by Katia Rose
He leans back in his chair, drumming the fingers of one hand against the tabletop as he considers me for a moment.
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who asks for help very much, Kay Fischer.”
My hand strays to my collarbone, tracing the point of the sword etched underneath my shirt. “I guess that’s an accurate observation,” I admit.
“So I take it this is pretty serious?”
“It’s about the article,” I explain. “You know how I told you I wasn’t one of La Gare’s premier journalists? This article is supposed to be my big break. La Gare is failing, and this Sherbrooke Station story is part of a focus shift that’s our last shot at saving the paper. If it works, it’ll be what I need to finally start moving up in my career.”
“And the problem here is...?” Matt prompts.
“The problem is that Atlas Records is...known to be difficult to work with.” I scramble for a way to keep this as vague as possible. I’m not ready to delve into my past misadventures, especially with someone so closely connected to the source of those misadventures. “It’s hard to explain if you’re not up to your neck in media semantics, but basically I’m not going to be able to finish this story if I have to go through Atlas to get to you guys.”
His drum routine on the edge of the table picks up speed until he suddenly lifts a finger to point it at me.
“So what you’re asking is that I get the guys to go behind the back of our record company and let you keep interviewing us in secret in order to save your career?”
“It sounds pretty terrible when you say it like that.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “it kind of does.” He grabs his mug and tips it upwards, draining the rest of his drink before setting it back down. “Fortunately for you, I might be willing to indulge your selfish favour if you’re willing to indulge mine.”
He pulls the zipper of his jacket up and motions to my drink.
“Finish that. We’re going on a little adventure.”
“What?” I demand. “Is that your selfish favour? I think I’d like some more information first.”
“Just finish it. There’s something I want you to see before I ask.”
He’s already getting up from the table and waving goodbye to Roxanne, so I don’t have any choice but to chug back the dregs of my French vanilla and join him on the street. It’s already dark out, the neon lights of a St. Laurent night reflecting off the wet pavement and piles of melting snow. I stop to pull my gloves out of my pocket, but Matt’s already jogging down the sidewalk.
“Come on!” he shouts. “Our bus just went by.”
I take off after him. “We’re getting on a bus?”
He won’t answer any of my questions as we climb aboard an STM bus heading in the direction of the Old Port. We turn right onto Boulevard René-Lévesque and continue until Matt signals for us to get off at a stop in the heart of downtown.
“Matt, seriously, where are we going?”I pant, trotting along after him as he looks both ways before jaywalking across Rue Peel.
“For this next part,” he says, heading towards the base of a huge skyscraper, “you’re going to have to act like you know what you’re doing here.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing here!” I protest, as we swing ourselves through the revolving doors and into an empty lobby. One side of it leads to a bank office that’s closed for the night, and the other opens onto a tiny Tim Hortons store.
“I used to work there,” Matt tells me, pointing to the Timmies as he steers us past it and towards some elevators.
“You worked at Tim Hortons?” I snort, distracted from how confused I am as I picture Matt in a visor, selling donuts.
“For like a month,” he says defensively. “That’s how I found out about where we’re going next.”
I resign myself to a few more moments of mystery as we step into the elevator and Matt pushes the button for the top floor. We exit into a hallway full of closed doors that I assume lead to offices.
“You sure we’re allowed to be here?”
“We’re not,” he says breezily. “Come on.”
He steps around me and leads us down to the end of the hallway, leaning into the push bar of a grey door that swings open to reveal a concrete staircase. We climb up to yet another grey door.
“How many fucking doors are you going to take me through, Pearson?”
“Last one. I promise.” He grins at me, excitement written all over his face. “This is the part where you have to close your eyes.”
I cross my arms over my army jacket. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“No really, you have to.”
“I’m not closing my eyes, Matt.”
He shrugs. “There goes your story then, I guess.”
I make a sound that comes out close to a growl. “Fine.”
With my arms still crossed, I shut my eyes. I feel the heat of Matt’s body as he moves behind me, circling an arm around to rest his hand just in front of my glasses.
“No cheating,” he says into my ear. “Now walk forward, really slowly.”
“This is so, so stupid.”
I do what he asks anyway, the two of us awkwardly shuffling towards the door. Matt reaches his other arm out from behind me to push it open and I feel a blast of cold, March air draw blood into my cheeks as soon as it hits me.
“Are you seriously taking me onto a fucking roof?”
All he does is tell me to keep walking, the hot skin of his palm still shielding my eyes.
“Okay, stop!” he shouts suddenly.
“Jesus, Matt!” I shriek. “Is this some kind of murder setup?”
“Not quite. I have to take my hand off now, but keep your eyes closed okay?”
He moves away from me and I wrap my arms around myself. It’s fucking freezing up here. I’m about to tell him just that as he shuffles around doing god knows what, when I hear his voice right beside my ear again.
“I’m gonna put some headphones in your ears, okay? Just listen to the song for a bit, and when I tap your shoulder you can open your eyes.”
