Your Echo (Sherbrooke Station Book 2)

by Katia Rose

  “I’ll be seeing her once a week,” I explain. “Maybe twice, if we decide that would be a good idea. She’s really, uh, cool.”

  I stare at the floor, still feeling like this conversation is way too emotional right now.

  “Is she hot?” JP asks.

  Matt reaches over and smacks him on the head.

  “Ow,” he says pointedly, before turning back to me. “Well? Is she?”

  “She’s not bad looking,” I admit, “and she likes good bands.”

  JP gets his signature sly look in his eyes. “Ben, perhaps I could pretend to have a few psychological issues as well.”

  Cole chuckles. “Trust me, JP. I think I speak for all of us when I say you don’t have to pretend about that at all.”

  I laugh along with everyone else, thankful we’re back to taking shots at each other like usual, and not tiptoeing around every subject that might be ‘sensitive.’ So much about my life needs to change, but this—sitting in this basement and trading insults with three of the best fucking guys I know—this doesn’t need to change at all.

  “In other news,” I continue, “I saw the doctor the other day, and my ribs are supposedly healing well. They said we should be able to start rehearsing again soon.”

  I watch Matt and Cole exchange a look.

  “That is, if you, uh, want to,” I clarify. “I know we’re on hiatus, but I’m feeling pretty good about things, and I think a few jam sessions could be a way to ease back into our routine.”

  Cole opens his eyes as wide as he can in exaggerated disbelief. “Did Ace Turner just say he wants to follow a routine?”

  “Yeah, and you better stick to it, or I’ll kick your sorry ass.”

  “Funny how me threatening to kick your sorry ass never resulted in you sticking to a routine,” Cole retaliates, “when it’s obvious I would win against you in every possible situation.”

  Matt gives us both a dismissive wave.

  “Enough comparing dick sizes. Ace, I think a few jam sessions sound like a great idea. As soon as your ribs are no longer in danger of breaking, of course.”

  JP lets out a yawn. “Can we make these jam sessions later than nine in the morning, though? One of the good things about getting dropped by Atlas was not having early meetings anymore. Why the hell are we here now?”

  “You’re here now because it’s the only time I could meet with you.”

  The answer to JP’s question comes from over by the staircase. We all whip our heads around in surprise, only I’m just shocked she’s here twenty minutes early. The guys didn’t know she was coming at all.

  “SHAYLA!”

  JP jumps up from the couch, shouting her name over and over again as he runs over to the woman in a familiar leather jacket, the tips of her hair dyed a fresh forest green. I knew I’d made the right choice the second I saw her walk into the coffee shop where we met last week. Shayla’s work as our manager was the reason we became a hit. She runs a whole management company, but took us on as her own personal project back when the biggest shows we could book were frosh week gigs and the occasional fill-in for other bands’ opening acts. She saw something in us and believed in it so hard she made everyone else see it too.

  We need that belief now even more than we did back then.

  Shayla opens her arms for a hug from JP, but he picks her up and spins her around instead, still shouting her name.

  “Down, boy,” she orders, smacking him on the shoulder. “It’s only been six months, and you already forgot how much I hate physical contact. Get the fuck off me.”

  He obeys right away. That’s another thing Shayla has going for her: she scares us all shitless and we do whatever she says.

  JP still pulls her in for a hug anyway.

  “My favourite angry lesbian,” he says, patting her on the head. “I missed you.”

  “That’s nice, JP. Now get off.”

  Once she’s detached herself from him, she straightens her jacket and gives him an accusatory glare.

  “Your favourite angry lesbian? Are those really my defining features? Angry and a lesbian?”

  “I would say Best Manager Ever, but you’re not our manager anymore. Wait.” He pauses and a huge grin spreads across his face. “Are you going to be our manager again?”

  Shayla looks over at me. “I thought you were going to explain before I got here.”

  I shrug. “You’re early. I haven’t gotten there yet.”

  She claims a seat on one of the couches. “Well then, to answer your question, JP, no. I’m not going to be your manager again. Ace met with me last week and asked me to do exactly that, but I had to turn him down.”

  I can feel the excitement drain out of the room like a popped balloon.

  “I had to turn him down,” Shayla continues, “because instead of managing your band, I want to sign Sherbrooke Station to my new label.”

  “You started a label?” Matt exclaims.

  Shayla nods. “It’s always been an idea in the back of my mind, and my management business boomed around the same time you guys became a hit. I’ve got the means for it now, and I want you on board.”

  “Fuck yeah!” JP shouts. “Let’s do it.”

  I can see Shayla biting back a smile, but she turns serious as soon she starts speaking again.

  “There are some things you should all consider before saying yes. This isn’t going to be like signing on with someone like Atlas. I can’t back you with the kind of funding I’m sure you’re used to by now. You’re not going to see a profit for quite awhile.”

  She’s already gone through this with me, but she gives the guys time to take it all in.

