Page 3 of Your Echo
She looks away, and I know that if she can’t even bring herself to repeat it to me, whatever I said must have been bad.
“I swear I thought Cole was going to punch you out. You know how he gets when he’s mad. He doesn’t yell, he just looks...dangereux. I told him to ignore you, and then I toldyouto go out on the balcony and get some air. Cole and I talked for awhile before I went to bed. I thought he took you home and just spent the rest of the night at his place.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “The fucker locked me out on a balcony all night.”
“Trust me, you deserved that.”
I don’t doubt she’s right. I pick up my stupidly tiny mug and take a sip. The coffee is too hot and too bitter for me to enjoy, but I down the whole thing in the hopes it will go right to my head.
“One last question before I can leave.”
Roxanne rolls her eyes. “Finally. What is it?”
“Where are my shoes?”
“They’re in my shower.”
I blink. “Your shower? Why are my shoes in your shower?”
She sips her espresso and shakes her head. “You’re going to have to ask Drunk Ace about that one.”
I get up and walk back over to her bathroom, pulling the shower curtain aside to find that she’s right. My Vans are sitting there in the tub. I lace them on and pat down my pockets, making sure my wallet and keys are there before I head to the apartment’s door.
“Hey, Ace?” Roxanne calls, just as I’m leaving.
“Yeah?”
“You should probably apologize to Cole,” she suggests, “but I’d maybe wait a few hours before you do that.”
* * *
I hearmy own gasp as I sit up on my mattress and clutch the blankets, gulping down air like I just broke through the surface of a raging ocean and am about to be pulled back down. I whip my head from side to side as the screams echo in my ears, taking in the sight of my Les Paul on its stand and the tapestry hanging on the wall above my bed.
Calm the fuck down, asshole, shouts the part of my brain that’s not still caught up in the dream.You’re here. You’re not there. You’re not there anymore.
“Câlice,” I curse, brushing the hair out of my eyes before I reach for my phone to check the time.
It’s just before one in the afternoon. I went right to bed after getting back from Roxanne’s place. I glance at my windows, where there’s no sign of light pouring in. I lead a life where effective blackout curtains are a necessity.
I’ve lived in the same apartment for the past five years. Being in a chart-topping rock band hasn’t really cashed out yet—a lot of people in the music industry get famous for five minutes; not a lot of people get rich—but I could still afford to live somewhere way nicer than here. I moved into the studio when I was nineteen, just a few months before I was academically suspended by McGill University.
Most of the other units have students living in them. I’ve found fans hanging around the building a few times, which is all the more reason to find a place where it’s easier to keep a low profile, but I signed on for another year here anyway. There are so many guitars, books, and old CDs piled around the place that just thinking about moving gives me a fucking migraine.
Even if someone offered to sort all my shit out for me, I know I wouldn’t leave, though. This place is mine. Like an ink stain pooling on the floor, I’ve soaked into the scratched-up hardwood and bled into the cracks on the walls. I know every corner and crevice of these few square metres, know what the light catches on when the sun goes down, know which shadows loom the highest when I wake up covered in cold sweat and shivering in the middle of the night.
My phone’s blowing up with texts and calls from Matt. I open our conversation and scan through the messages, which contain a lot of swear words, capital letters, and repeated demands for me to explain what I did last night.
These kinds of texts used to be a part of my morning routine, right along with never waking up before noon. Being shuttled around Europe with no time to spare for the past two months helped with kicking the habit, but it looks like I’ve hit ground zero again.
Okay, maybe slightly above ground zero. Making a move on Roxanne would have been ground zero.
I decide to give Mother Hen Matt a call to pacify the bastard for a bit.
“Is this a call to tell me why you’re late for the meeting?” he greets me.
I stumble out of bed, making my way over to the curtains. “What meeting?”
I pull the fabric back a few inches and wince at the light before drawing the curtain back in place.
