When the Lights Come On (Barflies Book 4)

by Katia Rose

  “I think you’re making this way too complicated.” Nabil claps a hand over my shoulder. “You met a girl in high school and you guys had this crazy, once in a lifetime connection, and then some shit you still haven’t told me about happened and you haven’t seen her in years. Then one night you walk into this bar and there she is, up there spinning some fire tracks. She’s become a DJ, and what do you know, you’re a DJ too! Small world. You find her after the show, and there’s some tension and stuff, but you have so much to say, so you get noodles with all your drunk friends and spend the night catching up on your lives. Simple.”

  “Wow, you should pitch that to Hallmark.”

  He punches me in the arm. “Youssef, don’t be an asshole. This is so obvious, man. I mean, what even ended things between you? You’ve never given me all the details. It was, what? Five years ago? Six? You were teenagers. How bad could it be?”

  “We just—”

  The bar’s door swings open before I have a chance to lie and say ‘drifted apart.’ A group of about six people come out, led by the girl with pink hair who almost made me beg for my life in the kitchen. She waves and smiles like we’re old friends before turning to hold the door open for everyone else.

  The last person out is Paige.

  As soon as I see her again, I know there’s no way I’m leaving. The change is instant, every doubt and worry getting flushed out with a dose of something I haven’t felt in a long time, something that’s hit me in waves every time I’ve looked at her tonight: certainty.

  I’m going where she’s going.

  Her eyes flick to mine for the briefest of seconds before she turns her back to me and stands waiting for the group to move.

  The rebuff is like a twinge in a torn muscle that never healed right, but it doesn’t change my mind. I would know if I meant nothing to her, if there was no reason for me to be here. What I saw when I found her in the kitchen wasn’t nothing.

  I stare at the back of her black hoodie, at the tense set of her shoulders and the sleeves so long they cover her hands. Always on edge. Always in disguise. Even as a kid, she’d already had to defend herself from so much.

  I don’t really know what to do with myself, so I stand there silently as the people in the group debate over which noodle place to go to. Nabil tilts his head in a repeated gesture for me to go to talk to Paige that I ignore.

  The girl with the pink hair finally gets the door locked and then whirls around to shout, “LET’S. GET. NOODLESSSS!”

  Everybody cheers, and after settling the question of where we’re going, she starts leading us up towards the Mont-Royal metro station. Nabil and I end up near the back of the group, and it only takes a few minutes before he’s talking to some bartender about The Cube Room. I zone out of the conversation, my whole body buzzing with awareness that Paige is only a few steps behind me.

  We make it two blocks before I give into the temptation to look back at her.

  She’s much closer than I thought. People have shifted around as we’ve been walking, and now it’s only her and another girl behind me bringing up the back of the group. The girl’s saying something to Paige, and she doesn’t see me looking. I whip my head back around and strain my ears to hear what they’re talking about.

  “So how long have you been doing techno music?”

  I don’t have to look at her again to know Paige will be trying to hold back a cringe; using ‘techno’ as an umbrella term for electronic music is one of the best ways to make a DJ or fan die on the inside. Paige doesn’t say anything for a bit, and I almost laugh as I imagine all the replies she’s debating.

  “Uh...a few years,” she finally answers.

  Anyone else would miss it in her monotone, but I can tell how much it’s killing her not to scream, ‘IT’S NOT TECHNO. IT’S HOUSE.’

  I clear my throat to hide a chuckle, and Nabil gives me a look before going back to his chat about venue management.

  We pause at an intersection, and one of the guys up ahead steps to the edge of the sidewalk before calling down to the back of the group. “Renee, get up here! You have to tell Zach about that dude who came in last Friday. He doesn’t believe me.”

  “It’s true!” The girl who was talking to Paige rushes past me. “Did you tell him about the hat?”

  We start moving again, and I miss the details about whatever noteworthy hat the guy had on. All I can think about is the fact that Paige is now alone and right behind me.

