I drop my copy of La Gare on my desk after reading my article for the fifth time today. If everything went according to plan, Matt will have seen it already. Every time I go over the words I wrote in my head, I imagine him having a different reaction, and most of them aren’t good. I don’t know if this is the kind of story he was hoping for.

Marie-France has been marching around the office with even more gusto than usual today. The actual numbers haven’t come in yet, but according to updates from our street team, the paper is having off-the-charts level success today. I think that might have more to with a photo of Ace we bought from an Ottawa photographer than with my story itself, but I’ve still gotten more congratulations from my coworkers than I can count.

“Sacrement, Kay. Who died?”

“Hmm?” I murmur, as Pierre claps me on the shoulder before swinging into his desk chair.

“You’re the hero of the day, and you look like you just got back from a funeral.”

“Huh.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “All right, I get it. You don’t want to talk. Le silence de Kay Fischer, je le sait trop bien.”

He’s right; he does know ‘The Silence of Kay Fischer’ all too well.

“No, it’s not that. Sorry.” I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Just tired.”

“Too tired to go out and celebrate tonight? I bet we could even get some of les anciens to go with us after something this big.”

He nods towards all our silent, grey-haired colleagues where they’re bent over their keyboards.

“Not tonight,” I answer, attempting an apologetic smile.

It’s not that I expected Matt to come bursting through the door of La Gare to sweep me into a reconciliatory make-out session. As the minutes without any word from him tick by, I’ve been trying to convince myself that I did the best I could to fix things. I’ll just have to live with what happens next—even if what happens next is nothing. Still, I feel more like burrowing under my blankets at home than toasting to my success all night with Pierre.

The hours crawl by as I work on finishing up a few stories. I’m almost ready to pack up and head out when an email pops up on the screen.

It’s a copy of a message from Metropolis, forwarded to me with a few quick lines from Matt:

Sorry it took so long. Had to do some manoeuvring to get you on the list. I wish I could say more now but we’re booked up with stuff all day. See you tonight?

I open up the attachments and find a ticket to tonight’s show, along with directions on how to pick up a backstage pass. My phone pings with a text before I’ve even gotten through all the information. It’s from Matt again, reminding me to check for the email.

There’s no hint of emotion, no bitterness or enthusiasm, nothing to betray how he feels. I hold my thumb over his name on my phone before sending the only reply that seems safe:

See you tonight.

* * *

I don’t get anywhere near the front. My article wasn’t exaggerating; people started lining up for the show before noon. If this were the dead of winter the diehards might have been more deterred, but in the warmth of a June day, there was nothing to stop hundreds of people from settling in on the sidewalk, holding umbrellas up to block out the sun and taking turns to go scavenge for food.

I stare over the churning mass of bodies in front of me to take in the full effect of the venue. It’s been over a year since I caught a show here, and I’m awed all over again by the gilded framework that outlines the stage, towering larger than life and stretching all the way up to the ceiling. The stale taste of dry ice clogs the air, and the crowd buzzes and bobs along to the Modest Mouse song that’s booming out of all the speakers.

Maybe it’s just the research I did about the place for an article once, but it’s like I can feel the building’s history seeping up through the floor, the echoes of all the screams and songs that have reverberated around this room still bouncing between the walls. Existing in some form or another since 1884, Metropolis is a staple of Montreal. It’s opened its doors as a skating rink, cinema, porn theatre, and dance club, but for the past few decades it’s mostly been serving as a concert hall.

Bowie walked across that stage. Jack White played here. A chill runs through me when I think that one day people might say the same thing about Sherbrooke Station with that same tone of reverence in their voices.

Things get loud during the opening act. There are already people trying to crowd surf their way to the front, and I roll my eyes as three girls a few rows ahead of me attempt to climb onto their boyfriends’ shoulders.

