by Katia Rose
My cheeks are wet now, and the tears drip all the way down to my mouth. They taste salty, just like the blood that day.
“I didn’t speak to anyone for two weeks after that. Not one single word. My parents thought I had gone crazy, but they wouldn’t take me to a therapist. They couldn’t handle the thought that someone might find out. When I was twelve, they sent me to boarding school, like I was just some dust they could sweep under one of their fucking Persian rugs.”
The man clearly has no idea what I’m saying, but he keeps thumping me on the back and muttering, “Ҫa va, ҫa va.”
“After boarding school, I went to McGill like they wanted me to. Being away from them for so long had made me start to see them for what they were, but fear is a hard habit to kick. I had joined my band by then, and when they found out, they tried to put a stop to it. They were going to pay off the band members and the manager to kick me out. Couldn’t have me tarnishing the family name. I saved them the trouble. I hadn’t been using their fucking name for years anyway, so I made it official. I brought them the documents, told them I wasn’t Acton Thompson anymore. I wasn’t their son. I told them to leave me alone, or they’d see how crazy I really was. Then I set my dad’s hedge on fire.”
I let out a strangled laugh as I remember the look on his face when I flicked the lighter on.
“I haven’t seen them since. So cheers to that, my friend. Fucking cheers to that.”
I’m slurring now, bracing my hands on my knees so I don’t tumble forwards.
“But here’s the fucking plot twist: the beautiful blonde woman who changed my life is the same little blonde girl who was rolling that snowball. I’m the reason her mom is in a wheelchair. She might not have lost her legs if she’d gotten help faster. I’m the reason Stéphanie grew up poor. I’m the reason she missed all those dance competitions. I’m the reason she wasted years of her life wrapped up in the same booze and pain-fueled landslide as me. I stole her fucking future when I was just ten years old.”
The champagne bottle is empty now. I grab it and smash it on the ground. The homeless man doesn’t even blink. He stares at the broken glass and then drains his mug before he stands and walks over to his cart.
“Great. Even you can’t stand to be around me. That’s just great. Tabarnak.”
He ignores me and digs around in the bags and boxes that fill up his cart. After a moment of searching, he pulls out a faded leather flask.
“Fuck love, hein?”
He sits back down on the bench and offers the container to me. I sniff whatever’s inside, grimace, and then shrug. The alcohol is so strong that more tears prick the corners of my eyes, and my throat burns like it’s on fire. I still drink about three shots’ worth in one go, and after I’ve let the flask’s owner have his fill, I take it back and drink more.
“Stéphanie?” I call, watching the woman’s blonde ponytail thump against her back. “Stéphanie!”
She’s a few metres ahead of me on the sidewalk. When she glances back over her shoulder, I see that she’s not who I thought she was.
Why does my brain think every blonde is her?
The woman runs across the street, looks back at me again, and then takes off around the corner and out of sight.
I don’t blame her.
I’d run away from me right now too.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I mumble to myself, my feet heavy as I drag them along the pavement. “I’d run away from me too.”
My lips feel numb. My fingers feel numb. I thought my heart did too, but then I saw that blonde hair and it roared to life in my chest.
I ruined her life. I ruined her life.
My hip bumps against the mirror of a car parked on the side of the road. I reel away from it, stumbling backwards into someone’s front garden.
“Fuck you, mirror.”
There’s a flower stuck to my shoe now. I find that fucking hilarious and laugh to myself as I continue up the street. I don’t even know where I am. I sat in the park until long after it got dark. Monseiur Fuck-Love left with his shopping cart right after we ran out of alcohol, but I just sat there, watching the lawn in front of me get emptier and emptier as the minutes ticked by.
There’s a group of guys coming toward me on the sidewalk, laughing and shoving each other around. I keep my head down as they pass me, but one of their shoulders knocks against mine.
“Watch it, asshole,” the kid sneers. He can’t be older than nineteen.
“Watch it?” I slur. “Watch it? You wanna go or something?”
This kid needs to learn some fucking manners. He bumped into me, and suddenly all I can think about is punching him in his smug nineteen year-old face.
“You’re wasted, man. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
His friends all hoot and whistle.
“I’m not fucking wasted. You’re fucking wasted.”
I swing my arm, and he dodges it with ease. More hoots. More whistles. More blood pounding in my ears.
“Look, dude, just—”
My punch hits him hard in the stomach. He looks shocked for a moment, and then his eyes narrow to slits. He curls his hands into fists and takes a step forward. His friends aren’t laughing anymore.
“Asshole,” he growls, “you are gonna regret that.”
He’s right. I already do.
20 No Answers || Amber Run
STÉPHANIE
“Tell me what it says again,” Jacinthe demands.
I roll onto my stomach on my bed. I’ve been on the phone with Jacinthe for the past hour, going over everything that’s happened with Ace.
“Like I told you, there are a lot of typos, but from what I can make out it says: ‘I didn’t know it was you. I swear I didn’t know it was you. I’m sorry.’ He sent that at a quarter past eleven last night.”