  We pass a vintage clothing shop that’s closed for the night, the dark windows filled with mannequins dressed in retro Levis and fringed jackets. I catch sight of Paige’s reflection in the glass, trailing along after mine, and decide it’s time to stop acting like I’m in a teen drama and just say something.

  My heart pounds against my ribs as I slow my pace enough to fall into step beside her. She stays quiet, but I can feel the tension crank up a few more notches.

  “So.” I take a breath. “How long have you been playing techno music?”

  I wait. I wait for her to tell me to fuck off, to leave her alone, to go home and pretend I never saw her at all. I wait for her to ask me what the hell I think I’m doing here when she made it clear what she wanted years ago.

  She doesn’t do any of that.

  She does the last damn thing I expected.

  She laughs.

  It’s not one of her usual dark, sarcastic chuckles either. It’s her rare laugh, her real laugh, the one where she lets go and just forgets herself for a second.

  It’s beautiful.

  “Dude, you don’t know how bad I wanted to tell her, ‘It’s not techno. It’s house.’”

  I laugh too, out of shock and nerves and some small measure of relief.

  “I think you might have to hand in your DJ card for letting that one go.”

  “Fuck, I think I might. It was like, physically painful not to cringe when she said it.”

  “My sympathies. I felt your struggle.”

  I can see the glow of the neon sign above the noodle shop up ahead. It’s one of those famous, greasy little hole in the wall places every twenty-something in Montreal has drunkenly stood in line for at least once in their lives. People are queued up down half the block, shouting and dancing to the music from passing cars. Paige and I don’t exchange any more words as our group files into place.

  I don’t want to push my luck. I don’t know what’s safe to say and what’s going to make her retreat even farther into that giant hoodie.

  “Your friend was supposed to talk to me about playing The Cube Room,” she says after we’ve moved up a couple feet in line. She tilts her head toward Nabil, who seems to have made a new best friend in the past ten minutes and is now ignoring us.

  I have a suspicion that’s partially so I’ll have to keep talking to Paige. Nabil can be an interfering pain in the ass when he wants to be, but I can’t say I haven’t done the same to him.

  “Oh, he won’t let you go without bringing it up again,” I reply. “That place is his life.”

  “Mmm.”

  A few people walk past us with takeout boxes and head for the metro station across the street. It’s closed for the night, but the plaza in front is packed with people who seem to have the exact same plans as us. I watch a few of them drunkenly manoeuvring chopsticks.

  “Have you played there?”

  “Huh?” I turn back to Paige.

  “The Cube Room. Have you played it?”

  “You...” I wait for my brain to catch up as she stares at me. “You know I DJ?”

  I haven’t told her that. I haven’t told her anything.

  She shifts on her feet and stares down at the sidewalk. “I mean, uh, you’re not exactly a secret. I’d have to be pretty fucking out of the loop to be a DJ in Montreal and not have heard of you by now.”

  “Heard of me?” My voice comes out all weird and high-pitched as I absorb the shock.

  She looks up and rolls her eyes. “Your stage name is ‘Youssef’ in all caps. Y
ou’re kind of hard to avoid. Especially after that EP.”

  “You’ve heard of my EP?”

  Another eye roll. “I mean, it’s not like I’m stalking you. I didn’t try to hear about it. You’re on the radio all the time. Like I said, it’s hard to avoid.”

  She drops her eyes to the tips of her shoes again, letting her hair fall forward to shield some of her face, and I let what she said sink into my skin like a blade.

  Even six years later, I’d still find myself staring up at my ceiling some nights wondering what I’d do if I got just a hint of where Paige Rivera ended up. Would I reach out to her? Send an email? Call her name if I saw her getting on a bus?

  Would it change anything?

  Would it change everything?

  I asked myself those questions less and less as the years went on, but they never stopped.

  Yet she got exactly the hint I dreamed about—more than a hint, even—and she didn’t say a word. She’s known we live in the same city, work in the same industry, and probably even play for the same crowds, but it never made her wonder enough to reach out.

