by Katia Rose
She moves closer so she can take both my hands in hers.
“That’s why I want you to go around to the back of the apartment building right now. I want you to be happy.”
“Wh—what’s at the back of the apartment building?” I stutter.
Her sneaky grin comes back. “It’s a surprise.”
I expect her to follow me when I take a few uncertain steps towards the door, but she hangs back and tells me to go on by myself. My footsteps echo in the hall that leads to the building’s back entrance. My heart is still hammering against my chest. There’s a weird, dream-like feeling to everything right now, like I’m not quite lucid.
At the end of the hall, I reach for the door’s push bar and find myself in the parking lot. The sun has just set, and there’s no one else around. I take a few steps onto the pavement and swivel my head, trying to spot whatever I’m missing here.
Another few feet into the parking lot and I can see the gazebo off to the side of the building, on the one narrow, balding patch of lawn. Maman and I have had a few picnics on the table underneath the wooden structure, but other than that it’s usually abandoned.
Not tonight, though.
Tonight it’s lit up with dozens and dozens of paper lanterns. White orbs in all different sizes hang from the rafters, casting a circle of warm light onto the ground. The effect is dazzling, mesmerizing in the same simple and joyous kind of way that makes a rainbow seem like a miracle or turns a sun-speckled spider web into a work of art.
Without even realizing it, a laugh escapes from my throat. It’s a sound of surprise, confusion, and awe all wrapped into one. I don’t realize I’ve been moving closer until I step off the pavement and onto the lawn. I walk toward the gazebo like it’s a lighthouse calling me home.
There’s a book resting right in the middle of the picnic table. I check over both my shoulders, but I can’t spot anyone in the growing shadows outside. When I reach the edge of the table and see the cover of the book, I let out the same kind of laugh as before.
It’s the same volume of Edgar Allan Poe that I showed Ace in the bookstore, the one that matches his tattoo. I trace my fingertip over the raven’s wings and crack the still-fresh spine open before I notice a bookmark poking from one of the pages.
The bookmark is actually a torn sheet of paper with handwriting scrawled across it. The page it marks is for a poem called ‘Alone,’ and there’s a verse underlined in black pen:
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still
“The mystery which binds me still,” I whisper as I read it.
I turn my attention to the writing on the piece of paper.
When I first read those lines as a kid, I thought they were about me. I’m not telling you this to earn your sympathy. I’m telling you this because I want to explain.
I clutch at the front of my t-shirt as I read the rest of Ace’s words, letting them fill my head with the story of a little boy who spent his childhood more terrified than any kid should ever have to be. I crouch beside him in his bedroom, trying to keep as quiet as possible. I watch from the window with him as my mom lies motionless at the foot of the stairs, and I feel the desperation and panic that crash through his head with so much force they leave him altered forever. I imagine the nightmares he describes, the ones that are filled with my screams.
Perspective shapes our perception, and he’s just shown me his.
“Ace!” I cry out. “Ace, where are you?”
He’s here. He has to be here. I listen to the sound of footsteps approaching behind me and freeze.
“Stéphanie...”
The whole inside of my body burns at the sound of my name on his lips. I turn and there he is, standing just beyond the glow the lanterns: black jeans and t-shirt as always, hands stuffed down in his pockets, and a strand of sandy hair falling in his eyes.
I’ve never seen anyone more breathtaking.
He hesitates, like he’s not sure if I want him to move closer, but all it takes is for me to lift a hand just an inch to beckon him, and he steps into the light, not stopping until the tips of our shoes are just a few inches apart.
“Ace...” I look down at the book in my hands. “I didn’t know. I had no idea. I’m so sorry...”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “I told you already; I wasn’t trying to earn your sympathy. I just wanted you to understand what happened that day.
The all too-familiar sensation of tears pricking my eyes starts up . Ace must notice, because he drags his thumb along the skin just under my eye as a tear leaks from the corner. I shudder at his touch.
“I thought this might happen,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to make you sad. That’s why I put all these pretty lanterns up for you.”
The slight note of mocking in his tone makes me laugh.
“Oh, is that what they’re for? Here I was, thinking you were trying to express a poetic metaphor.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. They’re just pretty.”
His hand is cupping my cheek now. We’re both smiling, even though I’m still crying.
“Although,” he continues, “if I was trying to express some kind of metaphor, I’d say that the moment I met you, I knew what you were. I knew you were a paper lantern. You’re soft and sweet, and you make everything around you more beautiful just by being there.”
I make a gagging noise and he shushes me with a finger on my lips.
“I’m being serious right now, pretty girl. Everything I just said is true, even if it sounds cheesy as fuck. You fucking glow, Stéphanie, and I want you to know that. I also want you to know that you burn, and I love that part of you too. I love the way you burn in my blood like a fever. I love your ferocity, and I love your danger. I love how complex you are. I love how you can wear those pink Keds all the time and still be a fucking inferno when you want to be. I...I love everything about you.”
He looks like he surprised himself with that last line, but he doesn’t falter. He grips my hip with his free hand and his eyes blaze in the lantern light like he’s the one who has the ability to burn.