  “I’m going to ask you for a lot of hard work for not a lot of return. Your contract will reflect that. We’re going to be very grassroots while we’re getting set up, very DIY. It isn’t going to be glamorous or easy. As far as your career and earning potential goes, signing with me is in every way a step back instead of a step forward. If I was your manager, I’d tell you to go with someone else.”

  When no one interrupts her, she leans forward on the couch, steeple-ing her fingers.

  “What I can give you, and what I think makes this whole thing worth your while, is honesty. I can give you a promise that you’ll always be met with honesty in everything we do together. You will be part of a label that wants your success not just because it’s good for us, but because it’s good for you. I can give you enthusiasm. I can give you passion. I can give you a commitment to making your band the best it can possibly be. I’ve always shared your dream, boys, and I want to do whatever I can to make it come true. That’s why you should sign with me.”

  I can feel it. Twenty years from now, when they’re making a documentary about our career, this is going to be one of the moments we look back on. I don’t know where we’re headed next, but this feels like a turning point, like we’ve finally made it through the bumpy detour and are back out on the highway, fast-tracking our way into the future.

  I just wish the rest of my life felt like this too. I pull my phone out and glance at the time. I’m due back at my apartment in twenty minutes, and I’m suddenly glad I scheduled my second meeting of the day in the morning as well. My stomach churns at the thought of what I’m about to do. Better to get that shit over with as quickly as possible.

  Shayla spends the next few minutes going over details with us. Since she can’t manage us herself, she’s going to put us in touch with some of her colleagues in the industry. When we met for coffee, I asked if we could just get someone from her agency, but she said that could be a conflict of interest, since she’ll also be the head of our label. All I really care is that we get someone trustworthy who can help us sort through whatever legal mess we’re in with Atlas, and Shayla promised she knows several people who fit the bill perfectly.

  She makes her excuses a few minutes later and heads out, after JP tries to hug her again and she bats him away with her arms.

  “I missed that angry lesbian,” he
says wistfully, once she’s gone.

  “Me too,” Matt agrees. “I don’t know if it’s because of the way she scares me or the way she inspires me, but just fifteen minutes in the same room as her and I’m already all revved up to get shit done.”

  Matt’s always revved up to get shit done, but I still share the feeling. If it weren’t for my busted rib and the fact that I need to get out of here, I’d be slinging a guitar around my neck and demanding we write a new song on the spot.

  “I’m going to have to follow Shayla out.” I get up from my seat. “I’ve got...someone to meet.”

  “I hope it’s not a drug dealer!” JP chimes.

  Matt and Cole glare at him.

  He lifts his hands in surrender. “Too far?”

  I’m already up the staircase and leaving the building when Matt jogs up behind me.

  “Hey, wait,” he calls. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

  I turn to face him.

  “Usually it’s just me who takes care of shit like that,” he explains, “so thanks.”

  “It’s not going to be like that anymore,” I tell him. “You’re not the only one this band matters to, and it’s time I started acting like it.”

  Matt nods.

  “And Stéphanie?” he asks after a pause. “Did you take care of that?”

  I flash him a grin that probably looks closer to a grimace. “On my way right now.”

  By the time I make it to my apartment, I’m sweating, even though there’s finally a hint of autumn in the air outside. When the idea came to me, it seemed easy. Straightforward. A simple price to pay. Now that I’m mere minutes away from actually doing it, ‘easy’ feels a long way off.

  The guy who replied to my ad is waiting outside the building.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I call out, digging in my pocket for my keys. “Come on up. They’re all upstairs.”

  He’s a nerdy-looking guy in a polo shirt. I lead up him to my apartment, and when we step inside, they’re all resting on their stands where I left them, right in the middle of the floor. I hear Polo Shirt inhale, and I almost gasp too. Standing side by side like that, gleaming in the morning light, the instruments are enough to take any guitarist’s breath away.

  “You mind if I have a look?” the guy asks.

  I make a sound that’s close enough to a yes. My throat feels tight. He inspects my three best guitars with the reverence they’re due, and I really hope the fucker knows how to play. They deserve someone who knows how to play.

  I cough and hope my voice comes out sounding normal.

  “We good on the price?”

  Polo Shirt nods. “It’s steep, but…Shit, these babies are worth it.”

  I don’t even try to hide my cringe. He just called my guitars babies. I spent years of my life saving for those things. I spent thousands of dollars. They’ve played to crowds across the country. Two of them went all the way to Europe with me. They’ve been my solace and my torment, the physical representation of the one thing I can’t not do.

  My passion.

  The thought brings me back to that session with Stéphanie in the park. It’s her I think of as I take the cheque. It’s her eyes and her lips and her skin on my skin that steel me as I help carry the guitars downstairs and load them into the waiting car.

  Once the business is taken care of and my three most valuable possessions are driving away, I write a cheque of my own and order a ride out to Pointe-Aux-Trembles. I can’t remember the exact address, so I get the driver to drop me off close by. It takes a few blocks of wandering, but eventually I’m at Stéphanie’s mom’s building, paging her apartment.

  She answers after a few rings. “llo?”

