If I have to spend my evening working instead of sitting at home defrosting dinner in the microwave—while defrosting my feet in front of a heater—then at least I get to do it at Sapin Noir.

The microbrewery is one of the best places to hang out in the Mile End, a neighbourhood known for having the highest per capita of vintage shops and painfully trendy, unemployed hipsters in a city full of both. It’s a bit out of the way as far as Montreal nightlife goes, but since it opened last summer people have been bypassing the usual haunts to come mingle in its moody, stone-walled alcoves. Around midnight it turns into more of a dance club and they even have bands come play on the weekends.

I take the metro over after work and get there just before seven. The place is dead at this time of day, which is probably why we’re meeting here. It’s Thursday night though, so things should be picking up soon. I doubt we’d even be able to hear each other over the noise if we were meeting an hour later.

I spend the first ten minutes hovering near the door before I decide to just go ahead and order myself a beer.

“Quelque chose pour toi?” the tattooed woman behind the bar asks.

“Ouais,” I answer in choppy French, “une bouteille de la rousse, s’il vous plait.”

I sound like I’m gargling marbles when I try to use French, and most people just start speaking English to me after a few sentences, but I think it’s polite to at least make a stab at it.

She hands me a bottle of Sapin Noir’s red brew and I claim one of the tables with two high leather stools, tucked into a corner where I can keep an eye on the door.

I’m still keeping an eye on the door forty-five minutes later when I’m at the bottom of my beer and Ace Turner has yet to show up. The bar has filled with twenty-somethings in various levels of outdoor clothing, pressing themselves against the bar and crowding around tables like mine. I know if I get up to grab another bottle I’ll be forfeiting my seat, but I have a feeling Mr. Turner’s going to pull a dick rock star move and not show at all. I decide that since I’m here I might as well make a night of it.

I inch my way up to the bar, dodging around guys with man buns and girls with undercuts in strategically ripped band shirts and jeans. I even spot a Sherbrooke Station tank top, knotted at the midriff of a brunette bombshell to show off her belly button piercing.

After some manoeuvring, I manage to get myself a second beer and retreat back to the edge of the room. I’m halfway through my drink when a blond guy who looks like he belongs more on a surfboard than in a Montreal winter sidles up and introduces himself.

“I’m Eric,” he begins, almost shouting over the noise, “and I’m going to be really unoriginal and ask if you come here often?”

I give a shrug and then try to drop him some serious hints that I’m not up for flirting. He’s actually pretty hot, but California Dream Boy isn’t the look I go for. Unfortunately, Eric doesn’t get the message. He takes up residence next to me and proceeds to spend a solid half hour yelling small talk into my ear.

I’ll never admit it to anyone, but I’m a total lightweight and the drinks are starting to take their toll. I contribute a sluggish word or two to the conversation, but I keep getting distracted and glancing around the bar.

“Kay! Is anyone here named Kay? Kay Fischer?”

It takes me a moment to realize that the tall guy barrelling through the room and peering over everyone’s heads is calling my name.

“That’s me,” I say slowly, cutting Eric off. “I’m Kay.”

Eric narrows his eyes. “Is that your boyfriend?”

It takes me minute to understand what he’s saying before I remember the actual reason I’m here.

“That’s not Ace Turner,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

“What?” Eric shouts. “Is that guy your boyfriend?”

“No,” I deadpan, the alcohol getting the better of me, “he’s my sperm donor.”

Eric does a literal double-take and almost loses his grip on his beer, making me burst into a fit of laughter.

“He’s my interview,” I try to explain through the unrelenting wave of giggles. “I’m a journalist. I’m here to interview him.”

“You know it’s okay if you’ve got a boyfriend,” he huffs. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

I’m starting to slide down the wall I’m laughing so hard now. I know I’m being an asshole, but I can’t stop. Eric seems very unimpressed.

“Well goodbye, I guess. Have a nice evening.”

He storms away before I can even pull myself together enough to respond. I take a minute to get my shit in order before scanning the room for the guy calling my name. I spot him standing at the far end of the bar, ordering a drink.

