Page 20 of Your Echo
“Christ, you are drunk, aren’t you?”
“No, I swear I’m not! I just don’t say I’m sorry very often.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Ah. So that’s what this is about.”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “I’m sorry. I was out of line. I was more than out of line. I was fucking disrespectful. Just because I don’t remember it, doesn’t make it any less fucked up.”
“That’s true.” Cole’s tone is wary.
“You’re my brother. You and the guys—you’re my family. I know it hasn’t always been easy for you, especially since the band has caught on like it has, being...”
“The black one?” Cole prompts. “In a genre of music dominated by white guys?”
“Yeah,” I continue. “Idorespect you, Cole, and everything you bring to this band, and I want to...to be here for you if you need me, and shit like that.”
I swear his cough is covering up a laugh, but I force myself to keep going. Each word is like pulling teeth.
“I respect Roxanne too, and I respect what you have together, and I don’t want you guys to be anything other than happy. I fucked up and I’m sorry.”
Another few moments pass in silence.
“Say that to Roxanne, and I might think about forgiving you.”
“Of course!” I almost shout in relief, desperate to end this Sharing Our Feelings session.
There’s a rustling sound followed by more muffled conversation, and then Roxanne comes on the line.
“Ace?” she says hesitantly. “Cole said you have something to say to me? Please tell me you’re not drunk.”
God, why does everyone always assume that?
I stop myself from pondering that question too deeply and get on with apologizing to Roxanne. She calls me a few names after I’ve said my piece, and then tells me she was more upset about the way I insulted her espresso mugs than anything else I said that day.
We hang up after that, and I wish the neon lights on St-Laurent didn’t look quite so tempting anymore. I wish that after forcing out an apology for just a fraction of all the wrong I’ve done, I could face the source of so much of that wrong and feel like the thumping bass beats were pushing me away instead of drawing me closer, but they’re not. I still feel the urge to slip past the first bouncer I see and spend the night being clapped on the back by people asking for autographs and buying me rounds.
Would you believe me if I told you it gets better?
“How would you know if it gets better, Stéphanie? How the hell would you even know?”
I’m talking to the blank screen of a cell phone that doesn’t even have the number of the girl I want to call on it. All I’ve got is her one piece of advice:
Don’t go there tonight. Just tonight.
She made it sound so easy, so soothing, like taking a deep breath.
So I do that. I breathe in, I breathe out, and I go home.
