“I can’t believe they’re sending you to fucking Thailand,” I say to my brother in French.

Alain is in the middle of stuffing fries in his mouth and tries to talk around them.

“You and me both, mon gars.” He pauses to swallow. “For the whole winter, too! No fucking snow for me this year. Just beaches and coconuts.”

“Are there beaches in Bangkok?” I ask.

“Uh, no,” he admits, “but they’re not far. I’ll be sun tanning every weekend.”

Alain works for a big pharmaceutical company doing who the fuck knows what. Whatever it is, it gets him a big office, a big paycheque, and bunch of big perks like getting shipped off to warm countries for a few months every year. It also gets him the respect and admiration of our parents.

I mean, my job also sends me off to faraway places, and my paycheques are nothing to laugh at these days, but I guess your accomplishments don’t actually count unless you have to wear a suit to get them.

“Oh, by the way, Papa is probably going to ask you to show your face at the Christmas gala this year, you know, since I won’t be there. He was already talking about it.”

I drop my empty poutine container into a garbage can. We’re walking around downtown, killing time before Alain’s flight leaves this evening. He came down from Trois-Rivières yesterday and crashed at my place last night.

“So he’s calling the back-up son in, huh?”

Alain shakes his head and frowns. “Aw, come on, Poisson, you know it’s not like that.”

“You know it is,” I reply, “and knock it off with the poisson rouge thing. You know I get enough of that from Gene-vache.”

He laughs. “To be fair, you do call her Gene-vache. How is she these days?”

I shrug. “Oh, you know, we chat whenever she calls me up needing a light bulb changed or a picture frame hung. I don’t think her or her fiancée even own a screwdriver.”

“I doubt she’s ever actually going to marry that guy,” Alain muses.

It’s been three years since he proposed, so I’m betting with Alain on that one.

“What about you?” he asks me. “Any petites amies I should know about, or are you still”—he pauses and makes a fish face—“when it comes to girls?”

I glare at him and then glance away. “Comme d’hab. Same old, same old.”

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk. When I turn around to ask what he’s doing, I find him smirking at me.

“What’s her name?” he asks coyly.

“Va t’en,” I huff.

“‘Screw off’ is a weird name for a girl. She must be really Québécois.”

“She’s English.”

Alain punches the air. “Ha! I knew there was a girl.”

I scowl at him and grab his poutine box from out of his hands.

“Hey! Give it back, connard. You don’t come between a Frenchman and his poutine.”

I just start licking all of the fries so he can’t steal them back.

“You’re as disgusting as ever,” he tells me, “and you owe me poutine. So, who’s this English girl?”

“She’s just a friend.” I sigh and decide to come right out with it. “With a really nice ass.”

“So screw her,” he tells me. “Friends can screw.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” I try to explain. “She has also nice eyes, and a nice smile, and she does this cute thing with her hair when she’s nervous. She’s really smart too, and she’s so talented. She makes these drawings, and they’re like...like nothing you’ve ever seen before, Alain. She’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, petit frère. Just ask her out already. You’re in a famous band; she’s not going to say no.”

“But that’s the thing!” I protest. “I think she would say no. We have these like...moments, you know? Where we’re staring at each other and something just...shifts, and I know she feels it too. I know she does, but she keeps pulling back for some reason.”

“Maybe she’s just scared. Maybe you need to make the first move.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. She’s also got something on with a guy at her work. It’s not serious—at least, I don’t think it is—but she mentions him to me and stuff. Would she do that if she was actually interested in me?”

Alain shrugs. “Maybe she’s trying to make you jealous?”

I bristle. “No, Molly wouldn’t play games like that. She’s not that kind of person.”

Alain laughs beside me, nudging my arm and gesturing for me to follow him across the road. We’re walking up Rue Saint-Catherine, a street that runs the length of central Montreal and cuts straight through the heart of downtown. Like everywhere in this city, Saint-Catherine is a mixed-up combination of sketchy and stylish, business and bohemian. Brand name boutiques, dingy bars, high rise office buildings, and blacked-out windows with signs promises danseuses: this street has it all.

“Why are you laughing?” I snap when he continues cackling like a super villain.

“It’s just...” Voyons, the fucker can’t even talk he’s laughing so hard. “It’s just...just...you’re like, serious about this girl. You really are. You’re all pissed about this. When do you even get pissed about anything? You just laugh shit off and move onto whatever’s next. It’s like you’re, I don’t know, acting in some TV show right now. This isn’t you.”

“I didn’t say it was serious,” I argue. “I just like her, okay?”

Alain seems to sober up when I go quiet. “Look, petit frère, this is what your big brother thinks you should do: just tell her. If you believe she’s the kind of girl who doesn’t play games, then don’t play games with her either. Just tell her how you feel, and if she keeps wanting to see some other guy, then whatever, but at least you’ll know. It’s always better to know than to wonder.”