The sight clears my head enough for me to remember that I should be pissed at this guy. I recognize him from the research I did on the band this afternoon; he’s Matt Pearson, their drummer. It looks like after making me wait nearly two hours without any kind of explanation, Sherbrooke Station couldn’t even bother to send the right member, and the one they did send doesn’t seem too perturbed about not being able to find me.

I hold my mostly empty beer up against my chest and push my way through the crowd, trying not to stumble as I do.

I am such a lightweight.

Matt’s still propped against the edge of the bar when I reach him. The crowd is thinner over here and I get a good look at him from a few feet away: sandy undercut hair and an angular face, softened by full lips and just the right amount of stubble. He’s got the perfect features to pull off his eyebrow piercing, and while they’re currently covered by a navy blue coat, all my internet stalking has proved he’s got the perfect arms to pull off the collection of tattoos on both.

Eric the Surfer might have been hot in a general sense, but Matt Pearson is one hundred percent my type.

Did I just admit someone in Sherbrooke Station is my type?

“Hey,” I call sharply, hoping I can help myself deny that little revelation by acting annoyed with him. “Giving up that easy?”

He gives me a cautious glance and then shifts his eyes from side to side, like he’s making sure I’m really talking to him.

“On looking for me,” I elaborate. “I’m Kay Fischer.”

Now his dark eyes travel up and down the length of me in a completely unapologetic stare. He smirks when they reach mine again.

“I thought you left,” he says evenly. “And I wouldn’t count shouting your name in a crowded bar for a solid ten minutes as giving up easy. Besides”—he lifts a finger to point at my beer—“you look like you gave up too.”

“Well I’m still here two hours after I was supposed to meet Ace.”

“And kind of the worse for wear,” Matt chuckles. “You’re swaying on your feet.”

“I am not!” I retort, as I realize I’m doing exactly that. “I just like this song.”

Matt’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Well thanks for the compliment.”

I pause to listen for a second and realize they’re blasting ‘Sofia’ through the bar.

I am an idiot.

“You’re not Ace Turner,” I accuse, changing the subject as fast as I can.

“Keen observation.” I watch his features darken. “Ace...couldn’t make it. I came instead.”

“Thanks for letting me know about that two hours ago.”

“Sorry,” he concedes. “Ace is...forgetful. I know it’s late, but we can still do the interview if you want. I’m assuming you know who I am?”

Now it’s me raising my eyebrows. “Do you assume that about most people?”

He smirks again. “Just people who like my songs.”

I choose to ignore that comment.

“Let’s get this over with. Follow me.”

I turn and do my best not to trip over my own feet as I lurch towards the bathrooms at the very back of the room. I don’t even check to see if Matt is behind me, but his confused voice shouting over the music confirms he’s just a step away.

“Look, I know it’s loud, but isn’t interviewing me in a bathroom kind of extreme? We can go somewhere else.”

“You’ve got that beer to finish,” I explain, “and I want to get home as soon as possible, so we’re going up here.”

Tucked into an alcove next to the bathroom is the staircase that leads up to Sapin Noir’s terrace. The word for patio is so prevalent in Montreal, even born and bred Ontarians like me always say it the French way.

Matt points to the ‘Fermé pour la saison’ sign chained across the stairwell.

“I don’t know how great your French is,” he tells me, quieter now that we’re far away from all the speakers, “but this means ‘closed for the season.’”

I scrunch up my nose, another one of Tipsy Kay’s habits.

“I know that. We’re just using the staircase, anyways. Come on.”

I set my beer down a few stairs up and duck under the sign. Everything’s going fine until I try to straighten up on the other side and start to tip backwards down the stairs again.

“Easy there, ninja.”

One of Matt’s hands comes to rest on the small of my back while the other grabs my arm, holding me upright until I can catch my balance.

“Real stealthy,” he jokes.

His hand’s still pressing into my back.

“I’m good now,” I tell him, reaching for my bottle and then continuing up the stairs. “You coming?”