“This is the most insane thing anyone has ever asked me to do,” I inform him. “I couldn’t even open my eyes if I tried. My eyelashes are probably frozen to my face.”
I feel the rumble of his laugh as much as I hear it. Without being able to see him, it’s like he’s all around me at once. He fixes the ear-buds in my ears one at a time, and the wind and distant sounds of traffic are silenced for a few seconds before the song starts.
I’ve never heard it before. It’s a dreamy, electronic sound, meandering through a shapeless melody before a drum intro kicks in and the beat picks up. It’s the kind of music you listen to on long highway drives in the hours between late night and early morning. It’s the kind that makes you roll your window down to let the breeze snatch at strands of your hair, as the lights of some huge city come into view over the dashboard. It’s a song for the start of something, for that first breath of air, for letting go and jumping in.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I realize I’ve gotten so caught up in the music I forgot all about having my eyes closed. I slowly let them open, and when I do I almost scream.
I’m two feet away from the edge of the roof, with nothing but a small ledge to stop me from tumbling twenty stories down to the street. I start to back away and almost scream again when I collide with something solid. A pair of hands takes hold of my waist and I realize Matt’s standing right behind me, ready to catch me.
“It’s okay,” he says, loud enough that I can hear him over the music. “I’ve got you. Just look.”
I swallow, the shock of the moment passing and allowing me to actually acknowledge where I am. Buildings stretch out in every direction, some with roofs below us, some towering far above even from this height. The lights are dazzling, the roads and intersections crisscrossing like arteries and veins. I can feel the energy of the city pumping through them to the beat of the song in my ears.
Matt still has his hands w
rapped around my waist, and I forget myself for a moment and lean into him, needing to keep hold of something solid as the rest of me starts to drift away. I feel something burning in my chest as I look down on all the streets I’ve come to know so well, made tiny and unfamiliar from this angle. Everything feels more immediate right now, like the past and the future have already hurtled themselves off the edge of the roof, leaving me standing here with just this moment.
I close my eyes again as the final notes of the song fade. I can feel Matt’s chest rise and fall against my back, his breath quick as it clouds the air around us. After a moment I pull the ear-buds out, but neither of us moves.
“Why?” I ask, surprised by how small my voice sounds. “Why did you show me this?”
“Because I knew you’d feel what I feel when I’m up here, when I listen to that song. You understand about me and music, Kay. You get it. I may not know you all that well yet, but I’m sure you feel the same.”
I watch as our breaths merge together in the air.
“I make music because of moments like this,” he tells me, sweeping one hand out in front of us across the skyline before bringing it back to my waist.
“Moments like this,” he whispers, his lips so close I can feel the ghost of them on my neck. “Not a lot of people understand that. You do. We’re losing ourselves Kay, me and the band. I can see everything that matters slipping away and I want to save it. I think you can help with that. I want people to know who we are, who we really are, and why we do this. You can tell our story the way it needs to be told. ”
“Matt,” I start, my voice rocky, “I just write for La Gare. I’m not a big deal or anything. I’m not—”
“You are. You are a big deal. The second I saw you I thought, ‘That girl right there is a big fucking deal.’”
A nervous laugh escapes me as he bunches the fabric of my jacket in his hands.
“So what do you say?” he asks. “Are we doing this?”
For a second, I wonder what he’s talking about: the article, or my growing need to turn around and wrap my arms around his neck before finally feeling that beautiful mouth move against mine.
“We’re doing this,” I answer, not knowing or caring which of the two I just said yes to.
I twist in his grip until we’re face to face.
“You can let go now.” It comes out as a challenge. “I know I’m not going to fall.”
One arm releases me so he can hook a finger under my chin. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
“That was your first mistake.”
This time I really do scream as he lifts his hand like he’s about to push me towards the ledge. I let out a string of swear words, but he cuts off all my curses with the pressure of his lips on mine.
I hesitate for an instant, and then I’m kissing him back, one hand cupping the scruff of his cheek as I clutch at the collar of his jacket with the other. I rock myself onto the balls of my feet to pull us closer, loving the way his skin warms from a shock of cold to a feverish heat under my touch.
I press my body even harder into his and he backs us away from the ledge, until he has me up against the wall beside the staircase. His tongue sweeps across my lips and I moan in spite of myself.
We kiss until I swear I see the city lights glittering behind my eyelids, until the notes of the song he played me are echoing inside my head again. Kissing Matt Pearson feels like making music. As we break apart and stare at each other’s shadowed faces, I know I’m not going to be able to get the song we just started out of my head for a long, long time.
10 Paralyse || Polarheart
KAY
The Montreal bus terminal is packed. University students mill around in sweatpants, duffel bags lying at their feet and headphones in their ears. There’s a few older travellers hanging around, but mostly the place is taken up by the mass exodus of young people heading home for an Easter weekend full of free food with their families.
I remember the days when I used to make the seven hour journey from Ottawa to Hamilton, armed with a bunch of plastic containers for taking leftovers back to sustain my poor student life. Not much has changed since I moved to Montreal, except that now the bus ride is closer to ten hours.
