The sun beats down on my back, making sweat gather at the nape of my neck and along my hairline. I can practically feel my skin turning pink. I realized I forgot my sunscreen as soon as I showed up at the tour starting point, but there wasn’t time to go buy any.

One more hour, I think to myself, as I lead the group across an intersection. One more hour and JP will be here to slather you up with lotion.

Hopefully he’ll bring slushies, too. It’s a slushies kind of day.

I approach our next tour stop and turn my back to the piece of artwork, facing the crowd of about two dozen people that gathers in front of me. They’re a mix of locals and tourists, some who don’t know the difference between a tag and a mural, and others who’ve been grilling my street art knowledge like this is some kind of national exam.

If it is, I know I’ve passed with flying colours.

When I saw the ad looking for volunteer tour guides to help with this year’s Mural Festival, my first thought was, “I could totally do that!” My second thought was, “Oh god, no. I could totally not do that.” Being engaging and entertaining in front of large groups of strangers is still far from my forte, but when I mentioned the job to JP, he just wouldn’t let it go.

“You’re already my personal street art guide,” he’d joked. “You should go for it.”

We do that a lot: encourage each other, push each other to try new things. We always seem to know when to acknowledge each other’s boundaries, and when to nudge each other past them. We lean on one another, but that doesn’t mean we ever forget how to stand on our own.

“This is a favourite of mine,” I tell the group, patting the wall behind me. “This is the Graffiti Grandma.”

I go into detail about the collective behind the piece, and explain that it was done as part of the Mural Festival a few years back. Every year in June, there’s a big ten day festival where artists put up pieces all over the city. There are tours and exhibits, plus concerts from all kinds of musicians at night—one of whom just so happens to be my boyfriend.

I say goodbye to the group an hour later, congratulating myself on being able to answer all their questions, and for how graciously I endured a long selfie session that a family from Quebec City insisted I be a part of. I’m waiting on the sidewalk on Boulevard Saint-Laurent when I spot JP approaching, wearing Ray-Bans and his infamous six pack tank top. He’s also holding two slushies.

“God, yes!” I groan, grabbing one of the plastic cups without even saying hello to him. “I feel like I’m melting.”

He watches with a grin on his face as I slurp several mouthfuls down, moaning as the ice and sugar hits my tongue.

“And you got me a red one,” I say approvingly. “You know me so well.”

“That I do,” he agrees. “I would never be forgiven if I brought you a blue slushie. Now turn around so I can lotion you.”

I do as he orders, still in the throes of ecstasy over the taste of my drink.

“How was the tour?” he asks.

“Great!” I reply. “Even with the heat. Oh, and I think I found a good spot for my next goldfish.”

I’ve been making a tentative foray into the street art scene ever since JP presented me with some cans of spray paint and dragged me out to an underpass to try them out. At first the trend wasn’t intentional, but I always end up drawing a goldfish.

“I can’t wait to see it, JP answers. He squirts a drop of sunscreen on my shoulder and starts to rub it in, lifting my shirt’s spaghetti strap so he can get the whole area covered.

“You really are the best boyfriend ever.” I sigh as he starts to give me a mini massage.

“You like that, baby?” he drawls, leaning in close to my ear. “You like sucking on that slushie while I get you all oiled up?”

I burst out laughing. “Wow, you’re really great at dirty talk. I’m ready to jump you right here in the street.”

His lips brush the skin behind my ear. “Just say when.”

I’ve never met anyone who can do that quite the way he does: one second he’ll have me laughing so hard I sound like a hyena, and then all it takes is a slight shift in his voice before my thighs are clenching and my body is calling his name.

“Don’t pull that on me now,” I warn him. “We don’t have time for shenanigans.”

We’re grabbing a quick lunch before I’m due to pick up Justine at the bus terminal. She’s taking a few days off from her ridiculous summer school schedule to visit me and see JP’s show tonight. This is only his third solo gig. It’s the biggest he’s ever played, but I know he was more nervous for his last show, the one his parents turned up for.I’ll never forget the sight of Marc Bouchard standing in a grimy bar in a button-down shirt with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You excited for tonight?” I ask, as we make our way to a nearby food truck.

“Oh yeah,” he answers, practically bouncing up and down beside me. “I’m psyched! I’m pumped! I’m totally stoked, bro!”

He stops to high-five a random stranger passing by, and I just shake my head and laugh, marvelling at the unreality of it all. I, Molly Myers, am dating JP Bouchard-Guindon. Sometimes it still overwhelms me, not because of how insane the situation is, but because of how normal it feels, how right. Being with him is like trying on those jeans you’ve admired in a store window for months, certain they’ll never fit you, only to discover they’re the most comfortable things you’ve ever worn.

“I made you something,” I announce, as we’re sitting on a bench and finishing up our greasy burgers.

JP places a hand on his chest. “Pour moi?”

“Yes. Give me your phone.”

He looks confused, but hands it over. I open up a music streaming app and type my username in the search bar, smiling to myself when I see JP is already following a few of my playlists. I open up the newest one and hand his phone back.

I watch his face as he reads the title: JP + Molly.