I stare down at Ace’s text message. I’ve been reading it over and over again all morning, and it still doesn’t make any sense. None of this does. After he bailed on me when I told him about my mom, I called him a few times and sent some messages, but he never responded to anything. Then I woke up to this cryptic apology. I don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.
“He was obviously drunk,” Jacinthe surmises.
“Obviously.”
At least that much is clear.
“Jazzy, I’m worried,” I admit. “I sent him a reply asking what the hell he was talking about, but there’s been nothing from him since. The Sherbrooke Station concert is today. He should be awake. He should be checking his phone.”
“Just because he should be doesn’t mean he is. Le cave probably went on a bender last night.”
“But why?” I almost wail. “This isn’t like him. Not these past few months...”
“Stéph.” Her voice softens. She almost sounds hesitant. “You have only known him a few months. You said yourself that at the beginning, you thought he was faking all the meditation stuff just to get in your pants. Have you considered that maybe this is who he really—”
“This is not who he is,” I snap. I instantly regret it. “Look, Jazzy, I see where you’re coming from, and I get it, but I know him. I know him. If he got drunk last night, it’s because he was hurting. Something must have hurt him really bad, and for some reason I feel like it was me.
She scoffs. “Stéphanie, ma belle, that is complètement fou. You did nothing wrong.”
“If you say so...”
“I say so,” she says firmly. “I have a meeting with my agent to go to now, but I’ll be checking my phone all day, okay? If you need to talk again, just text me, and I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I let out a sigh. “Thank you for listening.”
“Anytime. Bisous!”
She makes a kissing noise into the phone and I do the same thing.
“Bisous!”
When I hang up, I see that I have three missed calls and a few texts from an unfamiliar number. I open up the conversation and my heart starts to po
und.
Hey, Stéphanie. This is Matt, Ace’s friend. I just tried to call you but your number was busy. Give me a shout if you can.
Me again. Your line is still busy. I don’t want to worry you, but I have some news for you to hear.
I’ll try you again later. If you can, call me back when you get this.
I click on the number and press ‘Call.’ The bottom of my stomach has disappeared. The phone rings twice before he picks up. I don’t even give him time to answer.
“Hello? Matt? Matt, qu’est-ce qui se passe? What happened?”
“Is this Stéphanie?”
“Yes, yes.” My voice is so high-pitched I don’t recognize it. “What happened? Is he okay?”
“He’s okay.” Matt sounds tense. He’s breathing hard into the receiver, and I can hear his footsteps hitting the floor. “I mean, he’s okay now. He will be okay. I’m at the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
My shout is almost a shriek.
“He’ll be okay,” Matt repeats. “They brought him in last night. I had my phone off all night, so I only got the news this morning. I’m his emergency contact.”
His voice nearly breaks on the last sentence. The footsteps stop, and I can picture him dropping his head in his hand.
“What’s wrong with him?” I urge.
“Mild alcohol poisoning, some cuts and bruises, and a fractured rib. They thought he might have a concussion, but they ruled that out not too long ago. He was awake for a bit, but he’s sleeping now.”
“A fractured rib?” I clutch my phone so hard my hands starts to ache. “Tabarnak. What did he do to himself?”
“He doesn’t remember. He said the last thing he remembers doing is sitting in Parc Lafontaine. I was going to ask if you were with him at all yesterday...?”
I shake my head before I remember that doesn’t work on the phone.
“I haven’t seen him since two days ago.”
“He sent me this text last night. I thought it might be about you. I didn’t mention it to him when he was awake, since he was feeling...pretty rough. It was weird, though. Maybe it means something to you. It said: ‘She’s the girl. She’s the girl. It was her mom. I didn’t know.’ At least I think that’s what it said. He wasn’t typing very well.”
“He sent something like that to me too,” I admit, “but I don’t know what it means.”
“Weird.”
“Can I see him?” I ask. “I’d like to see him, if that’s okay.”
“He’s seeing a specialist for his rib in two hours, and then he’s supposed to be discharged. You could visit him then, but if you really wanted to come to the hospital now, I’m sure he wouldn’t mi—”
“I’m on my way!” I shout, not even letting Matt finish his sentence as I end the call.
I order an Uber on my phone and then pull a pair of shorts and some shoes on. All I’ve been wearing this morning is underwear and a t-shirt. I shove a few things in a purse and then head out of my bedroom. Molly is standing over the stove in the kitchen.
“Hey, have you heard about the concert?” she asks me. “They did some last minute schedule change and now GHOULS is playing inst—”
She cuts herself off when she gets a look at me. I probably have the appearance of someone fleeing from a hurricane.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine. Here.” I dig through my purse and pull out a crumpled piece of paper. “This is my ticket for tonight. I can’t go anymore, so you can give it to one of your friends. I’m really sorry. I just—I have to go now.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
I nod and practically sprint out of the apartment, thundering down the staircase and into the car that pulls up just as I exit our building. We drive along the edge of Mont Royal, the mountain that rises up in the middle of the city. I pull Ace and I’s text conversation up on my phone, trying to keep myself busy as we get closer and closer to the hospital.
I didn’t know it was you. I swear I didn’t know it was you.
