Page 44 of Your Echo
12Broken || Lovely The Band
STÉPHANIE
WatchingJacinthe apply lipstick in her mirror feels like déjà vu of last week, only this time I have a thick layer of makeup on myself.
“You’re saving my life,” Jacinthe repeats, for probably the sixth time tonight. “These aren’t the kind of parties you can show up to alone. I’d look desperate.”
Somehow—somehow—she’s convinced me to go along with her to one of her fancy model and dancer schmooze fests, where she’s hoping to charm a new agent and a director or two. The friend she was supposed to go with bailed last minute, and I know she wouldn’t be asking me unless this party really was important for her career. She’s already assured me she won’t leave my side all night, and that if I feel uncomfortable at any point we can leave.
I know people will be drinking. Hell, I know people will probably be snorting coke in the bathroom, but just because I avoid the nightlife, doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. I’ve been trying to convince Jacinthe of that too.
“That dress looks amazing on you, by the way,” she adds. “Bensexy.”
I found it at the back of my closet tonight, after forgetting I even owned it. It’s a black skater dress with a halter neck the shows off my shoulders. I paired it with one of the only sets of high heels I still own—some strappy nude sandals—and Jacinthe decked me out in a few pieces of silver jewelry worth more than the entire contents of my apartment.
We call an Uber, and on the ride over, Jacinthe pesters me about a subject I’ve been silent on all evening: Ace Turner.
“So you kissed...Are you going to screw him now?”
‘Kiss’ feels like such an understatement. ‘Kiss’ only covers the surface, the sensation of lips on lips and the brush of soft skin. What passed between us was so much more than that. The tug I felt when I first met him, the coiling knot of tension that kept roping us inwards, now feels like it’s wrapped itself around all my limbs. I want him so bad it’s constricting my body and crushing my ribs into my lungs.
I blew off our meditation session. I haven’t missed a class at the AMM or the studio in over a year, but as soon as I knew Luc could cover for me, I took him up on the offer.
“I don’t know what to do,” I groan. “I can’t be with him. I can’t. He...throws off my balance.”
Jacinthe laughs. “What, does he have bad chi or something? Does his aura not align with yours? You spend too much time at the meditation place, Steph, and you spendwaytoo much time up here.” She leans over and taps my forehead. “It’s been forever since I’ve actually seen you interested in someone. Stop getting yourself so worked up.Tabarnak, if you want to screw the guy, screw the guy. Live in the present moment and let go of your past. Isn’t that why you’re supposed to be teaching people?”
I glance at where the Uber driver is doing his best to pretend he can’t hear us.
“I guess,” I offer.
We pull up in front of a huge and expensive looking loft complex in Griffintown. Jacinthe calls out a, “Merci et bon soirée!” to the driver as she swings her long legs out the door. I follow her into a dazzling chrome and marble lobby with a very modern water feature made out of giant, raw slabs of stone.
“Whose apartment are we going to, again?” I ask, my voice echoing even though I’m barely speaking above a whisper.
“His name is Léon. He runs a talent agency in Montreal. The party is supposed to be in honor of some big deal he just made, but everyone knows it’s a chance to network.”
I take some comfort in the fact that the host is Québécois. I was worried we’d walk in here and suddenly be nothing more than ‘The French Girls.’
We take the elevator all the way up to the top floor, where there are only two units. I can hear music blasting behind the door at the left end of the hall, and before Jacinthe and I have even made it over, the handle turns and three girls in mini dresses spill out. Two of them are holding up the one in the middle. She stares at us with glassy eyes and then smiles.
“I’m wasted,” she announces happily. “I am like, soooo wasted.”
Her friends frog march her past us and into the elevator. Jacinthe gives me a nervous look.
“I swear it’s not going to be like that, Stéph. Like I said, people are here to network. If you want to go now though, just tell me.”
I shake my head. “Jazzy,?a va. I’m fine. I told you already; I don’t go to parties anymore because I don’t like them, not because I’m scared they’re going to send me into a downward spiral.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. “Say the word and we’re out of here.”
I step ahead of her and pull the apartment door open. The place is so busy no one even notices us as we walk inside. The crowd is too thick for me to guess how many people are here, but almost every surface in the sprawling, open concept loft has someone standing or sitting on it. In true Montreal style, the guests seem to range from intimidatingly chic to mind-bogglingly eccentric, and I can see why the wasted girl’s friends were so quick to get her out of here. Everyone is milling around like they’re in a 19thcentury drawing room, sipping from long-stemmed glasses and laughing politely with whoever they’re talking to as their eyes scan the rest of the room. The atmosphere is cutthroat and heavy with ulterior motives.
“C’est fou,” I mutter to Jacinthe, leaning in close to her so she can hear me over the music. “This is silly. They call this a party?”
She grabs my arm. “Come on. We have to find that agent I came here to meet.”
There’s an actual bartender mixing drinks on the long kitchen island. Jacinthe strolls up and weaves her way through the crowd to lean against the black marble countertop. I hover behind her. She has a drink in hand in under a minute and passes me a second glass filled with red liquid.
