The Montreal bus terminal is packed. University students mill around in sweatpants, duffel bags lying at their feet and headphones in their ears. There’s a few older travellers hanging around, but mostly the place is taken up by the mass exodus of young people heading home for an Easter weekend full of free food with their families.

I remember the days when I used to make the seven hour journey from Ottawa to Hamilton, armed with a bunch of plastic containers for taking leftovers back to sustain my poor student life. Not much has changed since I moved to Montreal, except that now the bus ride is closer to ten hours.

All the benches are already occupied, so I hoist my bag down onto the tile floor next to a vending machine and take a seat beside it. I cross my legs and, like almost every other person in the building, I pull out my phone.

There’s a message from my mom, asking when I’ll be arriving in Hamilton despite the fact that I’ve already told her three times. I type out yet another confirmation that I should be there by eight-thirty and then scroll down to my conversation with Matt.

I haven’t answered his latest text. The awkward, post-rooftop-make-out conversation has fizzled out for now, and I don’t think he’s expecting a reply, but I find myself filling up the white box with words anyway.

I really want to kiss you again.

I hit the backspace and delete it.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Delete.

I didn’t want to leave you that night.

But I did.

I erase that sentence too and tuck my phone into the pocket of my hoodie. My thighs clench as I remember digging my hands into Matt’s hair, the cold bricks of the wall pressing into my back while I let my tongue explore his mouth.

I wanted to go to his place, or my place, or anywhere I could tear all the clothes off our bodies and not have to worry about freezing to death in the process. Instead, I kept my hands in my pockets as we made our way back through the building and told him I had to go as soon as we reached the street.

He texted me after to ask if everything was okay. I told him we’re fine, but the truth is I don’t know what ‘fine’ means anymore. Matt is turning me into a knot of fear and longing and wonder all rolled into one. He’s the rush of endorphins and the zap of adrenaline that comes with careening full tilt down a zip line, but he’s also the gaping canyon underneath.

“Attention à tous les passagers. L’autobus en direction de Toronto qui débarque à neuf heures sera trente minutes en retard.”

I can barely make out what the crackly voice on the speakers is saying and have to wait for the English translation before I realize the first leg of my trip is now going to leave thirty minutes late. Leaning my head against the wall, I close my eyes and groan.

“Well, don’t be too pissed off. Now you have an extra half hour to spend with me.”

My head snaps forward and my eyes fly open.

“Matt?”

“In the flesh.”

For some reason I scramble to my feet as I take in the sight of him popping some quarters into the vending machine.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

He shrugs. “Oh, you know, I just like hanging around bus stations and eating overpriced Cheetos in my spare time.”

The shock of his appearance wears off enough that I pick up on the blatant sarcasm.

“Okay, you’re right. Dumb question. You’re going home for Easter, then?”

He nods. “You too, I take it?”

“Yeah.” I glance at the bag sitting by his feet, red canvas with the name of a gym printed across the side. “You’re taking the bus? Like a mere mortal? You don’t have limos to drive you wherever you want yet?”

He grins. “Not quite yet. I don’t think people realize how many bands are famous but still flat broke, and we’re not even that famous yet.”

After working in music journalism for so long, I’m actually well aware of the fact.

“It’s kind of a fucked up industry, isn’t it?”

“Kind of? More like completely.” He stoops to grab his bag of Cheetos. “A weekend away every now and then isn’t such a bad thing. Keeps me sane.”

“I wonder how sane you’ll feel after a ten hour ride on a Greyhound. I’ll probably be foaming at the mouth by the time I get home tonight.”

He crosses his arms and leans against the glass front of the machine. “Hamilton, right?”

He remembered.

“Yeah. You’re headed to...Sudbury?”

I pretend to hesitate, even though I can still recall every detail of our conversation in his hotel room.

“Yeah, so if anyone’s going to be foaming at the mouth tonight it’s me. It’s a long, long ride.”

“You don’t have to deal with Toronto traffic, though.”

“True,” he concedes, before glancing down at the bag of Cheetos in his hand. “I know I could eat all these on my own, but I probably shouldn’t. Wanna share?”

“Why not?” I reply, as my brain comes up with several convincing reasons we shouldn’t. I force myself to ignore them all as we settle back down on the floor.

He drags his bag over until it’s sitting next to mine. Our thighs are just inches apart, and I bury my hands in my pockets where I can clench them into fists without him noticing. I have to put mental handcuffs on myself, being this close to the body I’ve been picturing on top of mine for the past several days.

Matt pops the Cheetos open and holds the bag out to me. I grab a huge handful and start shovelling them into my mouth, thankful for a distraction. Risking a glance at Matt, I find him in the middle of holding back a laugh as he watches me eat.

“You know if you’re that hungry, I can just buy some more snacks.”

I take a look at the bag and realize I just claimed half the contents.

“Sorry,” I offer. “Pre-bus ride stress.”

“Yeah, you do look kind of on edge.” He grabs a Cheeto for himself and chews. “Family problems, or something?”

“No,” I answer. “Well, I mean I’m not exactly thrilled to be spending a whole long weekend in Hamilton, but it’s not so bad. My family and I are pretty...distant to begin with.”

His jaw drops. “No! Kay Fischer being distant? Unheard of.”

“Ha ha.”

Having food to concentrate on is helping me relax, but I’m still hyperaware of the way his fingers are tapping out a rhythm on one of his legs. I wonder what it would feel like to have him do that on mine.