“Ace,” I begin, “everything we’ve been through...Our past—”
“Is our past,” he interrupts, “and I have spent too long letting it fuck up my future. I want to let it go. It’s just an echo, and when I’m with you, it’s not so loud. When I’m with you, I barely hear it. There’ll be time to talk about it. I know it’s still there, but I’m tired of giving it power over me. Aren’t you?”
I wanted to discuss it right now, wanted to sort everything out right here in the gazebo, but suddenly that doesn’t seem so important anymore. There’ll be time. He’s giving me time. He’s giving us time.
I circle my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. “I’m so tired.”
“I know.” I feel his hands tangle themselves in my hair. “I know.”
He does know. He knows better than anyone else.
“But you’re here,” Ace continues. “You’re not there anymore. You’re here, and I’m here too.”
I’m here, here under a sky of paper and fire, with the man I never want to let go of wrapped up in my arms.
Here is where I kiss him.
Here is where his mouth meets mine in a clash of yearning, hope, and forgiveness. Here is where he pulls my body even tighter into his and kisses me back until everything that’s stretching out in front of us burns bright enough to drown all the darkness we’ve left behind.
Here is where I fall in love.
25 Don’t Mind Me || Walking On Cars
STÉPHANIE
Eight Months Later
He appears behind me in the bathroom mirror, hands reaching to grip my waist where it’s circled by the tight bodice of my skater dress. I pretend to ignore him as I fiddle with one of my earrings, but his hot breath on my neck is enough to send a thrill of heat shooting
through my core. When he presses his lips to my skin and flicks his tongue against the side of my throat, my slight shiver gives me away.
“I haven’t seen this dress in awhile,” he murmurs, bunching the black fabric of the skirt in his fists.
“Vas t’en, Ace,” I admonish, still doing my best to act like I’m focused on the earring. “We’re going to be late.”
“But I want you,” he groans into my neck.
It takes an extreme amount of willpower to keep my smile in check.
“Well the world doesn’t stop when you want me, Ace Turner.”
He nips my shoulder. “Doesn’t it?”
One of his hands slides up to cup my breast while the other creeps under my skirt. I let my head drop back with a sigh. I know that he’s right; all I have to do is close my eyes and everything stops. Everything except this. My breathing gets more and more ragged as he teases me over the fabric of the lace underwear I have on. By the time he slips a finger inside me, I’m dripping wet and thrusting myself down onto his hand. I can’t remember where it is we’re supposed to be going.
“Did I mention that I really like this dress?” Ace growls.
I mutter something incomprehensible in response. I just need him to keep going. The hand on my breast rises to grip my throat, and Ace presses his body against my back. I can feel how hard he is even through all our clothes.
“I want you in me,” I rasp. “Now.”
He chuckles. “I thought we were going to be late?”
“Tabarnak. They can wait for us.”
I tug on his wrists to pull his hands off me and then flip myself around to face him. Bracing my hands against the sink in Ace’s bathroom, I settle myself on the edge of it and spread my legs. That wipes the teasing grin right off his face. He reaches for his belt, then steps between my hips as I wrap my legs around him.
The sink gives an ominous creak. I freeze.
“Is this thing going to hold me?”
Ace cocks an eyebrow. “Let’s find out.”
He slides into me without any warning, and I cry out in pleasure and surprise. He places his hands over mine on the sink ledge and starts to thrust. It only takes a few minutes before I’m clawing at the back of his shirt and shouting his name so loud I’m sure everyone in the building can hear me. He keeps up a steady pace, groaning and hissing curses. I dig my heels into his ass. He lets out a particularly vehement, “Oh fuck,” and starts pounding into me so fast I lose my breath.
His whole body shakes as he comes with a moan that makes me clench around him. We just cling to each other for a few moments after that, foreheads pressed together and hands clasped. Eventually he pulls out of me and rolls up my skirt, staring down at the soaked lace and my glistening thighs.
“Fuck.” His voice is hoarse. “Fuck, you look good. I kind of want to make you go out tonight like this.”
“And I kind of want to do it,” I admit.
I end up grabbing a washcloth anyway and shooing him out of the bathroom so I can tidy up. From the other side of the door, he begs me to let him make me come. I just tell him he’ll have his work cut out for him when we get home later tonight.
I touch up my smeared makeup and finish putting my jewellery on. After patting it down a bit, I decide to leave the crazy sex hair aesthetic intact. I walk out of the bathroom and leave my panties sitting on the edge of the sink. I’ll let Ace know where they are just after we arrive tonight, when he’ll have to wait hours to touch me.
“What are you smiling that devious smile for?” Ace asks, as he stands waiting for me to strap my heels on.
“No reason!” I chime.
We hold hands throughout the whole car ride to the theatre.
“How was your session today?” Ace asks me, as the endless streets of Montreal walk-ups fly by. The last traces of sunset are fading, and a few splashes of bright pink still streak the city sky.
“It was good,” I answer. “We talked a lot about you.”
“Good things, I hope?”
I make a zipper motion over my lips, and Ace gives my foot a shove with his own.
