I read over the text again, double-checking who it’s from just to be sure.

Atlas got a copy of your article. We all read it. They told us about last time too. I’m not going to ask why. I don’t even want to know. I can’t talk to you, Kay. Not now. Please don’t try to contact me anymore.

Of course, it only takes me a few seconds to do exactly the opposite of what he asked. I send Matt a text asking what the hell is going on before setting my phone down on my thigh. I’m on a bus back to La Gare after a morning interview. The screen remains black as the two and three storey houses around me morph into the high rises and skyscrapers of downtown. I get off just outside the office and stop in the lobby to call Matt.

I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Did someone find out about us? Did they dig up the old plagiarism story to scare him away? I barely even had a chance to start writing that before Atlas shut it down. None of this makes sense.

I’m sent straight to voicemail and I start to get paranoid. He wouldn’t have blocked my calls, not without actually telling me why. I send off another text asking him to get in touch as soon as he can.

Pierre’s out chasing down a story, so I have our corner of the office to myself. I try to focus on the piles of work I have to get done, but my eyes keep slipping from my computer to my cell phone, waiting for a message alert that never comes. Eventually I toss it in my bag and pull up my inbox.

I don’t have a number for anyone else in the band. The only other way I have to reach him is emailing Shayla.

I ignore the nagging voice in my head telling me I’m being neurotic and unprofessional and just start typing.

Hey Shayla,

Sorry to bother you; I’m sure your plate is as full as mine. I’ve been trying to reach Matt with some article related stuff and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him for awhile. Just wanted to check in and make sure everything’s okay.

Thanks,

Kay

I don’t take my lunch break. I leave the salad I packed at the bottom of my bag and sit in the nearly empty office with my stomach churning. Pierre shuffles in just after one and sets a French vanilla down on my desk.

I shake my head at it. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I can drink that.”

“Merde, Kay.” He peers into my face. “You don’t look good.”

I give a weak laugh. “I feel like you never have anything nice to say about my appearance.”

“You sick?”

I wrap an arm around my abdomen. “Must be coming down with something.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

He comes back with a paper cup from the water cooler and I murmur my thanks. I spend the next hour starting and restarting an article for tomorrow. I’ve hit the backspace key so many times Pierre starts giving me the side-eye when an email pop-up rears its head on my screen. The heart rate I’ve only just gotten under control cranks itself back up to dangerous speeds.

Shayla doesn’t even address me at the beginning of her reply:

I’m no longer associated with Sherbrooke Station. Please direct any further inquiries to their record label.

Sincerely,

Shayla McDougal

P.S. I’m only saying this because I don’t know if anyone else will, but your two-faced reporter act is over. We all saw what you’re planning on publishing. I wouldn’t expect him to get in touch if I were you.

All I feel is confusion. I haven’t even written what I’m planning on publishing.

Then it hits me, and I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

“Marie-France!”

I’m calling her name before I even get to her office. The door is closed, but I give it several sharp raps with my knuckles.

“Voyons, Kay!” It swings open and Marie-France appears in today’s pantsuit, a deep maroon number. “J’ai pensé qu’il y avait un feu. Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

I’m worked up enough that I can’t blame her for thinking there was some kind of fire in the building.

“My article, the draft I did to show you why we should change the Sherbrooke Station angle—who’s seen it?”

She squints at me for a moment before opening the door wider.

“Come inside.”

She points for me to take my usual seat as she settles herself at her desk.

“I’ve had some meeting with a few directors. I’ve been talking with some of my department heads as well.” She shrugs. “Your draft has come up. I’ve used it as an example for a few people.”

“It leaked.”

She doesn’t look as fazed as I expected her to be.

“Atlas got it,” I continue. “I only found out because one of my sources in the band told me he read it.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up. “I can’t imagine he was too happy about that.”

“This is really serious!” I plead. “Someone leaked my article and now Atlas will come after us, just like they did to me last time. I’m surprised they haven’t sent you threats already.”

“I’m not.”

I do an actual double-take, and Marie-France sighs.

“Your article doesn’t have any slander against the label or the band,” she explains. “It’s an opinion piece, backed up by some quotes from their own drummer. Like you said when you sent it to me, it sounds petty. It’s not something Atlas is going to worry about. If anything, this leak will get the band in trouble, not us.”

Trouble.

Shayla’s message said she wasn’t managing Sherbrooke Station anymore. Another wave of nausea hits.

“Shouldn’t we be worried our articles are leaking anyway?” I demand.

“I’ll look into it. I’m not happy about it, but Kay, as important as this story is, you weren’t tracking down top-secret political information. This is an article about a rock band. You don’t need to be so concerned. You look sick.”

“I won’t ever get to talk to them again,” I admit. I sound as hollow as I feel.

“Your interviews are all finished. Just yesterday you told me you have what you need to write your final story.”

I don’t want to betray the truth, don’t want to break down in Marie-France’s office of all places, so I stand and pretend that’s all I was worried about.

“You’re right,” I assure her. “I was just concerned about our security, that’s all.”

“Like I said, I’ll look into it.”

I nod and leave the room.

“What was that about?” Pierre urges, as I slip my laptop into its case.

“Nothing. Just wanted to let her know my piece for Friday might be a bit late. I really don’t feel well. I’m going home.”