The audience grows antsy in the interim between the opener and the main act. I wrap my arms around myself and chew on my lip, trying to keep my rising nerves at bay. This show has all the signs of getting messy. There’s too much energy in the room and nowhere for it to go. I watch security barrel their way through the masses to drag someone with a bloody nose away and flinch when a guy passing by knocks into me, twisting around to mouth an apology as he holds two plastic cups of beer above his head.

Everything changes when the lights dim and the Sherbrooke Station sign flickers to life. People drop their flailing arms and crane their necks towards the stage, like some strange frequency has claimed command over their brains. The hair on my arms stands up like it always does in this moment, the lub-dub, lub-dub of my heartbeat swelling in my ears as a cry I can’t control breaks from my mouth when I see the dark shapes shifting their way onstage.

The sound is echoed by everyone around me. The stage lights sweep their way over the audience in a searing flash of white before fixing on the band.

Then they start to play.

It feels like I don’t breathe from that moment until about halfway through the third song, when reality, or whatever version of it has taken over the crowd, floods my senses. I start to shout the words Ace is chanting into his mic, twisting my body in time with everyone around me.

They’ve left me speechless before, but this is something else. Sherbrooke Station could split a mountain in half with their music tonight. I let myself get lost in the moment for the rest of the show, screaming along with the crowd as the guys come back out for their encore.

Ace starts picking a tune on his guitar that makes something in my chest lurch, but I can’t quite make out what he’s playing yet. Matt gets up from his drum kit and walks over to the mic JP uses for backup vocals. People are shouting so loudly it takes him a few tries before he can even make himself heard.

“Okay, settle down, settle down. Just give me one fucking minute, you crazy motherfuckers.”

His voice is hoarse with both exhaustion and exhilaration.

“Thanks for coming out tonight. This show has been...” He swallows down some heady emotion. “This show has been better than we ever thought it could be. This last song, well, it’s for a girl.”

The hoots of the audience are deafening. Matt waves at them to calm down.

“I said one fucking minute. Jesus, you guys are wild tonight. I love it. Anyways, yeah, we’re playing this one for a girl. I think she’s here tonight, so I just want to say thank you to her. From all of us. And...I’m sorry. From me. I owe you like ten thousand French vanillas.”

I’ve never passed out before, but this must be what it feels like when you’re about to faint. I put a hand over my heart and focus on breathing until the room stops spinning. Ace keeps playing that same riff over and over again, but the name of the song doesn’t hit me until Cole joins in with the bass line and Matt picks up his part on the drums.

They’re playing ‘Everlong.’

The crowd goes nuts when they recognize it too. Cell phones wave in time to the music as people swing them in arcs over their heads. Dave Grohl’s lyrics take on an inevitable edge of forlornness as Ace rasps them out in his dark and brooding voice, but all I can focus on is Matt thrashing away on his kit at the back of the stage.

Suddenly the only thing that matters in the entire world is being near him.

I wait until most of the crowd has thinned after the show before I pull the backstage pass out of my bag and fasten the laminate around my neck. I’ve done a few interviews here before, so I know how to make my way to where I’m hoping I’ll find the band, or someone who can take me to them.

Riggers and sound technicians in huge pairs of headphones are everywhere, scrambling around like insects. Except for a few sidelong glances at my laminate, no one has any time to question why I’m prowling around like a stalker. I catch the scent of melted cheese and cardboard that always accompanies delivery pizza. Rounding a corner, I find Sherbrooke Station and the opening band huddled around a table covered with pizza boxes. Matt’s got his back to me, but JP winks when he spots me and taps him on the shoulder before nodding my way.

Matt turns around, still working on a mouthful of pizza with his slice held up in front of him.

I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face, so wide it feels like its tugging my cheeks apart. His piece of pizza falls to the floor.

That seems to alert the rest of the guys that something is up. They all start smirking when they notice me. JP leads them in a round of applause that prompts Matt to tell him to fuck off. He grabs a napkin off the table and wipes it over his mouth before crossing the distance between us in two huge strides and taking hold of my arm.