I don’t know what fortune cookie he pulled that out of, but it strikes a chord. Either I sit around waiting for an answer I’ll have to face eventually, or I go out and get it over with now.

I start to slow-clap. “Alain Bouchard-Guindon, ladies and gentlemen. The Love Doctor has left the house.”

He gives me the finger, but he’s smiling. “Love Doctor—maybe that’s how I should introduce myself to all the girls in Thailand.”

“No love,” I warn him. “If you come back married, Papa is going to freak the fuck out.”

“If you show up at the Christmas gala with an English girl, Papa is going to freak the fuck out,” he shoots back, “and you know if you don’t bring a ‘suitable’ date, he’ll find you one.”

“Whatever.”

I don’t want to think about my dad right now. In fact, I can’t think of a single time when I actually would want to think about him.

“You really think I should tell her?” I ask Alain, scratching my chin as we pass by the crowds going in and out of Simons.

“Yeah, and as soon as possible,” he agrees. “Today, if you can.”

Today.

I could make that happen. I don’t know where his wisdom came from, but Alain might be right about this. Playing games and dropping hints, dancing around something I want like a maudit ballerina because I don’t have the balls to go after it—that’s not my style.

I’m more of a jump now, worry about the rocks at the bottom later kind of guy. At least, I usually am. Molly has me thinking about those rocks for the first time in awhile, but it might be too late for that. I might already be in the air.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I announce. “As soon as you leave for the airport, I’ll go over to her house.”

Molly and Stéphanie’s building doesn’t have a buzzer, or even a lock on the main door. I walk right into the coffin-sized entryway and take the creaking steps two at a time. I have to squeeze up against the wall when I meet a bald guy with a giant Doberman coming down the stairs. This place really is creepy.

I came straight over here after watching Alain get on a bus to the airport. I probably should have texted, but I was only a few blocks away, and I figured I’d check if Molly was home. I hear voices behind the apartment door when I knock and wonder if Ace is over here too.

The door swings open a few inches, and the first thing I see is Molly’s cloud of hair. Her face is still turned towards whoever’s in the living room, and when she looks at me, her laugh catches in her throat but doesn’t leave her features.

“JP!” she says brightly. “What are you doing here?”

She opens the door wider, and that’s when I see Paul sitting on her couch.

“It’s the rock star!” he greets me.

Then he does the fucking jazz hands.

“I, uh...” I pause and cough, searching for an excuse. “Is Stéphanie home? I just came for some protein bars.”

“She’s at the studio,” Molly tells me. She gives me a mischievous little smile. “I thought you were just sampling her protein bars so you could buy your own.”

I can’t help smiling back; even with that douche canoe sitting on her couch, her smile still makes me feel like I’m the lucky fucker who gets to live on the side of the fence where the grass is always green.

“Well, I have to sample them a few times before I can be really sure which kind I like. You know how it is.”

“I really don’t know how it is.” She steps back and motions for me to come inside. “But I’m sure we could find you a few of them.”

I stay standing in the doorway. “I’m not...interrupting am I?”

“Oh, no. Paul was just saying he has to leave.”

He gets up from the couch and pulls a jacket on before adjusting his man-bun.

Yep. Still smaller than mine.

I follow Molly into the apartment and lean against the refrigerator as she and Paul say goodbye. He reaches for her elbow and leans in like he’s going to kiss her, but she turns her head at the last second so he catches her cheek.

“Bye, Molly,” I hear him mutter against her skin.

She steps back a second later. “Bye, Paul. See you at work.”

He looks over her head at me and juts his chin out. “Later, rock star.”

She shuts the door behind him and then joins me in the kitchen, avoiding my eyes as she pulls all the cupboard doors open and starts tossing boxes of protein bars onto the tiny counter. Her cheeks are practically glowing they’re so pink.

“So...” I begin, still leaning on the fridge with my arms crossed. “How are things going with Paul?”

“Good,” she squeaks. “We just went on our third date today. He took me to a movie, and then we came back here for a bit.”

I feel like there’s a lion in my chest, pacing around inside a cage, just waiting for the chance to fucking destroy something with its claws.

“Came back here, huh?” I repeat. Somehow my voice sounds even.

I didn’t think Molly could get any pinker, but she does. “We didn’t like—We’re not, uh, together, as in like—There’s been no nakedness involved.”

I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. I laugh for a long time. She just looks so adorably awkward.

“No nakedness involved,” I repeat, when I can actually talk again. “Got it.”

She reaches over and punches my arm. “Don’t make fun of me! God, I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I urge. “I like when you trust me enough to tell me things.”

I don’t know where that piece of sincerity came from, but it hangs between us, a heavy weight dragging down on my neck. We’re silent until I grab one of the protein bars and rip it open, chomping down on a huge bite.

