Page 4 of Your Rhythm
The sight clears my head enough for me to remember that I should be pissed at this guy. I recognize him from the research I did on the band this afternoon; he’s Matt Pearson, their drummer. It looks like after making me wait nearly two hours without any kind of explanation, Sherbrooke Station couldn’t even bother to send the right member, and the one they did send doesn’t seem too perturbed about not being able to find me.
I hold my mostly empty beer up against my chest and push my way through the crowd, trying not to stumble as I do.
I amsucha lightweight.
Matt’s still propped against the edge of the bar when I reach him. The crowd is thinner over here and I get a good look at him from a few feet away: sandy undercut hair and an angular face, softened by full lips and just the right amount of stubble. He’s got the perfect features to pull off his eyebrow piercing, and while they’re currently covered by a navy blue coat, all my internet stalking has proved he’s got the perfect arms to pull off the collection of tattoos on both.
Eric the Surfer might have been hot in a general sense, but Matt Pearson is one hundred percent my type.
Did I just admit someone in Sherbrooke Station is my type?
“Hey,” I call sharply, hoping I can help myself deny that little revelation by acting annoyed with him. “Giving up that easy?”
He gives me a cautious glance and then shifts his eyes from side to side, like he’s making sure I’m really talking to him.
“On looking for me,” I elaborate. “I’m Kay Fischer.”
Now his dark eyes travel up and down the length of me in a completely unapologetic stare. He smirks when they reach mine again.
“I thought you left,” he says evenly. “And I wouldn’t count shouting your name in a crowded bar for a solid ten minutes as giving up easy. Besides”—he lifts a finger to point at my beer—“you look like you gave up too.”
“Well I’m still here two hours after I was supposed to meet Ace.”
“And kind of the worse for wear,” Matt chuckles. “You’re swaying on your feet.”
“I am not!” I retort, as I realize I’m doing exactly that. “I just like this song.”
Matt’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Well thanks for the compliment.”
I pause to listen for a second and realize they’re blasting ‘Sofia’ through the bar.
I am an idiot.
“You’re not Ace Turner,” I accuse, changing the subject as fast as I can.
“Keen observation.” I watch his features darken. “Ace...couldn’t make it. I came instead.”
“Thanks for letting me know about that two hours ago.”
“Sorry,” he concedes. “Ace is...forgetful. I know it’s late, but we can still do the interview if you want. I’m assuming you know who I am?”
Now it’s me raising my eyebrows. “Do you assume that about most people?”
He smirks again. “Just people who like my songs.”
I choose to ignore that comment.
“Let’s get this over with. Follow me.”
I turn and do my best not to trip over my own feet as I lurch towards the bathrooms at the very back of the room. I don’t even check to see if Matt is behind me, but his confused voice shouting over the music confirms he’s just a step away.
“Look, I know it’s loud, but isn’t interviewing me in a bathroom kind of extreme? We can go somewhere else.”
“You’ve got that beer to finish,” I explain, “and I want to get home as soon as possible, so we’re going up here.”
Tucked into an alcove next to the bathroom is the staircase that leads up to Sapin Noir’sterrace. The word for patio is so prevalent in Montreal, even born and bred Ontarians like me always say it the French way.
Matt points to the ‘Fermé pour la saison’ sign chained across the stairwell.
