Page 79 of Your Rhythm
19End Love || Ok Go
KAY
I readover the text again, double-checking who it’s from just to be sure.
Atlas got a copy of your article. We all read it. They told us about last time too. I’m not going to ask why. I don’t even want to know. I can’t talk to you, Kay. Not now. Please don’t try to contact me anymore.
Of course, it only takes me a few seconds to do exactly the opposite of what he asked. I send Matt a text asking what the hell is going on before setting my phone down on my thigh. I’m on a bus back toLa Gareafter a morning interview. The screen remains black as the two and three storey houses around me morph into the high rises and skyscrapers of downtown. I get off just outside the office and stop in the lobby to call Matt.
I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Did someone find out about us? Did they dig up the old plagiarism story to scare him away? I barely even had a chance to start writing that before Atlas shut it down. None of this makes sense.
I’m sent straight to voicemail and I start to get paranoid. He wouldn’t have blocked my calls, not without actually telling me why. I send off another text asking him to get in touch as soon as he can.
Pierre’s out chasing down a story, so I have our corner of the office to myself. I try to focus on the piles of work I have to get done, but my eyes keep slipping from my computer to my cell phone, waiting for a message alert that never comes. Eventually I toss it in my bag and pull up my inbox.
I don’t have a number for anyone else in the band. The only other way I have to reach him is emailing Shayla.
I ignore the nagging voice in my head telling me I’m being neurotic and unprofessional and just start typing.
Hey Shayla,
Sorry to bother you; I’m sure your plate is as full as mine. I’ve been trying to reach Matt with some article related stuff and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him for awhile. Just wanted to check in and make sure everything’s okay.
Thanks,
Kay
I don’t take my lunch break. I leave the salad I packed at the bottom of my bag and sit in the nearly empty office with my stomach churning. Pierre shuffles in just after one and sets a French vanilla down on my desk.
I shake my head at it. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I can drink that.”
“Merde, Kay.” He peers into my face. “You don’t look good.”
I give a weak laugh. “I feel like you never have anything nice to say about my appearance.”
“You sick?”
I wrap an arm around my abdomen. “Must be coming down with something.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
He comes back with a paper cup from the water cooler and I murmur my thanks. I spend the next hour starting and restarting an article for tomorrow. I’ve hit the backspace key so many times Pierre starts giving me the side-eye when an email pop-up rears its head on my screen. The heart rate I’ve only just gotten under control cranks itself back up to dangerous speeds.
Shayla doesn’t even address me at the beginning of her reply:
I’m no longer associated with Sherbrooke Station. Please direct any further inquiries to their record label.
Sincerely,
Shayla McDougal
P.S. I’m only saying this because I don’t know if anyone else will, but your two-faced reporter act is over. We all saw what you’re planning on publishing. I wouldn’t expect him to get in touch if I were you.
All I feel is confusion. I haven’t even written what I’m planning on publishing.
Then it hits me, and I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.
“Marie-France!”