We take a seat on a step about halfway up. Our faces are masked by shadow, with only the dim glow at the foot of the stairs shedding any light on us. The metal in Matt’s eyebrow glints, and the sudden intimacy of the moment strikes me. I can hear him breathing, feel the vibrations of his knee bouncing up and down just an inch away from mine on the narrow step.

“So,” he begins, voice pitched low, “what do you want to know?”

I try to speak, and end up having to swallow and clear my throat before I do.

“Let’s start with how you got your name.”

“Well that’s an easy one. On the day I was born—”

“The band’s name.”

He laughs, and away from all the noise downstairs, I realize how deep and full the sound is.

“I know. Just thought you might be curious.”

“I’m curious about how fast we can finish this interview so I can finally get home to bed. Also, do you mind if I start recording now?”

“Be my guest.”

I pull my phone out and fidget with it for a minute until I get the recording going, then set it down on the step between us.

“So, the band’s name?” I prompt.

“Right. JP, our keyboardist, has an uncle who runs a big realty firm out of a house next to Sherbrooke Station. Back when we were students living with a million roommates and needed somewhere to practice, JP snagged us the house’s basement as a spot. We could do whatever we wanted with the place, as long as we didn’t make noise when the firm was working. We all sent each other so many ‘I’ll meet you at Sherbrooke Station’ texts that it just seemed to fit.”

“Very DIY,” I comment. “So tell me more about the rest of the band. JP’s the only French Canadian, right?”

Matt chuckles. “Oh yeah, very much so. He’s about as francophone as they come. His full name is Jean-Paul Marc Joseph Bouchard-Guindon. I said he’s our keyboardist, but really he’s also our xylophonist slash harmonica-ist slash whatever new instrument he just found in a yard sale-ist. He can play pretty much anything that makes noise.”

“And your bassist is Cole Byrne?”

“Our resident Man of Mystery. You’re lucky you didn’t have to end up interviewing him. He lets his bass do most of his talking for him.”

I nod. “And then there’s Ace Turner.”

Matt’s knee stops bouncing and the tendons in his forearms stand out as he squeezes his hands into fists.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice flat, “and then there’s Ace.”

My journalist senses are tingling.

“Nothing to say about him?”

He glances away from me and lets out a breath.

“He’s my friend. My best friend. We started the band together. He’s very talented.”

There’s a finality in his tone I recognize as the sign of a source shutting down. I switch tactics.

“Your deal with Atlas Records seems to have made a big difference for you guys. Let’s discuss that.”

He bobs his head, ready to open up again.

“Everything kind of changed overnight once the record deal came through. We went from surviving on Ramen and prayers to watching our YouTube hits shoot up into the millions.” He stops and laughs to himself. “I mean, we’re still not living on much more than Ramen, but for weeks it was almost impossible to keep up with all the phone calls. I think things started getting real for me when I saw three different people wearing Sherbrooke Station shirts on the metro one day.”

For a moment he looks nothing like the suave, fast-talking rock star I walked up to at the bar. There’s something almost childish in his excitement as he tells me about the band’s success. He’s like a kid presenting a science project it took most of the school year to make.

I can’t help flashing him a grin. “And now you guys are on all the Billboard hit lists and heading off to tour Europe this summer.”

He smiles back and shrugs. “The shows in Europe aren’t going to be anywhere near as big as what we play in Canada. We’re only just breaking out there, but still, it’s all kind of unreal.”

“Has it been a hard transition, working with a huge label like Atlas?”

A few lines form in his forehead, just deep enough for me to notice.

“It’s had its ups and downs. Atlas is...” He glances at my phone and shakes his head before continuing. “Atlas is a huge label, just like you said. We’re not used to that.”

Even through the lingering haze of the alcohol, my reporter’s intuition can pick up on the fact that there’s a story here. If I was one beer closer to sober I know I could get the answers I want without him even realizing it, but right now my journalist skills are about as ninja-like as my stair climbing ones. Matt dodges every question I throw at him.

“Tell me about ‘Sofia,’” I prompt, after I’ve decided to let the subject of Atlas go. “It’s your biggest hit so far. Do you ever get tired of playing it night after night?”

