I roll out of bed late one Sunday morning to find a message from Matt, asking me if I have a passport. I’m still rubbing sleep out of my eyes as I text back to say that I do. I try to work out what time zone he’s in, but my brain needs breakfast or at least a cup of coffee before it can handle any math.

Was last night’s show Berlin or Brussels?

I can’t even keep up with what country he’s in anymore.

He’s done a good job at checking in with me in the two months he’s been away, better than I even expected. I was willing to give him some space and maybe put off actually getting together until the Euro-Tour wrapped up, but he wouldn’t have it. Since the night of the Metropolis show, I’ve been an Official Sherbrooke Station Girlfriend.

I also threatened to kick Matt in the nuts when he tried calling me that.

I have time to brush my teeth and pop a bagel in the toaster before his reply pings on my phone.

Good. I didn’t even think to ask before I bought the tickets.

“Tickets?” I shout, one hand clutching a tub of cream cheese.

I don’t have a chance to ask what he means before an email forwarded from Air Canada pops up on my screen. I open the message and scan through the details.

He bought me a flight to London.

I press the video call button and hope that if I glare at my phone hard enough he’ll pick up. After some weird crackling noises, the glitchy black dots jumping around on the screen morph into the shape of his pixilated face.

“Guten tag!” he exclaims

So it was Berlin. I don’t offer him a good morning in reply.

“Matt, you can’t afford to fly me to London.”

“Correct,” he answers cheerfully, “but I’m doing it anyways. I want you to come see us play. It’s our biggest venue on the tour.”

He looks so excited I can’t stay mad, but I do my best at pretending.

“I do have a job, you know. I can’t just leave the country whenever I feel like it.”

“Tell Marie-France you’re writing another story about us. You can put it in the international news section.”

“No offence, Matt, but I don’t think I’m ever writing a story about you guys again.”

She won’t like the idea, but now that I think about it, I probably could score at least a few days off from Marie-France. The spike in distribution my article got for La Gare convinced the Powers That Be to give her an extension for turning the paper around, as well as permission to hire a bunch of digital media specialists. We’re expanding our web presence and might even start producing videos, which, by La Gare standards, is like jumping light years into the future.

Marie-France wanted to promote me to assistant editor, but I turned the offer down. I’ve been looking for a spot at a magazine again, something music or at least arts related. Working on the Sherbrooke Station article reminded me how much I miss really putting time into my stories. I’m done with having to scrounge around for something new every day. I want to go deeper than that with my work.

“Salut, Kay!”

JP’s face appears in front of Matt’s. From the background noise and the way they keep bumping up and down, I can tell they’re on the tour bus.

“Salut, JP. Ҫa va?”

“Ouais. Am I interrupting your hot phone sex? You can keep going if you want.”

I shake my head. “You pervert.”

Matt shoves him out of the frame.

“You will come though, right?”

“I can probably get the time off,” I admit, “but I’ll have to spend half the trip working on articles to make up for it.”

He grins. “And the other half screwing me senseless?”

JP’s distant bark of laughter comes through my speaker. “I knew you were having phone sex!”

“Go away, JP!”

Matt picks up a chip bag and throws it towards where I assume JP is standing.

“How is everything?” I ask, once he’s focused back on me. “Really?”

He filled me in on everything that went down with Atlas and Shayla. She doesn’t seem to hold any grudges toward the band. Things are still kind of tense between them, but Matt says he checks in with her from time to time, and apparently her management business is still doing well.

The situation with Atlas is a different story. They’re at a stalemate over absolutely everything from who’s going to take over as manager to when production on the next album’s going to start. It seems like now that Shayla’s been pushed out, Atlas has taken the opportunity to tighten their grip and try to walk all over the band.

Matt’s trying not to let it bother him too much. He told me that even though they’re tied down for another two albums, he thinks Sherbrooke Station can use that time to their advantage. At the end of the day, Atlas is still a huge label who can open a lot of doors.

All the drama has prompted the guys to get more serious about their career. Matt admitted none of them really understood their contracts before, but they now have weekly band meetings to strategize and check in on where they’re headed. After the Metropolis show, Ace announced that he wouldn’t be drinking during the European tour, and so far he’s kept his word. There’s no neat bow tying up all their loose ends right now, but they’re far from being the bickering amateurs on the verge of a breakdown I first interviewed in that tiny office in Ottawa.

“Truth be told,” Matt answers me, “for the first time in a long time, I can honestly say I don’t see anything being able to stop us.”

* * *

Passing through UK customs is terrifying. I don’t think I’ve ever been grilled that hard by a border agent before, but after the iron-faced lady behind the desk has gone over every detail of my landing card with me twice and squinted at my passport one final time, I’m finally free to enter England.

My tiny suitcase makes a clicking sound every time the wheels pass over a gap in the floor tiles. The crowd ahead of me surges towards a set of glass doors, and I let myself get swept up among the eager travellers about to burst into the arrivals terminal.

At first, I don’t see him. The metal railing just beyond the doors has people pressed up against every inch of it, and he’s not in the first row. I strain my eyes even farther and that’s when I notice the guy in a black t-shirt leaning up against the back wall.

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, dark ink marking the dips and swells of his muscles. One of his feet is propped lazily against the wall, and I can tell from the blank expression on his face he hasn’t spotted me yet. People have to swerve to avoid me, but for a moment I just stop and stare at him. A weird but comforting kind of possession stirs in my chest. This man is mine.

He’s at least twenty feet away, and still everything about him draws me in: the clothes he wears, the way he stands—even the air around him seems like it’s pulsing with some kind of beat, like he radiates the rarest of rhythms and I can’t help but move in time.

Eventually my stillness draws his attention and he pushes off from the wall, jogging towards one of the gaps in the railing as he shouts at me and waves.

The first time we met he was calling my name in a crowd. I now know his voice is a sound I’ll always answer to.

“Hey,” he greets me, once I’ve stepped around the barrier and we’re finally face to face.

“Hey.”

I move closer. His arm wraps around my waist. I lock my hands behind his head and wait for the pressure of his mouth on mine. He hovers just an inch away from me and I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips.

“You and me, right?” he murmurs.

I close my eyes and nod. “You and me.”