All the benches are already occupied, so I hoist my bag down onto the tile floor next to a vending machine and take a seat beside it. I cross my legs and, like almost every other person in the building, I pull out my phone.
There’s a message from my mom, asking when I’ll be arriving in Hamilton despite the fact that I’ve already told her three times. I type out yet another confirmation that I should be there by eight-thirty and then scroll down to my conversation with Matt.
I haven’t answered his latest text. The awkward, post-rooftop-make-out conversation has fizzled out for now, and I don’t think he’s expecting a reply, but I find myself filling up the white box with words anyway.
I really want to kiss you again.
I hit the backspace and delete it.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Delete.
I didn’t want to leave you that night.
But I did.
I erase that sentence too and tuck my phone into the pocket of my hoodie. My thighs clench as I remember digging my hands into Matt’s hair, the cold bricks of the wall pressing into my back while I let my tongue explore his mouth.
I wanted to go to his place, or my place, or anywhere I could tear all the clothes off our bodies and not have to worry about freezing to death in the process. Instead, I kept my hands in my pockets as we made our way back through the building and told him I had to go as soon as we reached the street.
He texted me after to ask if everything was okay. I told him we’re fine, but the truth is I don’t know what ‘fine’ means anymore. Matt is turning me into a knot of fear and longing and wonder all rolled into one. He’s the rush of endorphins and the zap of adrenaline that comes with careening full tilt down a zip line, but he’s also the gaping canyon underneath.
“Attention à tous les passagers. L’autobus en direction de Toronto qui débarque à neuf heures sera trente minutes en retard.”
I can barely make out what the crackly voice on the speakers is saying and have to wait for the English translation before I realize the first leg of my trip is now going to leave thirty minutes late. Leaning my head against the wall, I close my eyes and groan.
“Well, don’t be too pissed off. Now you have an extra half hour to spend with me.”
My head snaps forward and my eyes fly open.
“Matt?”
“In the flesh.”
For some reason I scramble to my feet as I take in the sight of him popping some quarters into the vending machine.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He shrugs. “Oh, you know, I just like hanging around bus stations and eating overpriced Cheetos in my spare time.”
The shock of his appearance wears off enough that I pick up on the blatant sarcasm.
“Okay, you’re right. Dumb question. You’re going home for Easter, then?”
He nods. “You too, I take it?”
“Yeah.” I glance at the bag sitting by his feet, red canvas with the name of a gym printed across the side. “You’re taking the bus? Like a mere mortal? You don’t have limos to drive you wherever you want yet?”
He grins. “Not quite yet. I don’t think people realize how many bands are famous but still flat broke, and we’re not even that famous yet.”
After working in music journalism for so long, I’m actually well aware of the fact.
“It’s kind of a fucked up industry, isn’t it?”
“Kind of? More like completely.” He stoops to grab his bag of Cheetos. “A weekend away every now and then isn’t such a bad thing. Keeps me sane.”
“I wonder how sane you’ll feel after a ten hour ride on a Greyhound. I’ll probably be foaming at the mouth by the time I get home tonight.”
&n
bsp; He crosses his arms and leans against the glass front of the machine. “Hamilton, right?”
He remembered.
“Yeah. You’re headed to...Sudbury?”
I pretend to hesitate, even though I can still recall every detail of our conversation in his hotel room.
“Yeah, so if anyone’s going to be foaming at the mouth tonight it’s me. It’s a long, long ride.”
“You don’t have to deal with Toronto traffic, though.”
“True,” he concedes, before glancing down at the bag of Cheetos in his hand. “I know I could eat all these on my own, but I probably shouldn’t. Wanna share?”
“Why not?” I reply, as my brain comes up with several convincing reasons we shouldn’t. I force myself to ignore them all as we settle back down on the floor.
He drags his bag over until it’s sitting next to mine. Our thighs are just inches apart, and I bury my hands in my pockets where I can clench them into fists without him noticing. I have to put mental handcuffs on myself, being this close to the body I’ve been picturing on top of mine for the past several days.
Matt pops the Cheetos open and holds the bag out to me. I grab a huge handful and start shovelling them into my mouth, thankful for a distraction. Risking a glance at Matt, I find him in the middle of holding back a laugh as he watches me eat.
“You know if you’re that hungry, I can just buy some more snacks.”
I take a look at the bag and realize I just claimed half the contents.
“Sorry,” I offer. “Pre-bus ride stress.”
“Yeah, you do look kind of on edge.” He grabs a Cheeto for himself and chews. “Family problems, or something?”
“No,” I answer. “Well, I mean I’m not exactly thrilled to be spending a whole long weekend in Hamilton, but it’s not so bad. My family and I are pretty...distant to begin with.”
His jaw drops. “No! Kay Fischer being distant? Unheard of.”
“Ha ha.”
Having food to concentrate on is helping me relax, but I’m still hyperaware of the way his fingers are tapping out a rhythm on one of his legs. I wonder what it would feel like to have him do that on mine.