Back at my place, I end up sinking to the floor in the kitchen as soon as I walk through the door, sitting with my back up against the fridge as I dial Matt’s number. I’m sent to voicemail again, and I hang up before I even hear the beep. He’s either screening my calls or blocking them. He has to be.

What do other girls do when they fight with their boyfriends?

That’s really dumbing the situation down, but still, I know the answer. Other girls would call their friends. They’d ask someone they trusted for advice, and then maybe that person would bring them a tub of ice cream.

For most of my life though, the only person I’ve really trusted is me.

All of my girlfriends are people like Lily: old high school or university friendships I only check in with often enough to keep them from fizzling out entirely. Work has been my life since I got to Montreal, and I lost all the connections I happened to make when I was forced to leave Last Bastion. One of the only active contacts in my phone is Pierre, and while we are somewhat close, we’re definitely not the calling-each-other-up-with-emergency-ice-cream-requests kind of friends.

Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that kind of bond with someone. I’ve always kept my distance. I think I was just born with a shell not many people know how to crack.

My grandma knew how to get me to open up. I trace the petals on my hip as I picture her, hunched over in the garden with her knee pads on as she taught me how to tell which stems needed pruning. She would know what to say to me right now. Heat pricks the corners of my eyes as I scroll through my contacts, stopping right where her name would be if it were there.

“I miss you,” I whisper. “I miss you a lot.”

I wish I could tell Matt the same thing. I don’t have his address, and even if I did, I don’t think I’d have the nerve to show up. I go over everything I can remember saying in the article and cringe as I picture him reading it. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either, if I had to read all those insults without an explanation.

He trusted me before I even gave him a reason to. I realize now that was when I started trusting him.

I push up off the ground and face my front door with my hands on my hips, like I’m expecting an army to come marching through. Journalism has already taught me the lesson it comes to teach every reporter in time: sometimes you have to pick your battles.

I’m about to stand up and pick mine.

But first, I’m going to the dépanneur to buy ice cream.

* * *

It takes me a week to come up with the idea. By then we’re just days away from the Metropolis show and my article going to print. I’m in my apartment with the windows thrown open to let what finally feels like summer air into the stuffy room when I decide to dial the number.

I need something big, something convincing, if I’m going to turn this whole thing around. I don’t know how much damage I’ve done, but seeing as Matt still shows no sign of getting in touch, I imagine it must be a lot.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Hey?”

“Hey, Dylan.”

It took a bit of work to track down my ex-boyfriend’s number. I deleted it from my phone after we broke up, and judging by his confused voice he must have done the same.

“Is this...Kay?”

“Yep.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Shit, I almost didn’t recognize your voice. I switched phones and I lost your number.”

“I purposefully deleted your number a long time ago, Dylan. Believe me when I say I wouldn’t be calling unless I was desperate.”

“Are you okay? Is something wrong? Are you in trouble, Kay?”

My heart lurches at the concern in his tone. I assumed everything I felt for the guy I thought he was had faded, but old habits die hard. I grip the phone tighter, forcing up the memories of us screaming at each other when he left, willing myself to see him for what he really is.

“It’s nothing like that. I just...I need a favor, and you owe me, Dylan. You owe me big.”

“Of course. Anything. Is it money? I can help. I’m doing pretty well now. I got a job at—”

“I don’t want your money,” I sneer. “I need you to go see some people for me. I need you to tell them exactly what happened with Atlas Records and Last Bastion, and I don’t want you to spare any details about you being a little shit.”

“K-Kay,” he stammers, “I can’t get into all that stuff again. If you’re trying to get them on the plagiarism claims again, you’re wasting your—”

“That’s not what this is about.”

I rub my temple, searching for the right words to explain. I didn’t want to get into details, but I’m going to have to convince him he’s not putting his own ass on the line if I want his help.

“I’m doing a story on Sherbrooke Station. I wrote a version of the article they were never supposed to read. Atlas got it and now everything is all fucked up. I have to fix as much of it as I can, but my explanation isn’t going to be enough. They don’t want to listen to what I have to say, but they might if it’s coming from someone else.”

I hear him chuckle into the receiver. “This isn’t just about a band, is it? This is about a guy.”

I freeze, and he laughs again at my silence.

“I know you, Kay. I screwed up bad, but I didn’t date you for a year without getting to know you. You would never ask a favour from anyone unless it meant a whole fucking lot to you. You fell in love with one of them, didn’t you?”

“No.” My voice is hoarse. “No, I just...I care. I care too much to let it go.”

“Yeah, coming from Kay Fischer that’s basically a declaration of love.”

I’m too stunned by his perception to deny it.

“I should have been better to you, Kay,” he murmurs. “I’ve never met another girl like you.”

“Yeah.” I’m almost whispering now. “You really should have been better.”

“Look, if I do this thing, if I make some dramatic speech or whatever it is you have in my mind for redeeming yourself, can I...Will that redeem me too? Can I have your forgiveness, Kay? I haven’t been able to get close to anyone else knowing how much I hurt you, and...and maybe it would help you too if you could let go. I don’t want to hurt you anymore by making you keep hating me.”

It’s not a great apology, and he’s being a bit presumptuous assuming I’m still that cut up over him, but he’s right. No matter how small it is, I could fill the space in me that despises him with way better things instead.

“Okay, Dylan. I’ll forgive you. Now here’s what you have to do first.”