Page 44 of Never Too Late

“It can’t be like before,” Laurent said tartly. “Maman was still alive before and you were… Well, I won’t say completely sober, but you were sober more than you were drunk. Now you’rejust…” He waved a hand, the gesture reeking of frustration and weariness. “I tried to help you, but you wouldn’t be helped.”

“So you… wasssshed your handsss of me, threw me away like I wassss nothing more than a piessse of rubbish, like I wassss sssshit on your ssshoe.”

“You see, this is why I can’t talk to you,” Laurent said. “Because as soon as I say something you don’t want to hear, you get nasty. And you never want to just talk. It’s always about money. I assume that’s why you’ve tracked me down?”

A struggle happened on the older man’s face that was easy to read. He wanted money, but he also wanted not to prove his son right. “I…”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Laurent said with a laugh. “When don’t you? But if I give you money, it will all go on whiskey. And I told you a while ago that I’m not contributing to your death fund any longer.”

A noise behind had me turning away from the unfolding drama to where two male uniformed officers were wending their way between the tables. I assumed the restaurant staff had called them when attempts to make their unwelcome guest leave of his own accord had met with failure.

Some customers were already getting up and leaving, clearly not up for the evening’s entertainment, while others had absolutely no shame in openly gawking in our direction. I was surprised they hadn’t pulled their chairs closer to avoid missing anything.

Laurent relaxed slightly when he saw the approaching police. “You should leave, Dad,” he said. “Before they arrest you. I’m not bailing you out, and you don’t have anyone else to do it.”

As soon as the two officers reached us, Laurent’s father threw up his arms. “Okay… Okay… I’m going. You don’t have to manhandle me. I jussst came to talk to my ssssson.” He backedoff, narrowly avoiding crashing into several tables on his way out.

The police watched him go, the taller of the pair saying something into his radio once Laurent’s father had left the restaurant. A brief discussion in French followed between the officers and Laurent, which involved a lot of head shaking on Laurent’s part, and a lot of nodding in response from them. I understood almost none of it. There was still a long way to go on my French.

Their departure left Laurent and me staring at our cold plates of food. After a few seconds, Laurent shoved his plate away from him. “Sorry about that,” he said, his cheeks suffused with color. “That was my father, and in case you couldn’t tell, he’s a drunk. He always liked a drink, but when my mother died of cancer a few years ago, it seemed to push him over the edge. I have no brothers and sisters, so it was basically just me and him. Before you ask, yes, I have tried rehab. He’s been three times, and he’s always back drinking within a few weeks, so it’s akin to throwing money down the drain.” He took a long swig of his wine. “So there you have it.”

“He’s English,” I said.

Laurent laughed. “You seem more surprised about that than him being a drunk. He is English. My mother was French. Born in Paris. Died in Paris. Lived here all her life.” He held up his glass in a mock toast. “But… she had that one fateful trip to London where she met a man and fell in love. He moved here within a couple of months, because… and I’m directly quoting my mother here, ‘long-distance relationships never work. If you can bear to be away from them for that long, then you’re settling for crumbs, or you just don’t want it enough.’”

I would have gotten the double meaning in his words even without the slight raise of his eyebrow. At least, it shed light onwhere his insistence that Cillian and I needed to sort things out for once and for all came from.

Laurent waved an arm at the waiter, who came over immediately. “Plus de vin!” he requested. The waiter nodded and scurried off. “More wine,” Laurent translated for me. “Which I know is quite the ironic reaction to our evening being ruined by my drunken father, but…” He shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” I said, because it was all I could think of to say.

One corner of his mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. “It should be me saying that.” He waved a hand at my half eaten venison. “You didn’t even get to finish your meal.”

“It’s not like you asked him to come here.”

“No. I certainly did not.” Laurent nodded his thanks as the waiter deposited another bottle of wine and agreed when he offered to take our plates.

“You know what the good thing about not having finished the main course is,” I said.

Laurent propped his chin on his hand and shook his head. After the confrontation with his father, he wore weariness like a shroud.

“Dessert without guilt,” I announced with a smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to order the most sugar-laden, fattening thing I can find, and I’m going to eat every single last speck of it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Laurent said, leaning across the table to fill my wineglass to the brim. Once they were both full, he raised his glass in a toast and I mirrored the movement. “Here’s to…” He thought for a minute, his gaze distant. “Let’s toast to people we are better off without.”

I hoped he wasn’t referring to Cillian as I echoed the toast.

We had three desserts over the next hour. One each and one to share. We washed them down with a great deal of wine, more than I would usually have drunk. I couldn’t offer Laurent much,but I could offer solidarity. Laurent’s family and Cillian were both off the table as topics of discussion.

By the time we left the restaurant, neither of us walked that steadily, Laurent leaning heavily against my shoulder. “I am so glad,” he said as the cold air hit us, “that I am not remotely attracted to you.”

“Thanks,” I said with a laugh.

“No, no, no,” he insisted. “It is a good thing. Romantic partners are easy to find. They’re everywhere…” He gestured wildly at a streetlight and I half expected to see some young beau hanging from it. Of course, there wasn’t; it was just a streetlight. “Everywhere,” he repeated.

“For you, maybe.”

“Henri,” he said, as if that proved his point without further argument. “You only have to crook your finger and he’d come running. I think it’s the accent,” he mused. “But… you’re missing my point.” He seized hold of my shoulders to bring us both to a stop. “Friends. Good friends are much harder to find.”

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