Page 36
“That’s a lot of quarters. That proves how much you care.”
“This isn’t funny.” Georgie zeroed in on the blotches of sweat darkening the underarm area of Michael’s pale pink button-down, her brow wrinkling. “In all the years we’ve been coming here, you’ve never been late—not once.”
Michael winced. “Sorry, Gi. I didn’t think. I’ll leave a message next time.”
“You better!”
He crumpled up the napkin and discarded it on the table. “Promise. Swear on Sittler.” Whenever Michael and Georgie wanted to stress the strength of a commitment, they’d swear on one of their favourite Leafs. Such a promise was never professed or taken lightly.
As the angst twisting in her chest began to unravel, Georgie nodded and collected her pens, marking, and notebook from the table, stacking them on top of the flattened tote beside her. “Hungry?” She nudged an untouched plate of onion straws across the retro Formica.
“Famished.” Michael bundled his suit jacket into a messy heap, leaving it on the blue banquette between the wall and his thigh. He helped himself, taking bite after crunchy bite, until the appetizer was nothing more than a greasy glisten on his fingers.
“I ordered our usual.” Georgie swept a scattering of quarters for their mini jukebox toward the wall and the salt and pepper shakers. “I thought maybe a whiff of food would miraculously make you appear out of the darkness.” She doled out the stack of clean side plates, placing one in front of Michael as “Don’t Give Up On Us” reached its saccharine-soaked crescendo.
“This song.” Michael puffed out his cheeks. “I know you had a thing for Starsky & Hutch back in the day, but”—he nicked one of her quarters—“I just gotta…” He leaned sideways, inserting the 25¢ into the top left corner of the wall-mounted Seeburg Consolette. Running his index finger along the rows of chunky letters and numbers, he pushed in the J and 7 buttons, eliciting a loud click from the mini jukebox, and then “Our Day Will Come” by Ruby and the Romantics crooned through its tinny speakers and throughout the restaurant’s sound system.
Georgie applauded Michael’s selection. “Yesss!” Swaying in their booth, she closed her eyes and began singing. “Our day will come…”
And she believed it would, along with the Cup.
Yep, Georgie was that fan, the one who listened to love songs and projected her feelings onto her team, not a partner. Twenty months had passed since she’d split from her ex, and the life-changing upheaval further proved that her most dependable and long-lasting relationship (despite occasional phases of apathy) was with her beloved boys in blue and white.
She bobbed her head dreamily and opened her eyes. “How was your day?”
“Don’t ask.” Michael slumped deep into the booth and stretched out his legs along the banquette. “Know what I’m sick and tired of?”
“Hot Pockets? The Jays? Mouth breathers?” She rattled off a list of Michael’s previous rants, her lips curving in a playful grin.
“Real estate tire kickers.”
Georgie scratched her temple. “That’s a new one.”
“I HATE them! They’re selfish timewasters who get their jollies window shopping properties.” Michael’s voice rose. “And the pair tonight knew full well they weren’t making an offer.”
“But…I thought their agent said they loved the building. Couldn’t wait to see it.”
Michael gave her a peeved nod. “Nice, eh? Nosey fuckers. They didn’t care they were inconveniencing me, the homeowners, or—” His aggrieved expression vanished as the waitress approached with their ‘usual’: the crispy chicken finger feast (served with Rickey’s fries) and a Thor burger (topped with melted cheese, bacon, and onion straws), plus, a special treat, real- cheese-smothered nachos. None of that fake orangey muck offered at cinemas or arenas was served here, thank god. Shifting quickly, Michael sat up straight, displaying posture and manners worthy of a reservation at posh Bistro 990 in Yorkville.
Georgie’s stomach squealed with ravenous delight as the woman placed the bounty of food in front of them. “Thank you!”
The server patted Michael on the shoulder. “Cherry cola is on the way, love.”
“Awesome.” Michael smiled as she departed, but his glee and grin were short-lived.
Reaching across the table, Georgie covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry today sucked and those people wasted your time. No wonder you’re frustrated.”
Michael sighed. “Feels like part of the job these days. At this rate, I’ll never win Realtor of the Year.”
Georgie winced. “I’m sorry I jumped the gun. I ordered celebration nachos thinking you’d have a sale tonight.” Nachos were always their go-to when something worth commemorating transpired.
A smile softened Michael’s face. “Nah, it’s all good. I could use something celebratory tonight. Fuck it, I might even order the Kitchen Sink.” The monster of a sundae with its fifteen scoops of ice cream, sauces, and every topping imaginable, was an indulgence usually reserved for his birthday.
“Tomorrow will be better.” She squeezed his hand and let go. “Onward and upward?”
“Here’s hoping. I’m showing a three-bedroom in Cabbagetown.” Michael dragged the plate with the towering burger closer. “How’d your night go?”
“Good.” Georgie pulled a nacho from the mountain of melted cheese, jalapeños, and green onion. “We ran out of time and didn’t get into specifics, but I think Oliver understands my teaching approach.” She tore off several black olives from the cheesy chip. “It’ll be a bit tricky, being in a museum setting. I’m used to seeing the same students day in, day out with lots of time to teach, which is the opposite of what Oliver’s dealing with.” An eye-scrunching yawn paused her frenzied olive removal.