“So you’re not on good terms?” he asks.

“No, it’s not that. We’re just not...”

I search for a way to describe the lukewarm relationships of the household I grew up in. There was never any fighting, no teenage screaming fits or childhood plots to run away, but there weren’t any late night bonding chats or awkward introductions to boyfriends either. We hugged as much as any family, and I know my mom cried for days when I moved out, but excessive displays of emotion were few and far between.

“Sorry,” Matt tells me, as he digs for another Cheeto. “Am I prying too much?”

“I’m a journalist. I’m not really the person to ask about the boundaries of prying,” I remind him. “It’s not that we have a bad relationship. They’re great, actually. We just don’t get into personal stuff much.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“Sort of.”

He snorts. “How do you ‘sort of’ have siblings?”

“I have two sisters, but they’re way older. They both left home when I was still a little kid. We don’t talk much.”

This isn’t secret information, but I still feel like I’m confiding in him. He looks me over without saying anything for minute. I try to read into the constant tapping of his fingers, as if he’s using some kind of Morse code.

“So Easter’s not a lively affair, I take it?”

“Not particularly.” I break my last Cheeto in two and gulp down one of the halves. “So, what about you? Got siblings?”

His whole face lights up.

“A little brother. I guess he’s not so little anymore, though. He started high school this year. Kid’s ego is getting bigger by the day. Apparently he’s pretty hot shit at school, but I don’t know if I can trust his opinion of himself.”

“Having a famous brother probably helps. You guys talk a lot?”

“I try to be there for him.” He sets the now empty Cheeto bag down, a bit of the enthusiasm in his voice fading. “That’s one part of this whole ‘getting famous’ thing that worries me. I told him I’d always be around if he needed me. That’s not something you go back on.”

“Hey.” Without thinking, I nudge his foot with mine. “I don’t know if I have the authority to say this, but I get some serious ‘I’m a good big brother’ vibes from you. I’m sure you do more than enough for him.”

He nudges me back. “Thanks.”

I fill the resulting silence with words before emotions can start flooding in.

“So just the one brother?”

“Just the one, unless you count Ace.” He barks out a bitter laugh. “I actually invited him to spend Easter with us. He’s been to Sudbury with me for holidays a few times. He said he has ‘stuff to do’ in Montreal this year.”

“He doesn’t go see his family?”

Matt hesitates. “This is confidential, right?”

I pull the neck of my hoodie to the side. “No wires here.”

He smirks. “Right. Sorry. It’s just that he’s not...really on speaking terms with them. In the five years I’ve known him, I don’t think he’s seen his parents once.”

“That’s rough. Is that why he’s such an asshole?”

The words are out of my mouth before I have to a chance process them. Matt’s look of shock starts to turn into something close to anger.

“I’m a journalist,” I rush to explain. “I read people. I know things aren’t going great between you all.”

He relaxes, going silent for a moment as he stares down at the other end of the terminal.

“He’s been through some shit. He’s still going through some shit...Basically he’s just got a lot of shit to deal with.” Matt swallows. “But he’s got me too.”

“Even if he doesn’t deserve you,” I mutter.

His gaze snaps back to me as his tone takes on an edge. “That’s what being a brother is. It’s putting up with shit. It’s making a promise and sticking to it, even when you don’t want to.”

“And is Ace sticking to his promise?”

It’s not my place to get into what’s between them, but loyalty flows out of this guy like a river, and I hate seeing it all just seep down the drain.

He shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. My friendship isn’t conditional.”

I let that hang in the air until Matt sighs and slouches further down on the wall.

“Sorry. I got a little intense there.”

I hold up my Cheeto-stained hands. “Don’t apologize. I got in over my head. At the risk of sounding like a total loser, I don’t have many friends to compare the situation to.”

He chuckles. “You really are the lone ranger type, aren’t you?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t make me sound even more pathetic.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic. There’s a lot to admire in that. You’re self-sufficient. You don’t let people boss you around. Sometimes I wish—”

The loudspeaker crackles to life again, and we sit through the unintelligible French before straining to catch the only slightly more intelligible English.

“All passengers on the eighty-thirty bus to Ottawa should now make their way to the gate. The bus will be boarding soon.”

“That’s my first bus,” Matt tells me.

“Guess you better get going, then.”

He doesn’t stand up. In what feels like slow motion, he reaches his hand towards my face and brushes the tip of my nose with a finger. All the noise of the terminal fades.

“How did you get Cheeto dust on your nose, Kay?”

His head is bent close to mine, his voice so low and laced with temptation he might as well have just asked if I want him to kiss me. The rush of blood roaring in my ears is enough to answer that question.

He drops his finger to my chin, ghosting over my lips and making my breath hitch.

“I can’t control myself when it comes to Cheetos.” My voice is hoarse.

He taps twice on my chin. “I like seeing you lose control.”

Neither of us is thinking about Cheetos right now. My lips part as he tugs his finger downwards, inching towards my throat.

“I like it when you look at me like this.”

His hand falls into his lap and I regain the power to move. I turn away.

“You’re going to miss your bus.”

He stands and shoulders his bag. I only feel safe meeting his eyes again once he’s taken a step away.

“Have a good Easter, Kay.”

I give him half a smile but don’t trust myself to speak. He stares down at me for a moment and then he heads off into the crowd. He’s already out of earshot by the time I murmur my goodbye.

“You too, Matt.”