Page 74 of Your Rhythm
I tilt her chin up higher. “You asking me to be your boyfriend, Kay?”
Her eyes widen. “Woah there. I said ‘try dating.’ Key wordtry. But...Yeah, I mean, that’s the general idea.”
“I’m not complaining,” I tell her. “I definitely like this Kay who makes charismatic personal speeches and wants me to be her boyfriend, but did you hit your head or something?”
“Maybe.”
She smiles to herself and brings a finger up to the glass panel on the door, tracing the path of a raindrop.
“I guess I just had this realization, like...” Her hand comes up to rub the spot on her shoulder where I know her sword and shield tattoo is etched. “Like maybe it’s time to start running at life with the sword, instead of just hiding behind the shield.”
I grab her and kiss her, something like pride thumping in my chest. A big group of students walks into the entryway and she drags her mouth away from mine, but I don’t let go of her waist.
The group gives us a judgemental look and keeps walking. We both burst out laughing when they’re gone.
“Baby,” I tell her, making my voice low and gravelly as I flex my hips into hers, “I’m gonna run at you with my sword all night long.”
She instantly shoves me away and starts making gagging noises.
“Never mind. I retract everything. I’m never speaking to you again.”
“Liar. You can’t take it back.”
I reach for her hand and we lapse into seriousness once more.
“I know,” she admits, “and you can’t take it back either. We’re kind of in it, aren’t we?”
“I think we’ve been in it since I first sat down next to you on those stairs.”
* * *
The storm does pass.By the time we take the stage that night, the only trace of bad weather is the lingering smell of wet pavement in the air. It’s barely detectable under the signature mix of sweat, weed, and stale beer that seems to follow large crowds of undergrads wherever they choose to assemble.
We cross the stage to our instruments in darkness and in silence, a ritual we’ve completed so many times it verges on sacred. Ace claps me on the shoulder as I pass him to get to my kit and I pause, dipping my head in a nod I’m sure he can only just make out through the shadows. The exchange says more than an entire conversation between us could.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, just like they always do when our Sherbrooke Station sign flickers to life and the crowd, already rowdy and pumped up from the opener, breaks out into ear-splitting screams.
We play hard and we play well, throwing ourselves into the music like it’s our lifeline, like we’re going down in a burning building and this is our last chance to be saved. The night is a blur of sweat in my eyes and screams in my ears and the flick of my wrists in front of me. I play until I’m panting, gasping for breath, so exhausted I shouldn’t be able to move but so exhilarated I can’t stop.
When we finally file offstage after our encore, JP throwing guitar picks and set lists and eventually his hair elastic into the crowd as we go, I scan the sea of faces for any sign of Kay. She’s not in the press pit with the other reporters, and I’m about to give up on looking when I spot her three rows from the front.
She’s got both her hands up in the air, clapping along with everyone else as they chant for a second encore the city’s noise restrictions won’t allow us to give. On a whim, I reach into my pocket and grab one of my sticks, locking eyes with her as I throw it towards her.
I miss by several feet. A knot of people drop down to their knees and scramble around for the stick as it falls to the ground. Kay’s smiling at me though, and right now that’s the only thing that matters.
Much later that night, I slide out of bed in the shitty apartment Kay rented for the night. It’s a ridiculously tiny room and we barely fit on the single mattress together, but I’m pretty sure I avoid waking her up. I’m just stepping into my jeans when she lets out a yawn and mumbles something.
She doesn’t make any other noise. I start to search the floor for my belt, figuring she’s still out of it.
“Stay,” she calls, her voice sluggish with sleep.
I freeze. “You sure?”
“Stay,” she repeats.
So I do.
