Page 1 of Your Echo
1Heavy Dirty Soul || Twenty One Pilots
ACE
Life is a series of fuck-ups.
Big or small, catastrophic or mildly inconvenient—life is defined not by the breaths we take, but by the moments that make us say, “Shit. That went fucking sideways.”
Sometimes you drop your ice cream cone. Other times you wake up on a balcony with no shoes and a collection of photos of you in a sombrero posing with random strangers taking up all the storage space on your phone.
I scroll through at least two dozen of them before I shove my phone back in my pocket and rub my hand over my eyes.
I don’t even own a fucking sombrero.
Nor would I ever let someone put one anywhere near my head if I were sober. If the fact that my head’s throbbing, my throat’s so dry even breathing is painful, and I’m freezing my ass off on a random balcony while the city slowly wakes up around me wasn’t proof enough, the photographic evidence concludes that I was pissed off my head last night.
Before yesterday, I hadn’t had a drink in two months. I’ve been back in Montreal for less than forty-eight hours, and I’m already face to face with the familiar sensation of wondering what the hell happened last night.
I sit up, hissing as my head protests against the sudden movement. Thank fuck it’s July, not October or some shit. I wouldn’t have feet left to stand on if this had happened any later in the year. Even as it is, I’m still freezing. The days are sweltering, but the nights have a habit of getting cold. I don’t know if it was the sound of traffic that woke me up, or my own shivering.
The pain in my head dulls enough for me to focus, and I pull my phone out again to check the time. That’s why I took it out in the first place, but I got distracted by the photos of last night’s fiesta of fuck-uppery.
It’s 6:15 in the morning. Gorgeous.
I pull up the maps app to see where the GPS is telling me I am. It looks like the apartment building is downtown, just a few blocks from my place. I grip the rail of the balcony and pull myself up until I’m standing, waiting a few moments for the nausea to pass.
I either lost half my tolerance for alcohol in the past two months, or I did myself in worse than I thought last night.
I pull my shit together enough to take the few steps over to the sliding glass door. A set of curtains is drawn across it, so I have no clue who or what is inside. I reach for the handle and pull.
It’s locked.
“Câlice,” I swear, tugging on it a few more times just to make sure.
I groan and then start tapping on the glass non-stop for the next thirty seconds. Nobody comes to the door. I knock harder. Eventually I hear someone shouting, muffled by the glass but getting easier to make out as they move closer to the door.
“Tabarnak! Arrête! J’men viens.”
The curtains part and a woman in a short black robe flips the latch up and pulls the door open. I recognize her right away.
“Roxanne?” I demand. “What the fuck?”
She puts her hands on her hips, herQuébécoisaccent making her sound extra unimpressed. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Is this your apartment?” I demand.
Of all the people whose balcony I expected this to be, the girlfriend of my band’s bassist was not one of them. Sweat starts to rise on the back of my neck. This could be a bigger fuck-up than I thought.
Roxanne glares at me, but steps back so I can join her in the apartment.
“Yes,” she answers tersely. “Were you seriously out here all night? I thought you left hours ago.”
“Apparently not,” I reply, reaching a hand up to try rubbing some more of the grit out of my eyes.
She stands and watches, shaking her head. “God, you really don’t remember anything, do you?”
I drop my hand and fix my gaze on her, fighting back the nausea that rose up in me again the second I saw her pull the curtain aside.
“Roxanne, I really need you to tell me what I’m doing at your apartment right now.”
