Page 81 of Your Rhythm
That’s really dumbing the situation down, but still, I know the answer. Other girls would call their friends. They’d ask someone they trusted for advice, and then maybe that person would bring them a tub of ice cream.
For most of my life though, the only person I’ve really trusted is me.
All of my girlfriends are people like Lily: old high school or university friendships I only check in with often enough to keep them from fizzling out entirely. Work has been my life since I got to Montreal, and I lost all the connections I happened to make when I was forced to leaveLast Bastion. One of the only active contacts in my phone is Pierre, and while we are somewhat close, we’re definitely not the calling-each-other-up-with-emergency-ice-cream-requests kind of friends.
Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that kind of bond with someone. I’ve always kept my distance. I think I was just born with a shell not many people know how to crack.
My grandma knew how to get me to open up. I trace the petals on my hip as I picture her, hunched over in the garden with her knee pads on as she taught me how to tell which stems needed pruning. She would know what to say to me right now. Heat pricks the corners of my eyes as I scroll through my contacts, stopping right where her name would be if it were there.
“I miss you,” I whisper. “I miss you a lot.”
I wish I could tell Matt the same thing. I don’t have his address, and even if I did, I don’t think I’d have the nerve to show up. I go over everything I can remember saying in the article and cringe as I picture him reading it. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either, if I had to read all those insults without an explanation.
He trusted me before I even gave him a reason to. I realize now that was when I started trusting him.
I push up off the ground and face my front door with my hands on my hips, like I’m expecting an army to come marching through. Journalism has already taught me the lesson it comes to teach every reporter in time: sometimes you have to pick your battles.
I’m about to stand up and pick mine.
But first, I’m going to thedépanneurto buy ice cream.
* * *
It takesme a week to come up with the idea. By then we’re just days away from the Metropolis show and my article going to print. I’m in my apartment with the windows thrown open to let what finally feels like summer air into the stuffy room when I decide to dial the number.
I need something big, something convincing, if I’m going to turn this whole thing around. I don’t know how much damage I’ve done, but seeing as Matt still shows no sign of getting in touch, I imagine it must be a lot.
He picks up on the third ring.
“Hey?”
“Hey, Dylan.”
It took a bit of work to track down my ex-boyfriend’s number. I deleted it from my phone after we broke up, and judging by his confused voice he must have done the same.
“Is this...Kay?”
“Yep.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Shit, I almost didn’t recognize your voice. I switched phones and I lost your number.”
“I purposefully deleted your number a long time ago, Dylan. Believe me when I say I wouldn’t be calling unless I was desperate.”
“Are you okay? Is something wrong? Are you in trouble, Kay?”
My heart lurches at the concern in his tone. I assumed everything I felt for the guy I thought he was had faded, but old habits die hard. I grip the phone tighter, forcing up the memories of us screaming at each other when he left, willing myself to see him for what he really is.
“It’s nothing like that. I just...I need a favor, and you owe me, Dylan. You owe me big.”
“Of course. Anything. Is it money? I can help. I’m doing pretty well now. I got a job at—”
“I don’t want your money,” I sneer. “I need you to go see some people for me. I need you to tell them exactly what happened with Atlas Records andLast Bastion, and I don’t want you to spare any details about you being a little shit.”
“K-Kay,” he stammers, “I can’t get into all that stuff again. If you’re trying to get them on the plagiarism claims again, you’re wasting your—”
“That’s not what this is about.”
