MONACHOPSIS- V. Hargreeves ³

010. IDENTITY THEFT.

He'd been raised by a Catholic father and Jewish mother, celebrating both Christmas and Hannukah, Yom Kippur and Orthodox Easter, but, despite the mixture of beliefs that tangled inside of him, he never believed that the tragedy had been a part of God's will. He hated people who told him everything happened for a reason, that every event that ever occurred in human history had been dictated by some superior being.

So Louise's death hadn't been written in the sky, nor planned by some underground government society. It just was. Dr. Monet reminded him that accepting this was what would help him overcome it.

And he did, slowly. He got sober. He started going for runs in the morning. He deep-cleaned his entire house, then sold it. He threw himself into work at La Petite Montagne but made sure to never overdo it. He adopted a Papillon dog he named Marcel.

In fact, he was taking a walk with Marcel in the local park when he met Yvonne for the first time.

It might have been corny to say, but she could've come right out of a storybook. She had the sloped, elegant nose, bright blue eyes, and dark, tumbling hair of a princess. Her cheeks were red from the early-November chill, giving them a particularly rosy look, and her slender hands were adorned with black gloves. She wore a bright red jacket, black leggings, and shin-high brown boots. Her skin was pale, and seven freckles danced across each of her cheeks.

She wasn't as elegant as Louise had been, but there was a charm about her, nonetheless. Some more natural, but no less enthralling.

Yvonne had a dog herself—a Lowchen quite affectionally named Orville. Orville had been trotting in the slightly uneven—and browning—grass, tail wagging back and forth, when he'd caught wind of Marcel.

Dogs, of course, seem to have a visceral need to sniff each other's butts whenever they come across each other. So, when Beau and Yvonne walked past each other—meaning to continue in opposite directions—they instead had to deal with a pull forward as their dogs yanked on their leashes.

Both of them stopped in their tracks, letting out nearly identical laughs as Marcel and Orville bounded toward each other, barking loudly. Yvonne smiled, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

"Désolé," she said. "Orville est très excitable. Cette laisse le retient à peine."

Sorry. Orville is very excitable. This leash barely holds him back.

Beau laughed again. "Aucun problème. Marcel est aussi un sauvage."

It's okay. Marcel is a wild one, too.

The two dogs wrestled each other playfully, rolling around on the ground. Yvonne's smile didn't leave her face. It made something in Beau's chest warm.

"Je m'appelle Yvonne," she said. "Je ne vous ai jamais vu dans ce quartier auparavant; avez-vous récemment déménagé?"

My name is Yvonne. I haven't seen you around this neighbourhood before; have you recently moved?

"Non," Beau responded. "Je vis ici depuis que je suis enfant. Je dirige l'hôtel sur la troisième rue. Je ne suis tout simplement pas sorti beaucoup ces derniers temps."

No. I've lived here since I was a kid. I run the hotel on Third Street. I just haven't been out much lately.

"Vous courez La Petite Montagne?" Yvonne asked. "Ma sœur y travaille!"

You run La Petite Montagne? My sister works there!

"Quelle coïncidence! Quel est le nom de votre sœur?"