  “Did I hear you guys talking about Youssef’s EP? Is he trying to be all humble on you?”

  Nabil turns away from his other conversation and throws an arm around my shoulders. Paige raises an eyebrow.

  “Let me tell you something about this guy,” he continues. “Every time anybody tries to congratulate him on how crazy successful that EP was, he gets all, ‘Oh, it was really just a joke. We released it for shits and giggles so my friend could get his label started. It’s really not a big deal.’ You need to take credit for making the smash hit of the summer, man.”

  I step out from under his arm. “I mean, it’s true. It really was kind of a joke. It’s—”

  Nabil starts making a ‘blah blah blah’ motion with his hand, and I cut myself off to glare at him.

  It was a joke. I made a kind of corny EP for a friend who was launching a label and needed a record to put on it. No one expected it to go viral.

  No one—least of all me—expected it to change my life.

  “Help me out here.” Nabil turns to Paige. “Have you heard it? What do you think?”

  “Uh...”

  “Oh!” Nabil raises a finger in the air. “She hesitated! Now you have to tell us what you really think.”

  He’s putting on some kind of game show host voice now, looking between me and Paige in excitement. The guy really does not get out enough these days.

  “I don’t have to tell you what I really think.”

  “Yes, you do!” The game show voice is even more dramatic now. “Did you or did you not enjoy Youssef’s EP?”

  Paige stonewalls him for a few seconds, but once he starts humming the jeopardy theme song, she sighs and gives in.

  “It was catchy.”

  I know how Paige describes music she likes, and it’s not with words like ‘catchy.’

  “I was surprised to hear you making big room house, but yeah, it was catchy.”

  “You see?” Nabil turns to me again. “Everybody thinks it’s catchy! You’re the next big thing.”

  We’re almost at the front of the line now. Nabil and the rest of the group get distracted by the menu posted in the window, but I’m much more interested in Paige than whatever sauce and toppings I’m going to get.

  “Catchy, huh?” I lower my voice enough so only she can hear it and smirk. “You hated it.”

  “Does it matter what I think?” She pretends to be looking over someone’s shoulder at the menu, but I can tell she’s not actually reading. “It just...It sounded like something you would hate. It surprised me. It made me wonder...”

  I hold my breath as I wait for her to go on. I need her to go on. It’s like I’ve been floating ever since that EP went viral, every achievement and bit of praise just sending me farther and farther away from the earth.

  She feels solid. What she’s saying feels real, and I need to hear it.

  “Wonder what?” I finally cave and ask.

  She turns back to me, and I see it again: that same look from when she dropped the glass in the kitchen. It’s part fear, part defiance, and maybe even part rage, but underneath it all, there’s something so raw, fragile, and above all, familiar that all I want is to pull her tight to my chest and press my lips to the top of her forehead. I want to smell her hair again. I want to feel her heartbeat.

  Then she blinks, and her face becomes nothing more than a beautiful blank slate.

  “Never mind.”

  We’ve reached the door to the restaurant now, and she follows the group inside before I can get in another word. The place is cramped and kind of grimy, the walls lined with white subway tiles that have seen better days and the dining area only big enough for four tables that are all full.

  I pick something at random when it’s my turn to order, and a few minutes later, we’re all carrying white takeout boxes over to the metro station square. Nabil has finally started discussing The Cube Room with Paige, so I sit on the end of the same bench as them and shovel bits of beef and noodles into my mouth without really tasting anything.

  It doesn’t take them long to make some kind of ‘your people will call my people’ arrangement, and Paige stands up as soon as they’ve got the details sorted.

  “I’m gonna get going.”

  I stand up so fast I almost spill my noodles, which earns me a weird look from both Paige and Nabil.

  “I, uh—”

  I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just know I can’t watch her walk away. Not yet. We haven’t even said anything to each other. Not really.

  “Are you, uh, walking? I can walk with you. It’s late. You—”

  “I’ll be fine.” She picks up her untouched takeout box and raises a hand to the rest of the group, who all call out goodbye and some final compliments about her set.