“I have a playlist for everything,” I explain. “I figured it was time I made one for us.”

Serena Ryder’s Christmas song is on there. So is the Mika track he barged in on me listening to in my apartment months ago. Arcade Fire’s ‘Rebellion’ is featured, and of course Wheatus makes an appearance, along with a dozen or so other songs that never fail to make me think of him.

“Molly...” he murmurs, still scanning the track list. “This is perfect.”

He pockets his phone and pulls me into him. I wipe the burger sauce off the corner of his mouth before we kiss.

We part ways not long after that. I trudge to the bus station, and JP heads off to whatever several hours’ worth of pre-concert stuff he has to do. Justine and I get food truck crepes for dinner—it’s not a healthy eating day for me—and wander around the Plateau, soaking up the lights of the city, the energy and the art. The fading streaks of pink and gold in the inky sky look like one massive mural that’s been painted just for us.

We meet up with some people from Metro Records to watch the show. I make sure to get us there early enough to snag spots in the front row. The festival has a pop-up stage in a parking lot. We’re pretty much the first ones there, but as the sky gets darker, the crowd starts to file in fast. A group of girls who must be a few years younger than me press themselves up against the railing beside us.

“Oh my god, I am so excited!” I hear one gush. “Do you think the whole band is going to show up?”

“It’s supposed to be just JP, but maybe they’ll bring everyone out. Can you imagine? Look how close we are to the stage. You can’t get this close to Sherbrooke Station anymore. I think I might actually die if we’re this close to Ace Turner.”

They all squeal.

“You guys!” another one shouts. “Let’s take pictures to post on Sounds of the Station.”

They all start piling up for selfies. I turn to Justine and we share a knowing smile. She handed off the blog’s reins to an assistant administrator a few months ago, blaming school as the reason. I think she was probably just weirded out to be running a fansite that worships my boyfriend.

We’re minutes away from the time JP’s due to come on, and the unmistakable crackle of energy that announces the start of a show zings through the crowd, leaving my arms covered in goose bumps despite the heat of the night. The spotlights flash over the audience and then fixate on the stage. Some sort of primal pack instinct takes over, and we all scream the same words, demand the same thing. We came here for music, and we’re going to get it.

A ripple of confusion starts to spread through the parking lot as at least a minute ticks by without anything happening. Everyone is worried something’s wrong, but I’m just wondering what stunt JP intends to pull tonight. He’s never one to resist making an entrance.

“Hey look, it’s him!” one of the girls beside us shouts.

I strain my eyes up towards where she’s pointing, and sure enough, JP is standing on a metal rail at the top of the stage rigging. He’s holding a microphone and wearing a purple sequined tuxedo jacket that’s almost blindingly sparkly, even from down here.

I shake my head as I press my hand over my mouth.

Only JP.

“Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs. I am Jean-Paul Marc Joseph Bouchard-Guindon, but—”

He starts scaling the rigging down to the stage. The crowd gasps as he spider monkeys his way over several levels of scaffolding and lets himself drop the last few feet, landing spryly before strutting to centre stage.

“...you may call me JP.”

I’m the first one to start cheering.

His set is somehow even more impressive than the last time I saw him play. He uses the looper to layer almost a dozen instruments together, weaving complex patterns of sound that feel newborn and ancient all at once. I sway and bounce to the rhythm, as entranced as everyone else is by the way he guides the music with his hands, feet, and voice.

I may even be the most entranced of all. He looks so happy, so peaceful and perfect, even as he’s whooping at the top of his lungs and jumping around like a madman. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be, and not only do I get to witness it, but I have the honour of knowing I somehow managed to help him get there.

I glance at my group of friends from Metro, people I would never have dared speak to just months before, and find them all clapping along to the beat.

Just like he helped me.

“Okay, okay,” JP rasps into the mic, towards the end of the set. He’s sounds like he’s on the verge of losing his voice and chugs half a bottle of water before continuing. “So I know this was supposed to be a solo show, but I thought you guys might like a surprise.”

The crowd roars its agreement.

“I’m going to end things off by inviting my best friends, my brothers from other mothers, and the most useless sack of assholes you’ve ever met to join me on stage. For the last song of the night, please welcome...Sherbrooke Station!”

True to her word, the girl beside me does seem to be having some kind of heart attack as Matt, Cole, and Ace walk out onto the stage. They position themselves at their respective instruments, although JP keeps hold of the mic.

“This one,” he announces, settling himself behind the keyboard, “is for Molly. I may be a dirtbag, but je t’aime. Je t’aime avec tout mon coeur.”

Dating a francophone has improved my French enough to catch what he says: I love you. I love you with all of my heart.

Every inch of me, every blood vessel and neuron, every nerve ending and tendon, screams the words back at him when the band starts to play ‘Teenage Dirtbag.’ JP sings the whole thing looking straight at me, and I know he’s not the only person who’s exactly where they’re supposed to be right now.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be standing than with my feet on the pavement and my hands wrapped around the rail, with my friends beside me and my favourite band in front of me, with the same words of the same song bursting from all our lips.

There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, right now, with him.