  “Salut. This is Ace. I’m, um, Stéphanie’s friend,” I reply in French.

  “Ace? Ace Turner?”

  “Yes, Ace Turner.”

  The lobby door buzzes. I push it open and approach the apartment door. I don’t even have to knock before she’s drawing it back and beckoning for me to come inside. I try not to stare at her wheelchair, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

  You, I tell myself. That wheelchair is because of you.

  My feet don’t want to go any farther. They want to turn and run as far as they can from this place. They want to carry me to the nearest dark corner and keep me there until I’m at the bottom of a bottle. I’m done running, though. The only thing it ever got me was a fractured rib. It never made anything better, and it’s time to try something that might.

  Stéphanie’s mom motions for me to follow her into the living room. I watch her chair wheel along the hardwood floor in front of me. I wonder what her first thought was when she woke up and they told her she’d never walk again.

  She must have thought of Stéphanie.

  “I have to say, this is very unexpected,” she comments, once we’re both settled.

  I clear my throat. I had a speech prepared, but I can’t remember a single word of it.

  “Well, uh, Madame Cloutier-Hébert, I—”

  “Please, call me Jeanette.”

  “R—Right,” I stutter. “Jeanette. Well...”

  I can’t continue. No words are going to be enough. The cheque in my pocket isn’t going to be enough. There are too many years to cut through. There’s too much pain.

  “You’re here because of what happened with Stéphanie.”

  My spine goes rigid. I didn’t think she knew. I took her letting me into the apartment as a sign that she doesn’t know who I am yet.

  “I...Yes. I am.”

  She nods. “I thought something may have happened between you two. I asked her about you the other day, and she almost started crying. She’s been so upset these past few days...”

  I’m almost relieved to see her suspicious glare. She doesn’t know. Not yet. I have a few more minutes until she’ll probably be screaming at me to get out of her house.

  “I have something you need to hear,” I admit, “but first I want to tell you how much I care about your daughter.”

  I’ve never had this kind of conversation in my life. I never thought I’d have to, but here I am in a stuffy living room, trying to convey to someone’s parent how amazing I think her daughter is.

  “I know I’ve only known her a few months, but she...She’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. I’m sure you can relate. I admire everything about her, and she’s made so much about my life better than I ever thought it could be. I want her to be happy, much more than I want or deserve that for myself. I need you to understand that before I say what I’m about to say next.”

  Jeanette looks borderline alarmed right now, but she nods for me to go on.

  “After I met you, Stéphanie told me the story of your accident. I swear I had no idea who you were until that moment. I...I changed my name. Ace Turner isn’t the name I was born with.”

  I let my eyes wander around the room, roaming over the outdated curtains and the crowded shelves of knickknacks on the wall—anywhere but the woman in front of me and the chair she’s sitting in.

  “My parents named me Acton,” I say in a flat voice. “Acton Thompson. I’m Nigel and Rebecca Thompson’s son.”

  When all was said and done, she didn’t want to take the cheque. She didn’t want to accept my arrangement for a percent of all my future earnings to go to her. She wouldn’t agree to anything for her own sake. I had to plead with her to do it for Stéphanie before she finally let me put the piece of paper in her hand.

  “I’m only saying yes because I think this might help her,” Jeanette explains, the tears that fell as I told her my story still drying on her face. “She’s always felt like I should have done more for myself, like I let things go too easily, and because of that she hasn’t let go at all.”

  Instead of throwing me out of the building when she found out who I was and what role I played, Jeannette just laughed—a soft, sad sort of laugh that was accompanied with both a smile and some tears. She told me she made her peace with the past a long
time ago, and that nothing I did the day of the accident could have changed what happened to her.

  “Do you believe in fate?” she asks me, as she sets the cheque down on her desk.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  “I do,” she says, without a trace of doubt, “and never more so than now. Of all the people Stéphanie could have fallen in love with, how could I not believe in fate when it ended up being you?”

  “Love?” I almost choke on the word.

  Jeanette chuckles. “Maybe it’s too soon to say, but I do know you two care about each other very much. Anyone who has met you both could see that. I think there’s a reason you found each other, and I don’t think you’re supposed to un-find each other just yet.”

  “So what do I do?” I ask desperately.

  I’d never gotten this far while thinking the situation through in my head. I just wanted to make things as right as I could. Actually being with Stéphanie again always seemed like too unbelievably good of an outcome to consider planning for it.

  “If you really want my motherly advice,” Jeanette tells me, “then I think you should do something romantic. It’s only obvious to people who know her very well, but Stéphanie has a romantic streak. I think it’s the dancer in her, the performer. She likes flowers, music, candles, that kind of thing.”

  It’s the last thing I want to be thinking about with her mother right here, but I can’t help the images of Stéphanie that fill my mind at the mention of candles. I doubt I’ll ever look at one again without thinking of her. I force myself to shut the floodgate of my memories off, and I’m left with an idea, one that uses a different kind of flames.

  “I think I know what to do,” I announce, “but I might need your help.”

  23 Disarm || Smashing Pumpkins

  ACE