“Merde alors,” I mumble around a mouthful. “I’m fucking starving.”

“You’re always fucking starving,” she teases. “I’m really hungry too. I thought we were going to dinner before the movie, so I haven’t eaten anything since lunch.”

“He made you sit through the whole movie instead of taking you out for food?” I demand.

She fluffs up her hair. “Well, I, uh, didn’t tell him I hadn’t eaten.”

I wave the remaining half of my protein bar at her. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It just felt embarrassing at the time. I know that sounds stupid, but it did.”

I swallow down whatever it is protein bars are made of. “New rule, Molly Myers. If you’re ever hungry when you’re hanging out with me—no matter where we are or what we’re doing—you tell me, and we’ll get food right away. Deal?”

I hold my hand out for her to shake. She wraps her palm around mine, and I know we’re both thinking about our handshake lesson from the day we met. Her skin is just as soft as it was then, but the pressure of her fingers is firmer this time.

“Okay, deal.” She grins up at me before pulling her hand back. “I am pretty hungry right now.”

She had to have felt that too—the way the whole maudit world seemed to shrink to just her hand in mine. For a second, everything else was background noise. She seems to be doing her best to ignore it, though, and so for now, I follow her lead.

I gesture around the kitchen. “What food do you have in here?”

She digs around and pulls out two blue cardboard boxes.

“Kraft Dinner is the most sophisticated thing we’ve got,” she admits. “I do have some ham to put in it. Some people find that weird, but it’s my favourite.”

I almost drop my protein bar on the floor.

When I said I liked this girl, I may have been understating. I really fucking like this girl.

“Molly.” I put my hands on her shoulders and look into her eyes. She blinks up at me. “Ham is my absolute favourite thing in the world.”

We eat our Kraft Dinner sitting cross-legged on the couch. The processed mac n’ cheese makes me think of being a kid again. With six kids in the family, we ate a lot of quick-fix meals. You’d think with an MP for a dad we would have grown up fancier, but when you’re trying to feed that many kids, fast and easy is more important that gourmet. I liked it better that way. All the frozen pizzas and oven-ready lasagnas were very kid-friendly when it came to helping in the kitchen.

“I used to love helping my Maman make this,” I tell Molly, in between shovelling forkfuls of pasta into my mouth. “Putting the cheese mix in is the best part.”

“I thought the ham was your favourite part.”

“Ham is in its own league, Molly,” I tell her. “Ham and chocolate pudding cups are the NHL of food. Everything else is the minor leagues.”

She nudges me with her foot. “You’re such a man-child.”

I catch her foot with my hand and squeeze it, raising an eyebrow at her. “A sexy man-child?”

Her cobalt eyes get all big and round. I watch her bottom lip drop open.

Tell her. Just tell her.

“Molly...”

“I should put the protein bars away!” she yelps.

She jerks her foot away and jumps off the couch. The cupboard doors bang as she zooms around the kitchen, chucking boxes in every direction. Really, it’s an impressive collection of protein bars.

“In case Stéphanie comes back,” she explains to me, sounding breathless. “She’d probably be pissed.”

I finish the last few bites of my meal as she starts to do the dishes. Without needing any directions, I get up and grab a towel to dry while she washes. We fall into an easy rhythm right away, keeping silent for the first few minutes.

“This kitchen is so tiny,” I eventually comment. “This building is from, what? The sixties? People weren’t this tiny in the sixties.”

She seems grateful for the subject change. “Sometimes I wonder that too. Then again, when Stéphanie and I moved in, we realized there are like twenty layers of paint on the walls in this place. It’d probably be several feet bigger if you scraped them all off.”

There’s another pause once all the dishes are finished. This is probably the point where I say I should leave, but I don’t want to go just yet. The night doesn’t feel done.

“Got any plans?” I ask her. “For the rest of this fine evening?”

“You probably wouldn’t consider them plans,” she admits, “but I don’t start class until late tomorrow, so I was going to put a movie on and do a snail mask.”

“A...snail mask?” I squint at her. “Like, des escargots?”

She holds up a finger and rushes into her room, coming back with some kind of packet.

“A snail mask,” she repeats, holding the package out to me. “It revitalizes your youthful glow! I think it’s probably bullshit, but they make me feel nice.”

I read the label and glance over the instructions. “So this has snail...stuff in it, and you put it on your face?”

She nods.

“Well this I have to see,” I announce.

Ten minutes later, I’ve persuaded Molly to show me her snail mask. She was too embarrassed at first, but after lots of begging, I am now standing beside her in front of the bathroom mirror. I rip the packet she gave me open and pull out what looks like a slimy lump of wet toilet paper. Molly does the same thing next to me.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” I demand.

“You have to untangle it,” she explains. “It’s actually a sheet in the shape of a face. You line it up like this”—her lump of toilet paper looks like a mask now, and she holds it up in front of her face—“and then you just stick it on.”

