I have my headphones on, but I can still hear the Beyoncé song blasting through the wall and the shouts and thumping sounds of people dancing. I thought about staying late at the McGill library tonight and avoiding this party altogether, but I didn’t know what time Stéphanie and her friends would be leaving. Accidentally walking into an apartment full of people is not something I felt the need to put myself through. I can just imagine my awkward dash to my room, avoiding everyone’s invitations to join the dance party and overhearing their whispers about ‘that weird girl’ once I was gone.

There’s actually a part of me that wants to be out there, a part of me that’s fearless enough to throw my door open and complete the simple task of saying hello, but the weight of everything that could go wrong if I did keeps me glued to my chair.

So instead, I turn the volume on my computer up louder. The Gang of Youths track I’m blasting becomes my personal theme song as I update one of my several Tumblr pages. I have one for music, one for street art, one for graphic design, and one very NSFW page full of sexy GIFs that not even Justine knows about.

What can I say? I’m a child of the internet age.

Justine and I used to run a Sherbrooke Station fan page together that got so popular we turned it into its own website. Sounds of the Station is still going strong, but I’ve taken a leave of absence from my role as co-webmistress. It just felt too pathetic to sit at my computer fangirling over Ace’s crazy sex hair when my roommate was right next door giving him crazy sex hair.

I’m in full-on re-blogging mode when I hear the knock on my door over the sound of my music and freeze.

Turds, I think. Turds, turds turds.

I take a moment to fight back the instinct to crawl under my bed. When I finally rip my headphones out and pad over to the door, the person is knocking a second time. I swing it open a few inches and find JP Bouchard-Guindon standing there, his hand still raised in a fist and a plate held in his other hand.

“Want some dick cake?” he asks.

I try to remember how to breathe.

Sure, he’s not Ace Turner, but he’s still a member of Sherbrooke Station, and despite my recent lag in enthusiasm over my love for the band, standing face to face with someone whose music I’ve obsessed over for years is still enough to make me feel like I’m short-circuiting.

I almost cringed myself to death replaying my last interaction with him about ten thousand times after it happened. He saw me in my granny panties.

“Uhhh...” I manage to mumble.

JP glances at the cake in his hand and then back at me.

“It’s just a dick cake because it was shaped like a dick. It actually tastes pretty good.”

He holds the plate out to me, and I somehow have the presence of mind to take it.

He peers over my shoulder into my room. “Look’s cozy in there.”

I follow his gaze to the strings of mini lights I have hanging from the ceiling, casting a soft glow on the tapestry and photo collage that cover my walls. Combine that with my macramé plant holders and thrifted knitted throw pillows, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a stereotypical Tumblr girl bedroom. It is pretty cozy, though. Being in here feels like crawling inside a safe and comfortable Molly nest.

“Ben là, is that a vintage Linn?” JP exclaims.

I end up pushing the door open a bit wider when I turn to face my record player. “Um, yeah. It is.”

“You mind if I look at it?”

He’s already stepping past me and approaching the spindly little table I keep the record player on. I glance into the living room, but no one seems to be paying us any attention. My heart jumps into my throat when I realize that not only is Ace in the room, but Matt Pearson and Cole Byrne have also shown up, meaning all of Shebrooke Station is currently hanging out in my apartment.

I let my door swing shut, blocking out most of the noise of the party. I’ve got to focus on something else or I’ll start hyperventilating.

“This is the shit,” JP proclaims, hovering over the record player’s dust cover.

He looks like a kid staring at the window of a toy store, and I don’t blame him. It’s a beautiful piece, with a dark wooden base and glossy black top. My uncle got it as a birthday present back in the 80s and never used it much, meaning it was in great condition when he passed it off to me a few years ago.

My record collection is stacked on the shelf under the player. JP stoops down to read the band names on the spines.

“This isn’t bad either,” he announces. “You have good taste.”

I feel myself blushing. “Thanks.”

He straightens up again and looks at me. “Are you gonna eat that, or did the whole dick thing freak you out too much?”

