Ashbee & Son

Paisley on Paisley

I'd spent the day walking around Westdale trying to get Ingrid on the phone. I'd called about a dozen times, and every time I got the machine. It was a warm Sunday afternoon in early June. The sun had peeked out from behind a veil of cloud before ducking its head again.

I pulled at my paisley tie and rolled it on my forefinger. I had no plan in place. I wanted to talk to Ingrid. I wanted to see how Charlie was doing. It had only been a day, but he was five years old. A day to him is like a week to you and me. And his entire world was nothing more than mummy and daddy. I don't want to hurt him. I don't want him growing up to resent his father, and I don't want this to ruin his life. Because that's what this sort of thing does to a child. If his world rests on two pillars, what happens when you remove one? What happens when there's only one pillar, and that pillar can't handle the weight? Now, I'm not saying that Ingrid can't handle Charlie—she can. I'm saying that the weight of Charlie's world is too heavy. Both pillars form the foundation of his life. Take one away, and it will fail.

I took a seat on the bench at the bus stop on Paisley Avenue and King Street. The one I was let off at just the day before. It was only a short walk from Arkell. I rubbed the back of my neck and ran my fingers through my hair. I saw that a few greys had spilled upon my shirt. I was 36 years old. I didn't think I'd be getting grey until at least into my late 40s. But my body was betraying me. It was exchanging my thick, coal-black strands for greys that shed with just the slightest touch. I let out a deep breath and tried to forget about it. I decided I'd take a break and try calling Ingrid later. I wanted a coffee. I slid my phone out from the pocket of my burgundy slacks and searched for a nearby café. There was one across the street called Paisley Coffeehouse & Eatery. I felt silly using my phone to seek it out when it'd been staring me in the face that whole time. I rose from the bench and crossed the street. A light drop of rain tapped me on the forehead. I touched the drop and began to wonder if it were going to be a hard rain. And then I wondered if that hypothetical hard rain would also happen in Toronto. If that were the case, Ingrid and Charlie would head home from wherever they were, and I could reach her. I grinned at the prospect as I approached the counter.

"What can I get you?" the twenty-something blonde, female barista said in a very cheery voice.

"I'm not sure yet," I said as I scanned the chalkboard menu.

"Sure! Call me when you're ready," she said, moving away to perform another duty. I eyed the board. I couldn't decide if I were in a flat white kind of mood or a cappuccino kind of mood. There was movement at the door. People were coming in, and I was holding them up. I rested my chin on my thumb as I thought about what to order. I'd never thought so hard about a coffee. Another 10 seconds or so ticked by (I spied the clock hanging over the board), and someone leaned in close to my ear.

"The deep-fried apple pie is especially good," she said. Her voice was as smooth as chocolate mousse.

"What about coffee? What do you propose?" I said.

"Dark roast is good," she said.

I called back the girl. "I'll have a large dark roast and a deep-fried apple pie," I said. The girl prepared my ordered and handed it to me. "Thank you," I said to the barista.

And to the source of the suggestion behind me. I had yet to turn about, but when I did, I saw her. I knew her. It was Aubrey Castle. I would have recognized those brunette locks and that olive skin anywhere. We went to Westdale Secondary School together. She was my best friend. Once.

"Aubrey?" I proffered, stopping short with my coffee and pastry in hand.

"Hey, Toby," she said, smiling.

"Aubrey Castle..." I said. "My God."

"Miss?" the girl behind the counter said.

Aubrey gestured "1 second" to the girl and turned to me. "Toby," she said. "Why don't you find us a seat?"