She smoothes the cloth down and I gasp in horror.

“Tabarnak! You look like fucking Friday the 13^th, Molly. Take it off!”

The thing even has little holes for her nostrils. It’s terrifying.

“I’m not taking it off.” She giggles and takes my mask out of my hands, unravelling it for me and holding it up. “Come here and let me put this on you.”

I shake my head and lean away. “Non. I changed my mind. I want nothing to do with this.”

“It’s too late for that. Just put the damn mask on, JP.”

She grabs my shirt and tugs me towards her. That, more than anything, is what makes me stay still as she smoothes the cloth over my face. Even looking like a serial killer, she’s still impossibly cute, especially when her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she concentrates on lining the mask up just right.

“Can you breathe?” she asks me.

“Sort of.” I glance at myself in the mirror. “Esti de chrise, Molly. These things should be illegal.”

“They’re actually quite relaxing!” she protests.

“What do we now?” I ask.

“Well, now I usually chill out and watch a movie.”

I’m standing closest to the door, so I lead the way out of the bathroom.

“Okay, but nothing scary. I’m already terrified enough.”

We decide to watch the movie in her bedroom, since the couch is too small to get comfortable on. Honestly, her twin bed isn’t much better, but I’m not about to complain. She turns on the little mini lights that decorate her walls, and I feel like we’re in a sanctuary, like this is a place where nothing could ever go bad.

“Any requests?” she asks, as she pulls up Netflix on her computer. “Apparently Sharknado and Ironman are trending.”

“I don’t know why everyone hates on Sharknado. I mean, it’s a tornado made of sharks. That is some dope shit right there!”

Molly shakes her head, and her mask slips. She pulls it back into place. “Sometimes I don’t know if you’re joking or not. Do you actually want to watch it?”

“Non, non, non. It’s gotta be Ironman. He’s my favourite superhero, you know.”

“Well in that case...”

Molly presses play on the movie, and we settle back onto our pillows. We’re sitting up against the wall, legs stretched out in front of us and the laptop resting between them.

“Why is he your favourite superhero?” Molly asks, as the opening sequence starts up.

“Because he’s an inventor. If he needs something, he just makes it himself, you know?” I explain. “When I was a kid, I used to love taking stuff apart, putting it back together, figuring out how it worked. Voyons, who am I kidding? I still love to do that. Matt’s always on my ass about all the random crap lying around our apartment.”

“Man-child,” Molly mutters.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” I agree, chuckling. “I just always thought Tony Stark was so cool. I wanted to be like that. I wanted to be this weird inventor guy who could make anything he dreamed of, who was funny and didn’t take shit seriously, but could be a total boss when he wanted to. All the other superheroes are always rolling their eyes at Ironman, but when it counts, they take him seriously. I don’t know. I just liked him a lot.”

Molly doesn’t reply right away. She’s quiet for so long that I start tuning into the movie, and I glance over at her in surprise when she speaks.

“You say you wanted to be like that,” she says slowly, “but don’t you think you already are?”

She’s still staring at the explosions happening on the laptop screen.

“I mean, you’re in Sherbrooke Station. You guys built your whole career from the bottom up. If that doesn’t count as an impressive invention, I don’t know what does. You are a boss, JP. You’re impressive. You’re like...seven thousand times more impressive than anyone else I’ve ever talked to.”

I must look as stunned as I feel. She presses her lips together like she’s embarrassed, and we both go back to pretending to watch the movie. I can practically feel how close her hand is right now, resting on top of the blankets just a few inches from mine. I could place my palm in hers, wrap her fingers around mine. She might let me.

She might not.

I’m falling off that cliff’s edge, and the water is so damn close—just not close enough for me to see if it’s safe to drop into the waves. For the first time, I know what hitting the water and smashing into the rocks under the surface would mean.

They’d mean I’d lose this. If Molly doesn’t feel the same, if she’s not willing to give this a try, I could end up cut out of her life completely.

I don’t think I’m ready to risk that. I want to stay in this sanctuary for as long as I can, wearing dumb snail masks and watching superheroes take down bad guys on her laptop screen. I want to hear her laugh at Tony Stark’s jokes while I stare at the little gap of skin between her leggings and the edge of her shirt. I want to know her. I want to learn her. I want to pick her apart like a piece of machinery and find out how every gear turns.

So when she pulls off her face mask and then shifts onto her side, staring at me with those big cobalt eyes that can go so round and so wide, I don’t ask her the question I want to.

I ask her one that’s safe.

“Do you like him?”

She frowns.

“Paul,” I explain. “Do you like him?”

She doesn’t have to ask what kind of ‘like’ I mean. I peel off my own mask and watch her scrunch her face up like she’s trying to work something out.

“I...”

Her hand twitches next to mine, and then she turns to stare at the laptop again.

“I do, yes. I like him.”