.
“So, Mason,” he said. “Where are we off to next?”
Mason always had lots of interesting bars and restaurants he wanted to try, and Mike was happy to go along for the ride.
“Little craft beer bar around the corner.” Mason jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “They’ve got some old pinball machines. It’s supposed to have a good atmosphere.”
Mike laughed. Dude was always talking about atmosphere and shit like that.
After a couple drinks at the craft beer bar, Mason wanted ice cream. Apparently, there was an amazing ice cream place nearby. Mike doubted it would be open at eleven thirty at night, but when they got there, sure enough, it was open, and there were about a dozen people in line. Mason was going on about their fig goat cheese ice cream when something caught Mike’s eye.
Charlotte and her friends were walking out of the ice cream shop. Charlotte had a bubble waffle, curled in the shape of a cone. She stuck her little spoon into her ice cream and slid it into her mouth, and he was mesmerized.
He wondered what else she liked to do in Toronto. How did she spend her time?
“Yo, Mike,” Mason said.
Mike turned to his friend, who was now two meters in front of him. Right. He should keep the line moving.
“You also gotta try the olive oil ice cream,” Mason said.
Cody made a face. “I don’t think so. And please, take off that toque.”
Mason touched the gray knit hat on his head. “What’s wrong with my hat?”
“It’s fucking July. Women are walking around in tank tops and short shorts, and you’re wearing a toque like it’s January. Plus, you got the plaid shirt, the glasses, the beard, and you’re talking about olive oil ice cream. You’ve turned into such a hipster.”
Mike laughed as he watched Charlotte head up the street with her friends. Her ass looked nice in those jeans. What kind of ice cream had she gotten? Did she think olive oil belonged in ice cream?
Would she like it if Mike grew a bushy beard, started wearing toques in the heat of July, and got himself a pair of glasses he didn’t need?
Not that he was capable of growing a beard. He’d once tried to do Movember, and two weeks in, people still couldn’t tell he was participating.
He hoped Charlotte didn’t have a thing for beards, then reminded himself, once again, that they were practice dating, not real dating.
Ten minutes later, Mike made it to the front of the line, and he got a bubble waffle with lemon meringue plus chocolate ginger—no goat cheese or olive oil ice cream for him. The lemon meringue was particularly tangy and delicious. If he hadn’t run into Charlotte, it would have been the highlight of his evening.
Mason ordered some kind of smoked bourbon ice cream in addition to olive oil, and Cody disappointed Mason by going to a fancy ice cream place only to order chocolate and strawberry.
They ambled down the street. The air was warm, and the chatter from various conversations drifted toward them on the breeze.
Yeah, Mike was pretty happy with his life, a far cry from how he’d felt a decade ago when—
Oh, shit.
His sister was coming tomorrow.
* * *
“Your new place isn’t very big,” Angela said. “I thought you said you were moving to a bigger apartment.”
“It is bigger,” Mike said defensively. “Six hundred square feet. The last place was five-fifty. And I have a den.” He gestured to said den.
Angela frowned. “That’s not a den. That’s a little nook in which you’ve shoved a desk.”
“Whatever. I like it.”
“I wouldn’t have agreed to stay here for a few nights if I’d known it was so small.”
“You and Bailey will have plenty of room in the bedroom. It’s a queen bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. And Angela,” he said. “Don’t.”
One word, but his sister would know what it meant.
Mike had gone no contact with his parents eight years ago, but he hadn’t gone no contact with his sister.
He and Angela, who was only a year younger than him, had been forced to compete for scraps of praise throughout their childhood. But he’d felt like there were higher expectations on him, as the oldest child, and she had it easier in comparison. Plus, he’d been considered responsible for some of her fuck-ups. Angela, however, had thought he’d had it easier because he was the son.
In truth, their parents had been emotionally abusive to both of them, but he and his sister still sometimes brought out the worst in each other and resorted to childish conversation. Mike had never quite figured out how to hang out with Angela as an adult, even if she and Bailey were all the family he had now.
Well, there were his aunt and uncle and cousins out in Vancouver, whom he occasionally visited, but they weren’t super close.
Bailey was a bit of a mystery to him. His niece was ten, and over the years, he’d tried to do various things with her. Lego. Boardgames. Catch. The museum, the art gallery. He’d even tried to talk with her about music that was supposed to be all the rage with kids her age. None of those had gone well.
A couple years ago, he’d taken her out for sundaes, but it turned out that Bailey was the only kid in the world who didn’t love sweets. Perhaps she’d like olive oil or goat cheese ice cream, though. Hmm.
“Hey, Bailey.” He walked into the living room, where she was doing something on her tablet. “What’s up?”
“Not much.”
“What are you into these days?” God, he sounded horribly uncool.
Bailey didn’t say anything.
“Your uncle asked you a question,” Angela said.
Bailey sighed. “You know. Stuff.”
“Stuff?” Mike said.
“Poisonous frogs and mushrooms,” Bailey mumbled.
Had he heard that right? He looked to Angela, who nodded and shrugged.
Well, this was unfortunate.
Mike didn’t know anything about frogs and mushrooms, let alone poisonous ones.
He scratched the back of his neck. He was usually pretty good at conversation, but his niece always stumped him.
And then Angela said, “Show him your sketchbook, Bailey.”
A sketchbook? Now this sounded interesting.
