Page 68 of Your Rhythm
16On Call || Kings of Leon
KAY
In the summertime,the Old Port is one of the most Instagram-ed locations in Montreal. Busloads of tourists walk the waterfront in shorts and baseball caps. Ben and Jerry’s cones melt in kids’ fists as their parents stroll behind them, taking in the views of Jacques Cartier Bridge and the distant, curving lines of the roller coasters at La Ronde.
In late April the place is more desolate. Only a few souvenir stalls have dared to open up under the white plastic canopies, and there’s a nasty edge to the wind coming off the water. Matt and I stroll the length of the path that runs along the river anyways, our shoulders hunched against the chill.
“So, tell me again why we couldn’t just go straight to my apartment?” I ask him.
“I thought this might be nice.”
“Oh yeah? What do you think about it now?”
He laughs and shivers at the same time. “Maybe not so nice.”
“Come on.” I tug on his arm. “I can think of a few ways to get us warmed up.”
“Wait.” Instead of letting me lead him, he uses my grip on him to steer us towards a nearby bench. “Can we talk first?”
No good conversation ever started with, ‘Can we talk?’
“Sure?” My answer rises up a few octaves higher than I intended as we take a seat.
Matt leans forwards and rubs his mouth for a moment, his other hand tapping out a beat against the wood of the bench. He doesn’t look like he’s going to break the ice, so I try a joke to start things off.
I look pointedly over both my shoulders. “Careful,” I whisper, “there might be violent drug dealers around you’ll have to defend me from, as your innocent and helpless female fan.”
Thanks to a photo of Ace becoming a minor sensation on the internet, the story of what supposedly happened last Friday night is getting way more attention than it should. The version Sherbrooke Station—or more accurately, their PR team—is putting out is that Ace got in a fight trying to protect a fan he was talking to when a jealous guy got pushy. The cops showed up and fond out said jealous guy was actually loaded with drugs.
It’s a painfully obvious cover-up and I don’t buy it for a second, but I do find the whole thing just a bit funny and I thought Matt might to. Judging by the grunt he gives in answer, I was wrong.
“That whole story is ridiculous,” I say lightly.
Matt’s head snaps up. “That’s because it’s a lie.”
The sharpness of his voice startles me. He notices and softens.
“Sorry. I’m just...stressed. In case you couldn’t tell.”
Hehasseemed off today. I’ve had to repeat half the things I’ve said. We sit and watch the waves for a moment before he asks me if I have my phone.
“Yes?” I answer, taken aback. “Most people usually have their phones with them.”
“Can you take it out and record what I’m about to say next?”
“Like...an interview?”
“Yes, exactly like an interview. Let’s do an interview right now.”
His tone is clipped, movements jerky with agitation. I’m tempted to ask if he’s all right, but I already know the answer. He’s not, and he seems too fixated on what’s going on in his head to talk about anything else.
“Okay.” I pull my phone out and set up my recording app. With all the wind and background noise, I doubt it’ll capture much. I hold it up between us so we won’t have to shout.
Matt starts to speak again, only now he sounds calm and almost distant. He’s steady, like he’s made up his mind to go through with this—whateverthisis.
“I don’t know what I want anymore. I thought I wanted sold out arenas, world tours, platinum records—everything we’re on the path to getting. I know no one will believe this, but for me, it’s not about fame. It’s not a glory thing. It’s knowing our music has made a difference to so many people. It’s having one person come up to us at the end of a dingy bar show in some no-name small town and tell us our song made them feel alive, only multiplied a million-fold.”
He’s like a ghost right now, sitting so still I’m scared he’ll disappear if I touch him.