I started seeing a therapist a few weeks after Ace and I officially got together. At first, I felt awkward and self-conscious about the whole thing. I almost considered giving it up, but now I don’t know how I ever managed without it. Ace goes to see a professional once a week as well, and he’s been sober since the night his rib was fractured.
We joke around a lot and call ourselves the ‘Crazy Couple,’ but the truth is that I’ve never felt so happy or so secure. I picked up a vacant administration position at my dance studio, so combined with my teaching salary, I no longer have to work a second job. I’ve also gone back to volunteering at the AMM. My schedule rarely lines up with Ace’s now that Sherbrooke Station is back from hiatus, but we make time for each other, and we understand that we’re both busy doing things we love.
We get out of the car in front of a small theatre on the edge of the Plateau. Metro Records, the newly formed label the band is signed to, rented it out for the evening. Sherbrooke Station’s latest single dropped today, and tonight we’re all pretending to be movie stars at the premiere of the music video.
It’s not a hard thing to pretend when we climb out onto the sidewalk and cameras start flashing. There are five reporters outside the building, snapping pictures nonstop and shouting Ace’s name. I even hear them call my name once or twice.
Publicly dating a rock star who seems to get more famous every day has been a bit of an adjustment. For awhile, I was a very hot topic on all the Sherbrooke Station fan pages. There were some borderline threatening messages from a few devoted groupies, and I think Molly might be harbouring a secret grudge against me now. Ace and I get stopped for pictures when we’re out together sometimes, but when I’m by myself I’m left alone.
We pose in front of the theatre and let the journalists get a few shots before heading inside. The lobby is buzzing with music industry people in semi-formal clothes. I know this is all just a big networking opportunity. That’s why I made sure Jacinthe got an invitation. I spot her chatting up some suits and we share a wave.
“Bon soir, bon soir!” a cheery French voice booms behind us. I turn around to find JP in dress pants, a button-down complete with a bow tie, and flip-flops.
“I like the outfit,” I tell him.
He does a little twirl for me and then kisses both my cheeks.
“Belle comme toujours,” he comments, sizing me up like the flirt he is.
“What about me?” Ace demands. “Am I beautiful too?”
JP kisses both his cheeks as well.
“You’re an ugly ass motherfucker,” he tells him, “and I don’t know what this woman is doing with you.”
“At least I have a woman,” Ace retaliates. “Did you even bring a date?”
JP gestures around the room. “Why would I limit myself to just one?”
Matt and Cole approach us, Kay and Roxanne trailing along behind them as they chat over glasses of champagne. I still haven’t figured out Roxanne and Cole’s dynamic yet, but she looks stunning tonight in a flowing black jumpsuit. Kay’s got a tight long-sleeved dress on, and when Matt looks back to find her, the adoration on his face makes my heart lurch.
Cheek kisses are shared all around, and after some small talk, we follow the crowd shuffling into the theatre. We pull the tape off the row of seats marked ‘Reserved for the Band’ and settle in.
Shayla, the head of Metro Records, stops next to us as she makes her way to the stage.
“Ready to see yourself on the big screen?” she asks me.
“I’ve never seen my face take up an entire wall before,” I joke. “This will be interesting.”
She laughs and keeps moving, climbing up a small staircase and grabbing a microphone from someone hidden behind the rippling red curtain drawn across the stage.
“Bon soir, tout le monde.” The crowd hushes as she begins. “Good evening, everyone. I want to start tonight off by s
aying thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for your support and your enthusiasm, and your commitment to bringing art to life. That’s what’s brought us all here tonight. I know you may have only accepted the invitation because of those four useless assholes sitting right there”—she points to our row and the guys laugh harder than anyone else—“but at the heart of it, we’re here to celebrate music. We’re here to acknowledge the weird, wild, and wonderful thing that happens when the right people get together at the right time and make something so powerful the world can’t ignore it.”
Ace reaches for my hand in the darkness, and I intertwine my fingers with his.
“I’ve known the guys in Sherbrooke Station for awhile now,” Shayla continues, “but it didn’t take me long to realize they were something special. The first time I ever saw them play, I knew that’s what they were: powerful. They’ve seen their share of ups and downs, but they always keep coming back for more. They can be annoying as hell and they drive me up the wall sometimes, but I’ll give them that. They’re tenacious. They don’t make music because they want to. They make music because they have to, and I know they’re not going to be ready to stop anytime soon.”
There’s a smattering of applause. I drop Ace’s hand to join in, twisting to see him try to hold in the pride I can practically feel swelling inside him.
“So now, before someone tells me to shut the hell up and pulls me off the stage, I am very pleased to announce that Sherbrooke Station’s new single, and the first ever single to be released by Metro Records”—she’s interrupted by yet more applause—“is now available everywhere and ready to climb some serious charts. Please sit back and enjoy the experience of being the first ever audience to see the video for ‘Nevermore.’”
Shayla is cheered off the stage as the red curtain draws back to reveal a huge projector screen. There’s a moment of silence, and then a woman appears on the screen, looking like she’s floating in the darkness around her as she sits with her legs drawn up and her face pressed into her knees. Long blonde hair spills down her back.