Je Ne Sais Quoi

I could practically feel my pupils expand as I stepped outside, the cloudy grey sky a stark contrast to the fluorescent lights I’d just spent the last ten hours under. I inhaled, breathing in the fresh, crisp air. Free. At. Last. My stomach let out a loud grumble, reminding me the measly protein bar I’d eaten earlier wasn’t nearly enough to sustain a 200 (okay, 210) pound man. I’d walked to and from work every day for the last 3 weeks. It had been a long, harsh winter but the snow was finally melting and spring was on the horizon. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone: lose a few inches and save on gas money. My car was a junker anyway, twelve years old and nearing its last leg. Assuming my hard work would lead to a promotion by years end, I planned on buying a brand new BMW 5 Series. The pressure was on. Often all that got me through my hectic workdays was the anticipation of that fresh new car smell, the cool, leather interior on my skin, the rev of a powerful engine. I needed that raise.

I lifted my coffee to my lips, noticing tiny beads of rain water collecting on the lid. I had trouble falling asleep if I consumed coffee in the afternoon, so I’d opted for decaf. Perks aside, I loved the taste, so my assistant always kept the break room fully stocked with every brand, strength and flavour imaginable. She was 25 years my senior, married, yet (at least according to my coworkers) quite smitten with me. I was, disconcertingly, flattered by the attention, given the fact that I’d been single for over two years. I had options, of course. I was just busy. I knew my dream woman was out there, I was just hoping she’d show up on my doorstep, sparing us both the uncomfortable, time-consuming process of casual dating. Oh, and bonus points if she was single, too.

As I rounded the corner onto Main Street, the light drizzle quickly turned to a downpour. “Wonderful,” I groaned. My suit was a rental and I couldn’t afford to ruin it. The light grey sleeves quickly darkened as water droplets saturated the fabric. Desperate for shelter, I rushed into the nearest building — a high-end home decor store ostentatiously named “Je Ne Sais Quoi.”

I was immediately approached by a painfully thin older woman, her silver hair slicked back in a low bun. She looked me up and down, furrowing her brow as if bothered by my sudden presence. I looked around. The store appeared empty. “Oh, I’m sorry miss — are you closing?” “Ma’am,” she corrected me. “And no, not for thirty minutes. Let me know if you need help.” She walked away before I could respond, her heels clicking loudly against the white marble floors.

I looked around, taking in my lavish surroundings. I’d passed this store many times on my way to the office, scoffing at the snooty rich women eager to drop thousands of dollars on some obscure painting. My home decor included an old signed NHL jersey, an obnoxiously large bonsai tree from my ex, and a patchouli candle because the sales associate convinced me it was a “masculine” fragrance, whatever that means. I was a simple guy. I liked simple things. Why anyone would buy an “opal white silk chaise” you couldn’t go in a five foot radius of without staining is beyond me.

Sure, my apartment could use some updating, perhaps a woman’s touch, but I was hardly ever home anyway. It had been over two years since my ex broke things off. Instead of dealing with the breakup and actually — you know — feeling my feelings, I’d completely thrown myself into my work. My brother set up a blind date for me a couple months ago. After much hesitation, I agreed to meet her at a popular Italian restaurant downtown. Worst case scenario, I’d lose an hour of my life I’d never get back. That’s precisely what happened.

She spent the first twenty minutes of our date attempting to take the perfect selfie, only to spend the following twenty minutes editing the winning choice. When the food arrived, she was more concerned with documenting it than actually consuming it. I guess I’m glad my expectations weren’t set very high — my brother typically opted for looks over substance. I, on the other hand, wanted something real. Something genuine.

I felt awkward just standing at the front of the store, so I walked down an aisle, perusing the various high-priced items on display. A white table lamp for $450? No thank you. These prices were exorbitant. Nothing really caught my eye until I got to the back. A spectacular black leather sectional was displayed in the far left corner. I made my way over, careful not to knock over any delicate looking crystal vases with my briefcase.

I sat my now lukewarm coffee on the floor and collapsed on the middle cushion, my entire body melting into the leather like butter. Oh wow, I thought, tilting my head back and gently closing my eyes. In an instant I was transported from this gaudy, stuffy store to the comfort of my own home. I envisioned myself enjoying hockey nights with the boys, gaming after a long day of meetings, taking my Sunday power nap before preparing for the work week ahead…

I heard a woman speaking, a soft, pleasant tone, not at all similar to the woman that had greeted me. I opened my eyes. A short, curvy woman stood leaning over a desk talking quietly to a young couple, her black, wavy hair cascading down her back. She wore black heels, tall ones with red bottoms, and a light grey pencil skirt that looked slightly damp. She must have gotten caught in the rain too.