  I’m still standing there like an idiot when she brushes past me after a hurried, “Uh, goodnight.”

  I stare at her retreating figure for a moment before Nabil prods my shin with his foot.

  “Youssef. What are you doing? Go after her!”

  “Huh?”

  “She is walking away. Go!”

  She’s crossing an intersection now. She’s already hard to see, all dressed in black as she moves between the streetlights.

  She’s really leaving. I just found her again, and she’s leaving.

  This time Nabil actually kicks me.

  “Do I have to carry you or something? Wake up, hemar!”

  That’s all it takes. My limbs come to a snap decision before my brain has time to catch up, and then I’m running towards her while I call out her name. We’re the only people on the block where I catch up with her. She freezes when she hears me shouting and turns to face me in front of a dépanneur that’s closed for the night. They’ve left the neon Bud Light sign in their window on, and it casts a blue glow on her skin and hair.

  “Paige,” I repeat, lowering my voice now that she’s right in front of me. “Wait.”

  I didn’t run far enough to lose my breath, but I’m still panting, blood rushing in my ears as I move my gaze to her mouth and then back up to her eyes again—remembering what was, memorizing what is.

  “Youssef.” It’s the first time she’s said my name tonight, and it nearly knocks the wind out of me. “What do you want from me?”

  I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

  “I just want to know.”

  I want to know everything. I want to fill in all the gaps. I want to know every moment and choice and action that took her from being a fifteen year-old listening to MGMT albums with me in my parents’ basement to the woman in front of me now. I want to know every thought she’s had, every fear she’s faced, every triumph she’s celebrated, every mistake she’s regretted.

  I want to know if I’m one of them. I want to know how we got here. I want to know what happens next.

  We’re standing so close now. She’s still got
her hand balled up in the sleeve of her hoodie, but if she moved just a little, her knuckles would be close enough to reach out and brush mine.

  “I think...” Her voice is soft, softer than it’s been all night. Breakable, even.

  But Paige never breaks.

  “I think it’s too late for that.”

  She says them just as soft, but those words are a curse that keeps me rooted to the pavement when she leaves.

  I don’t follow after her this time.

  Five

  Youssef

  MOTIF: A melody or series of notes that reoccurs throughout a piece of music

  “Youssef, I listened to those demos you turned in last week.”

  My boss pokes his bald head out of his office as soon as I walk into the cramped lobby of Schenkman Studios. Lobby is an overstatement; it’s a leather loveseat tucked into a corner across from a battered front desk that’s been empty since our last receptionist quit five months ago. Somehow no one has gotten around to hiring a new one.

  “Any feedback, Jacob?”

  “Hmm.” He narrows his eyes behind his thick black-framed glasses. “Well, I won’t be firing you. Yet.”

  I nod as I fight to hold back a laugh. Coming from Jacob, that’s high praise.

  “Good to know, boss. If you need me, I’ll be in my room.”

  I head down the narrow hallway lined with doors to recording rooms and other studio apparatuses, my footsteps making the worn hardwood creak.

  Mohammad keeps telling me I need to quit my day job, but I don’t think even a world tour and headlining spot at Ultra would be enough to make me leave Schenkman Studios.

  Call it force of habit. I’ve been coming in here at least a couple times a week since I was twenty-one years old, first as a verbally abused intern who did things like take out the trash and mop the bathrooms in exchange for a few sarcastic comments from Jacob Schenkman about how shit I was at music production, and now as the studio’s main mastering engineer with dozens of records under my belt.

  I take a seat at my desk and pull my laptop open as I wheel my chair into place. It’s ten in the morning on Monday, much earlier than I usually come in given that I’ve always been a night owl and Jacob doesn’t care when I work as long as I meet my deadlines. I couldn’t take another day at home after the events of Saturday night, so I got up and walked over here with the intention of working my ass off until I pass out at my desk tonight.