He scratches his stubble for a moment and then thumbs his bottom lip while he thinks. My own bottom lip starts to drop open as I watch. I snap my head away to stare at the bottom of the staircase instead, before I literally start drooling over him.

“Back when I was a kid and first started playing,” he answers, “I used to wonder how bands managed not to go insane playing the same songs every night. After my first gig back in high school though, I got it.”

He sits there, contemplating for long enough that I’m about to ask him to continue before he does it himself.

“I don’t know if I should be saying this on record, but when I was sixteen me and some of my buddies formed a garage band we called...uh...Well, it was called Chained Souls.”

“Chained Souls?” I cut in, a snort escaping me.

“Chained Souls,” he repeats, feigning solemnity before he laughs. “Our songs were as shit as our name, to be honest, but we thought we were going to be the voice of our generation. We went in the local Battle of the Bands. We didn’t make it any farther than the second round and broke up pretty soon after that, but I’ll never forget the feeling of the MC announcing our set. It was totally different from playing Nirvana covers at school talent shows. We were filling silence with a combination of sounds no one else had ever made before.”

He leans forward and his eyes find mine.

“Even then, I knew there was a power in that. I knew my voice would never be so loud or so strong as when...when I let it move through my fingers and make itself heard on my drums.”

Great. He’s a fucking poet.

Something stirs in me as we spend the next few seconds staring at each other. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the long hours and rushing around, I forget why I ever wanted to be a journalist in the first place. Right now the answer is clear, though. That power he’s talking about—I can feel it too. For me, it flows through a pen instead of an instrument, but when I write about a band or a song I really love, I feel like my words have the power to change things.

I wrap the interview up soon after that. Staring into Matt’s eyes has also put my drool reflexes past the point of control, and I don’t want to embarrass myself any further. Thankfully, the alcohol is waning and it’s not too hard to put a bit of frost in my tone to cover up how entranced I was getting.

“Sure you don’t want to know how I got my name?” Matt asks. “Off the record?”

“We can leave that one a mystery. I really do have to get home.”

I straighten up, tucking my phone into my pocket.

“Wait, let me see that.”

He reaches a hand out towards me and I pass him the phone, wondering what he’s up to.

“There,” he says, handing it back after a moment. “That’s my number, in case you come up with any more questions. Or if you plan on climbing any more stairs tonight. It seems like it might be dangerous for you to do that alone.”

“Ha ha. Hilarious.”

I blink as my eyes adjust to the bar lighting once we’ve climbed back down the stairs.

“Hey, isn’t that the beach boy you were talking to when I came in?”

Matt steps up beside me and points to where Eric’s chatting up another girl a few feet away.

I turn to face him. “You noticed me when you came in?”

I’m surprised to see him look embarrassed for a second. “Yeah. I did.” He glances at the floor, fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on his thigh. “Anyways, sure you don’t want to go say hi?”

He lifts the remainder of his beer and drains it, nodding towards Eric as he does.

“I don’t think that would go well. I told him you were my sperm donor.”

He splutters for a moment before managing to swallow the beer down, thumping a fist against his chest.

“It was a joke,” I hurry to add.

“Thanks for clarifying,” he wheezes.

“I gotta go now. Thanks for showing up. My boss would have killed me if I didn’t get this story.”

I give him a small smile, turning away as he continues to recover from choking.

“Kay, wait!”

I’m halfway across the room when his hand brushes my arm. I turn around and find him staring down at me.

“Look, I know you’ve got work tomorrow, but do you want to just stay for a—”

“Excuse me?” We both look over Matt’s shoulder to see the brunette girl with the Sherbrooke Station shirt standing behind him. “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but are you Matt Pearson?”

“Yeah,” he answers distractedly, “I am.”

“I know I’m being like, super annoying right now, but I love Sherbrooke Station. Do you think we could maybe get a picture? If you’re not busy?”

Matt turns back to me, his eyes searching.

“Like I said,” I tell him, “I’ve gotta go.”