I still have no idea what that means, but a few drops of dread have seeped into the confusion simmering inside me, turning my whole body into one big boiling cauldron of apprehension.
The driver stops the car in front of the hospital nestled at the foot of the mountain, and I jump out. Matt texted me Ace’s room number. It takes me a few minutes to get my bearings inside the huge building, but eventually I find myself on the correct floor.
“Stéphanie!”
Matt’s girlfriend, Kay, jumps up from a chair in a small waiting area. I spot JP and Cole sitting in chairs beside hers, and I walk over to them.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Still sleeping,” Kay answers. “Matt is with him in the room. The rest of us got here about twenty minutes ago.”
After what Molly said about the concert being cancelled, I thought Ace’s band mates would be more pissed off than anything else, but the guys look as drained and edgy as I feel.
“What if his lung is punctured?” I hear JP whisper, as Kay leads me over to the room.
“They would already know if his lung was punctured,” Cole shoots back, but I can still hear the worry in his voice.
Kay stops in the doorway to let me go inside on my own. A middle-aged woman is reading a newspaper in the bed closest to the door. There’s a curtain blocking off the far end of the room. I take a step closer and Matt comes into view, his back to me as he stares out the window. Another step and I can see the bottom of the bed.
When I’m finally past the curtain, I gasp. If I didn’t know the man lying there was Ace, I wouldn’t be able to recognize him. One side of his face is so swollen that even if he wasn’t sleeping, he wouldn’t be able to open his left eye. His right one has a mottled, purple bruise underneath it, and his lip has been split. There’s a bandage on his forehead and an IV hooked up to his wrist.
“Sacrement,” I whisper.
Matt turns around.
“Stéphanie, you’re here.” I don’t even look at him. He follows the path of my eyes to Ace’s face. “Looks bad, doesn’t it? They said the swelling won’t last too long. Nothing in his face is broken.”
I move closer and rest my hand on the edge of the bed.
“He looks like he got beat up.”
“I think he probably did,” Matt replies. “That would explain the rib, too. He drank a lot last night. I just can’t figure out why. He was so on his game these past few weeks. Ever since he met you...I’ve never seen him like that, Stéphanie. I thought this”—he gestures up and down the bed—“was over for good.”
I stare down at him, covered in the blue hospital blanket. His chest barely rises when he breathes. I feel a lump form in my throat.
“Can I...Can I touch him?” I murmur.
“Go ahead,” Matt tells me. “He’s out cold, so I doubt he’ll wake up. Kay and the guys were just in here, and he didn’t show any signs of coming to.”
I trail my hand up the blanket and stop just before I meet with his. I brush my fingertips over his knuckles and feel myself tremble.
“He’s cold.”
I wasn’t really talking to Matt, and he doesn’t say anything in response. The beeping of the machines around us and the bustle in the hallway all go quiet as I take Ace’s hand in mine.
I feel like I’ve just been thrown at a brick wall, like I’ve slammed into something I’ve been headed towards at full speed for weeks. I’m finally faced with the full impact this man has had on my life. All the confusion and doubts clear away. I’m forced to acknowledge that if the wrist my thumb is stroking right now no longer had a pulse, it would break me. It would rip the earth out from under my feet.
Ace’s voice rings through my head:
I don’t know what the fuck this is, but it’s not casual. Nothing about what I feel for you is casual.
He was right. He was so right.
Matt hears me chuckle under my breath, and even though no words pass between us, I know he
understands what’s going on here when I hear him laugh too.
“He’ll really be okay?” I ask, still staring at Ace’s puffy face.
“Yeah, he’ll be okay.”
I keep my hand curled around Ace’s for the next few minutes while Matt gets me up to date on what’s happening with the doctor this afternoon. He says they don’t think the fracture is very serious, but they want to be sure before they send him home. I stare down at the hospital bracelet on Ace’s wrist and wonder how a fractured rib can not be serious. The plastic of the bracelet is digging into his skin, so I reach down to twist it into a better position.
My body temperature feels like it drops several degrees.
TURNER ACE, NÉ THOMPSON ACTON.
“Why does it say that?” I hear myself ask. “On his bracelet, why does it say that?”
“Say what?” Matt gives me a curious look, and then understanding seems to dawn on him. “Oh, the Thompson thing.”
He looks away and stays silent for a moment.
“I don’t know why they put that on the bracelet. I had to bring him to the hospital once, back when we were freshmen. Alcohol poisoning, of course. It said the same thing then. I asked him about it while he was still drunk, and that’s...that’s how I found out.”
“Found out what?”
There’s a ringing sound in my ears. I feel like my brain is screaming something at me, willing me to catch up with a train of thought that’s moving too fast to focus on.
“It’s not really my place to say, but...Well, I guess the bracelet makes it clear. Ace changed his name. It used to be Acton Thompson. I don’t know if he’s told you anything about his parents, but from what I know, they’re something else. He hasn’t spoken to them in years. They live in some giant house up in Westmount—”
I hiss like I’ve just been stabbed.
“The Thompsons,” I say through gritted teeth, “in Westmount.”
“Yeah.” I can’t read the look on Matt’s face. “Do you...know them?”
“Ace is their son?” I demand.