“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to,” he said, even though he was intrigued. “If it’s private, that’s okay.” As a child, he’d had zero privacy, and he’d hated it.
“No, you can see.” This was a lot of words for Bailey. She reached into a bag, pulled out a hardback black sketchbook, and handed it to him in silence.
He sat down next to her on the couch and flipped through the sketchbook. There were detailed drawings—in pencil crayon—of frogs and mushrooms, the Latin names printed carefully underneath.
The last drawing was of a spider, and Mike instinctively cringed.
He did not like spiders, and this one was, undoubtedly, a poisonous one.
“Have you started drawing poisonous spiders now, too?” Angela asked.
“That spider is venomous,” Bailey said. “There’s a difference.”
“Right. Poisonous is not the same as venomous.”
“It’s very much not the same.” Bailey spoke while looking at her tablet.
“There must be poisonous or venomous fish, too,” Mike said. “Maybe we could go to the aquarium tomorrow?”
“Okay. Whatever.”
That seemed mildly promising. He was glad he’d figured out something for them to do together in the next three days.
But for now...
Mike went to his closet and pulled out a box. At one point, he’d purchased all the art supplies that he hadn’t been allowed to have as a kid, but he hadn’t used them much.
Watercolors and a fine-tipped black pen. That would work.
He set everything up on the kitchen table, used his phone to do an image search of a poisonous frog Bailey had drawn, and set about copying the picture on his watercolor paper. Eventually, Bailey wandered over and looked at his artwork.
“Cool,” she said, much to his delight. “Can I do it, too?”
She hadn’t worked much with watercolors before. She was frustrated at first—not that she said so, but he could see it in her expression—but half an hour later, they were quietly painting and drawing poisonous frogs, side by side. Bailey later moved on to spiders, but no fucking way was Mike painting a spider. He stuck with frogs.
It reminded him of when he and Charlotte would draw at her kitchen table. He had fond memories of those days.
The best parts of his childhood.
* * *
It was the most successful visit with his sister and niece that Mike had ever had. He whistled as he walked to the art supply store on Tuesday afternoon to get some things for Bailey.
True, the reason he’d left the apartment was because Angela had gotten pissed at him. Trying to find something to talk about with Bailey, Mike had mentioned a movie in which a woman poisoned her lover using mushrooms. Now that he thought of it, the movie was probably rated R. He and Angela had subsequently had a minor spat, and he’d decided to get some fresh air.
But really, the last few days—which he’d taken off work so he could spend time with his family—had gone well, and for the first time in a long time, Mike was wondering if he might like to have children.
He had serious doubts about his ability to be a good parent, but surely, he wouldn’t be that bad, right? He had a very clear idea of what not to do, and he would make every effort to be nothing like his parents.
First, however, he had to get married.
Okay, that wasn’t actually a necessity for having a kid, and he knew, from bitter experience, that two parents and two kids with a white picket fence did not mean they were all happy—or anything remotely close to a happy, functioning family. He was positive that Bailey’s childhood was better than his and Angela’s.
He did like the idea of a long-term relationship, though. Unfortunately, he was thirty-three and it had yet to happen.
Mike was almost at the store when a familiar woman walked out of a coffee shop.
“Hey, Bea!” he said, waving.
She looked at him but didn’t wave back. She was wearing sunglasses, so he couldn’t properly read her expression.
Did she not remember him? Several years ago, they’d dated for about a month, which was the longest he’d dated anyone.
Or she remembered him as an ass and wanted nothing to do with him.
She’s right. You’re...
He shoved those thoughts away. They were the reason he’d ended things with her.
He recalled a rather painful “it’s not you, it’s me” speech that he’d given her while they were in line at Tim Hortons.
It really had been him, not her. He’d only just started therapy and realized he was in no position for a relationship. In fact, he’d been certain he was incapable of love.
But now, he was in a better place, and he had Charlotte. She would teach him. Unlike him, she didn’t have a completely messed up family, and she must know something about this stuff, even if had been a while since she’d dated.
Yes, he felt better about his love life now that she was around.
Not that he was interested in Charlotte, even though she was quite attractive. She was still too good for him, but that was okay. They’d help each other, and then he’d go on to meet a woman, and they could have kids who liked poisonous frogs and mushrooms—or possibly kids who had more normal interests. Like baseball. Or crafts.
He was smiling when he returned home with a bag of supplies for Bailey, and the next day, he called Mason.
“I need some advice,” Mike said. “I have a date this weekend, and you know restaurants better than I do. What do you recommend?”
“What does she like?” Mason asked sensibly.
Mike scratched his head. “Cider? Vinegar on fries? Too much relish on her hamburgers?”
“That’s not terribly helpful.”
“Look, I don’t know her all that well.”
“Yet you know that she likes too much relish on her hamburgers.”
Technically, Mike knew that thirteen-year-old Charlotte had liked lots of relish on her burgers. Her tastes may have changed since then, but close enough.
“Wait a second,” Mason said. “Is this the childhood friend you met at the bar the other day? She was eating a burger with fries and drinking cider.”
“Uh, yeah, might be her,” Mike mumbled.
“Do you know where she lives? Which part of the city would be best?”
“Um...”
“There’s a new wood-oven pizza place in the Junction,” Mason said. “Since you’re not giving me much to work with, that’s what I’m going to suggest. It’s nice, but still pretty casual, and they have a great craft beer and cider list.”
Okay, that sounded good.
Mike hoped Charlotte would like it.