Page 7 of Not Your Valentine
I knew Taylor couldn’t fight anyone off, but the image made me chuckle.
Since I didn’t protest, he showed up at exactly six o’clock and escorted me to a nearly empty bar downtown, where we got cheap tequila shots. It was dark, as promised, and I could barely make out his expression as I vented about my predicament. However, at one point, I swear his eye started twitching.
I spent the night on his couch, and some of that evening is a little blurry in my memory, but I remember him putting a water bottle on the table next to me. Then he gently tucked the blanket around me—at least, I think he did. Perhaps I imagined it.
When I woke up the next morning, he placed a mug of coffee in my hands and asked, “Blueberries or chocolate chips?”
“What?” The question confused me, but then again, nothing made sense to me anymore.
“In your pancakes. Which one would you like?”
“Chocolate chips, of course.”
“I figured, but I thought I’d ask.”
Though it took one more day before I was calm enough to return to work, I was starting to feel like I had the tiniest semblance of control over my body. My life.
But almost a year later, I still feel the ripples from that awful event, which is why I’m considering a fake relationship. If I announce that I’m dating someone, I know how people will react: in a positive, predictable way. I have no interest in a real relationship again—the mere thought makes me tense—but a fake one could be useful.
I think Taylor, who watched me down six shots of tequila, blubber for hours, and drool on his couch…I think he might agree to do that for me.
There’s this rule about taking the TTC. Now, maybe it only applies to me, but I’ve always found that if I leave home with lots of time to spare, the transit system works perfectly and I arrive early. If, however, I leave without any time cushion, something always goes wrong.
Today, I’m going to meet Taylor for dinner, and I lost track of time while binge-watching another show, so I’m leaving with just enough time to make it…if everything goes right. But, according to the laws of the universe (at least, in the life of Helen Tsang), this means I’ll be late.
My bus is punctual, thankfully. There also aren’t any problems on the bus route, to my surprise, so I get to the subway station without issue.
Just when I think I might have overcome my TTC curse, we arrive at the third subway station on my route, and when the doors open, they stay open for a long time. I see people rushing down the platform to get to the subway train…but we’ve been here for five minutes. We’re probably not leaving anytime soon.
Someone starts speaking over the announcement system. It’s garbled, but with my extensive experience in deciphering these announcements, I manage to make it out.
There’s an intruder on the track up ahead.
The intruder is a raccoon.
Those of us who understood the announcement (a third of the train, I’m guessing) release a chuckle, and everyone else frowns in puzzlement until one man repeats the announcement in a much clearer voice.
Some people start murmuring about how this is such a perfect Toronto moment—being stuck on the TTC because of a raccoon—but I’m not amused. If that damn raccoon doesn’t get off the track soon, they’ll have to bring in shuttle buses, and let me tell you, shuttle buses are a freaking nightmare and there’s never enough of them. If we were one or two stops away, I’d get off the train and endure the walk, but we’re too far from downtown. Ugh. I don’t want to be late for Taylor, and I can’t even text him because I don’t have signal here. My leg bounces impatiently. I hate not being able to do anything.
Fortunately, seven minutes later, there’s another announcement: the intruder has been removed and we should be on our way shortly. Thank God.
I text Taylor at Davisville, the first above-ground station, to let him know I’m behind schedule, and once we get to Dundas, I fly out of the subway and up the stairs. I hurry down the street, quickly checking my phone for Taylor’s response. He’s at the restaurant.
I arrive seventeen minutes late, feeling a bit triumphant—I finally got here! Take that, TTC delays!—and locate Taylor, sitting at a table near the back of the long, narrow restaurant.
“Hey,” I say a bit breathlessly as I sit down across from him. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.” He puts away his phone. “It’s good to see you.”
He smiles like he really is glad to see me, and I smile back. Genuinely, not because it’s the right thing to do. Spending time with Taylor always makes me feel that way, and the last time I saw him was in early November, which seems like far too long ago.
I unwind my scarf and stick it in the sleeve of my parka, then reach for the cup of tea that he’s poured for me. Despite the frigid weather, I’m warm after rushing here, but hot tea is still most welcome.
To my distress, however, Taylor is wearing a sweater in almost the same shade of purple as mine. We both have our long hair—mine brushes my shoulders and his is even longer—tied back. It’s like we’re a cutesy couple who purposely decided to match. Though unlike me, he has a collared shirt under his sweater, and it’s a little loose on his thin frame. He’s also still wearing that ever-present smile that never seems forced. Taylor is one of those effortlessly friendly and outgoing people—but not in a loud, boisterous manner. When he slides a menu across the table to me, his smile somehow broadens even more.
I take a quick look at the menu, glad to see it’s the same as the one online, and we order. I get the beef noodles in soup, medium spice. There’s a choice of noodle thickness, and I have no idea what to pick, so “classic” seems safe.
After we order, there are a few seconds of silence. I already decided—while waiting for the raccoon to get off the tracks—that I wouldn’t immediately ask Taylor to be my fake boyfriend. I’d ease into it. Ask him more normal questions first, check if he’s dating someone.