“Making yourself at home, I see?” The shrill voice of the older woman startled me, and I suddenly became very aware that I’d been staring. I chuckled then cleared my throat, feeling as if I’d committed some illicit act. “Just informing you we’re about to close. I’m assuming you won’t be ready to purchase today?” I stood up, adjusted my suit, and read the price tag. $7299. Her assumption was correct. “No, I won’t be. Thank you ma’am.” I picked up my briefcase and coffee and made my way to the front of the store. The rain had stopped.

Upon arriving home, I had four missed calls from my brother, along with a barrage of texts demanding I call him. My brother, Jake, was just three years younger than me, but upon meeting him you’d assume it was closer to ten. He looked almost exactly like me, but with a thick, wiry beard . He was also nearly three inches taller, something I’d resented him for growing up. Despite our physical similarities, however, we couldn’t be more different. I was steady, stable, predictable. Jake was wild, impulsive, capricious. I’d spent my entire life bailing him out of things, without so much as a “thank you” in return. Still, I loved the guy. He was blood. I kind of had to.

I called him back, wondering what sort of trouble he’d gotten himself into now. Another pregnancy scare with his 23-year-old coworker? An enormous beer tab he needed me to pay for him because he’d “lost his wallet?” He answered after the first ring, the tone of his voice sounding more solemn than intoxicated. “What’s going on man? I’m so sorry, my phone died on my walk home.” He took a long, deep inhale before breaking the news. “Bro. We lost Grandpa Neil. I’m sorry man.” Suddenly I’d wished it was his wallet he’d lost.

My grandfather, Neil, was a brilliant man. Choleric, arrogant and brash — but brilliant. He had been a law professor for over 35 years, about as long as I’d been alive. Because he worked so much, we really only saw him on holidays. I vividly remember the games he used to play with us, my favourite being the “money game.” He would hold a $100 bill and drop it. We’d have to pinch and catch it between our fingers. If we caught it, it was ours to keep. I did every time. My brother would scoff and leave the house upset, while I’d leave with a Benjamin in my pocket and a sense of accomplishment. Jake would beg my mother to make me split the money with him. I always did. My mother once whispered to me that my grandfather favoured me. Despite his serious, stoic nature, I believed her.

My brother and I both stayed at our parents house for the funeral that weekend. The news had hit my mother hard. Five weeks before his passing she’d taken him on a trip down south. Upon returning home, his health declined rapidly. He was under the care of a young nurse just 30 minutes away, and my mother hadn’t had the chance to visit him since their trip.

It was another cool, rainy evening. The sound of light rain gently tapped against the wide, glass windows. A wave of nostalgia came over me as I remembered all the Christmas Eve’s we’d spend curled up on this couch, filled with childlike wonder and anticipation for the day to follow. My mother interrupted my memory, standing up and handing my brother and I two thick envelopes. I immediately recognized my grandfathers unique penmanship.

“Your grandfather loved you two very much. He was so proud of you. He took great care of his finances, and now he wants to do the same for you. You’ll both receive $20,000 today. An additional $20,000 will be deposited into a new account for your first child’s education. I do have to tie up some things with the lawyer, but I am also expecting an additional lump sum to be given to your father and I soon which we will be sharing with you.”

The following week I threw myself back into work, scheduling regular breaks to check in with my grieving mother. Friday came quickly, and I decided to escape the office for my lunch break. My coworkers had been raving all week about a cafe that had just opened nearby. It was a sunny day, so I threw on my sunglasses. Approaching the cafe, a woman holding two iced coffees and a small paper bag was on her way out. I held the door. She wore large, cream-coloured sunglasses that stood out against her long, dark hair. I inhaled deeply. It was the woman from the store. “Why thank you,” she said with a big smile. She brushed by me, close enough that I could smell her perfume.

I quickly ordered a Cuban sandwich and a small iced coffee, handing the barista $20. I glanced out the window, lifting my sunglasses. The woman was standing at the crosswalk waiting for the signal to turn. She looked back at me, as if somehow sensing my eyes on her. I did an awkward head nod, and to my surprise she lifted her sunglasses up and did the same.

“Excuse me sir, do you know that woman that just left? She forgot this.” The barista held up a small, black notebook. It looked new. “I do actually,” I lied, grabbing it. “I’ll catch up to her.” Little did I know, I was about to meet a woman that would change my life forever. Curiosity got the best of me, and I cracked open the notebook. Inside the front pocket was a $10 bill, a Starbucks gift card, and a nurse identification card. “Genevieve Parker. Born September 13th, 1995.” I was surprised she was just 25 years old. She looked older, more sophisticated. I closed the notebook, embarrassed I’d just invaded a strangers privacy. If only I’d known then she was no stranger to me.

Or my grandfather.