Page 42 of Your Rhythm
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’llprobably be foaming at the mouth by the time I get home tonight.”
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 Icouldeat 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 thrilledto 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 Fischerbeingdistant? 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.
“So you’re not on good terms?” he asks.
“No, it’s not that. We’re just not...”
I search for a way to describe the lukewarm relationships of the household I grew up in. There was never any fighting, no teenage screaming fits or childhood plots to run away, but there weren’t any late night bonding chats or awkward introductions to boyfriends either. We hugged as much as any family, and I know my mom cried for days when I moved out, but excessive displays of emotion were few and far between.
“Sorry,” Matt tells me, as he digs for another Cheeto. “Am I prying too much?”
“I’m a journalist. I’m not really the person to ask about the boundaries of prying,” I remind him. “It’s not that we have a bad relationship. They’re great, actually. We just don’t get into personal stuff much.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“Sort of.”
He snorts. “How do you ‘sort of’ have siblings?”