Neither of us speaks until he’s pulled me into an alcove on the side of the stage, the folds of a huge curtain suspended from the ceiling keeping us mostly hidden from view.

“Kay.” He cups his face in both my hands. “Kay.”

I laugh, partly out of amusement and partly because of how nervous I feel when I notice the intensity in his eyes.

“Yep, that’s my name.”

“Kay, I... Look, we have a lot to say to each other. I have apologies and explanations to make. I have things to tell you, and I’m sure you have things to tell me, but the truth is I don’t want to do any of that right now. Also, my ears are still ringing and I don’t think I could properly hear you if we did. What I mean is, Kay, what I mean is...”

He trails off, like his words can’t keep up with the energy I feel racing through him. His tongue darts between his lips as he looks at mine.

“What I mean is that right now, I just want you to know, it’s you and me. If you want me, I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me. I want you, Kay. You and me.”

I reach up and wrap my hands around his where they’re still cradling my cheekbones.

“You and me,” I echo.

His mouth finds mine, and I don’t even care that there’s still pizza sauce on his breath. It’s the best fucking kiss of my life.

* * *

After our make-out session gets so intense we nearly bring the curtains down, Matt and I agree to save it for later and head back to see the band. I straighten my shirt and pat my hair down before stepping into view, but we’re still met with a chorus of wolf whistles.

“We should get some champagne!”

The shout comes from a teenaged kid I didn’t notice before. He’s got a shade of sandy hair I recognize right away, paired with a typical lanky adolescent build and a black t-shirt and jeans ensemble that could have come right out of Matt’s closet.

“This is my brother, Kyle,” Matt introduces him, “who is not going to be drinking any alcohol today.”

“I’m Kay.” I offer Kyle my hand. “Matt’s told me about you.”

He shakes it and gives me a smile that I know is going to be as dangerous as Matt’s one day.

“Likewise. Only, he left out some choice details when he told me about you.”

Matt smacks him on the back of the head. “Behave! Or I’ll make you hang out with Mom and Dad instead.”

“I’m kidding!” Kyle protests. He lets go of my hand. “Matt says you’re a music journalist. I’ve actually got some questions about what that’s like. Maybe we could talk later?”

I tell him I’d love to, and I mean it. Just when I thought my heart couldn’t get any more full of admiration for Matt, he had to go all Adorable Big Brother on me. I watch him ruffle Kyle’s hair, and the two of them do some sort of secret handshake that’s cuter than a basket full of puppies.

JP shuffles over and gives Kyle a fist bump.

“This kid is all right, you know,” he tells Matt. “You should have him around more often.”

“JP says he’s going to show me his homemade beer funnel.” Kyle’s almost bouncing up and down at the thought.

Matt rolls his eyes. “This is exactly why I don’t have you around.”

Cole and Ace join the conversation after that.

“So you two”—Ace gestures between Matt and I—“are a thing now? For real?”

Matt looks to me for guidance. I can’t read Ace’s expression right now, but I don’t hesitate when I tell him he’s right.

To my surprise, he smiles. It’s a real smile, not one of the sarcastic smirks or ominous grins I’ve seen him make before.

“Good.” He claps Matt on the shoulder. I nearly stumble over myself in shock when he does the same to me. “I don’t know if anyone will ever deserve this guy, but I’ll let you give it a shot.”

“Hey, Kay,” Cole adds, his hands in his pockets, “when Matt said the ‘thank you’ was from all of us, he meant it. Your article was good, and everything’s square between you and the band.”

Matt’s arm circles my waist and I lean into him. I don’t even feel the urge to blush when he plants a kiss on my hairline and all the guys hoot.

This is exactly where I want to be right now. I’m not alone anymore, and for the first time in my life, that doesn’t scare me at all.

“So,” Kyle prompts, as the group falls silent for a moment, “champagne?”