I realize I’m still clutching the plate of cake coated in peach-coloured frosting and set it down on my desk. JP is now gawking at the photo collage over my bed. I use the opportunity to really take the sight of him in.

Seeing him in person is like watching your favourite cartoon character come to life. I’ve stared at enough Sherbrooke Station posters and seen the band play so many times that JP’s tangled brown man-bun and the scattered tattoos stretching up both his arms feel familiar, but it’s as if he was only ever two-dimensional before. I didn’t know about the way he constantly bobs his head like he’s got his own mental radio station, or how he always seems to scratch his chin just before he’s about to ask a question.

I watch him squint and move closer to the collage. It’s a mix of my drawings, high school era photos of Justine and I, printouts of foreign street art pieces I’ve found online, and an entire disposable camera’s worth of shots of me posing in front of various Montreal murals. Justine took them after I forced her into going on a street art walking tour with me when she came to visit last summer.

“This is cool,” JP appraises. “This is very cool. Hey, I know that painting! That’s on Saint-Laurent. I love that one.”

He points to a photo of me standing next to one of my favourite murals in the city. It’s a huge piece on the side of a building that shows a funky old woman wearing a dress covered in graffiti designs, unleashing a can of orange spray paint.

“Yeah, the graffiti grandma. I love it too,” I tell him. “ASHOP does amazing stuff here. Have you seen that giant art nouveau piece they did in NDG? I could stare at that for hours.”

I turn to see him giving me a blank look and instantly feel heat rising in my cheeks for what must be the fiftieth time today.

“Sorry. I’m an art nerd.”

JP shakes his head. “Why are you sorry about that?”

He goes back to looking at the collage before I can think up an answer.

“I like that one,” he says, pointing to another piece. A girl painted in greyscale on a brick wall leans on one of her arms, her skin covered in multi-coloured, zig-zagging lines. “Where is that?”

“In London. I’ve never been there; I just printed it out,” I admit. “It’s by this guy called Ant Carver.”

“Cool name,” JP comments. “Do you do any of this yourself?”

I balk. “What? Street art? No. No way. I’m just a fan.”

He nods, and without warning, he turns around and plops down on my bed, patting the mattress beside him as he gestures for me to follow suit. I find myself taking a seat on the very edge of the comforter.

“The party’s getting loud again,” he comments. “I think we’re leaving soon.”

I know what’s coming next. He’s going to ask me why I’m not out there. He’s going to ask me why I’m hiding in my room. He’s going to coax and question until I’m a flustered mess just desperate to be left alone, and then he’ll finally sigh and makes that stupid, pointless statement of the obvious: Oh, you’re shyyyy.

It’s what always happens when extraverted people decide to take the quiet girl under their wing, like all I need is a little shove into the centre of the room and suddenly I’ll turn into this fascinating socialite. It just ends up being awkward and uncomfortable for everyone involved.

JP doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he twists to face the string of photos behind us and asks, “Which one is your favourite?”

“Of the—the paintings?” I stammer.

“Yeah.”

I turn to face them as well, letting my eyes roam over the images as I forget all about the party for a moment. There are paintings from artists whose work I haven’t seen in person yet: Collette Miller, Alice Pasquini, AntiGirl, ABOVE, and of course an inevitable Banksy or two. There are photos of the giant murals Montreal is famous for, and some of the smaller gems you really have to pay attention to find.

“That one,” I say, pointing to a photo just over JP’s shoulder. “That one is my favourite.”

The piece is on the very top of a building along Sherbrooke Street, right at the edge of the McGill Ghetto. I pass it almost every day going to school, and it still makes me stop and smile.

“This one?” JP asks. “This petit chose?”

It’s a simple design: just white block letters that spell out the words ‘You Go Girl’ followed by three tiny hearts. To me, it’s always felt like a little piece of encouragement, like a message left for anyone who finds themselves standing on that street corner, staring up at the sky in despair.

“Yes, that one,” I tell JP. “I know it’s not much, but...to me, it sort of represents why I love street art so much. You can stumble across a piece that changes your entire day. It’s art you don’t have to go looking for. It’s art that finds you, sometimes when you need it the most.”

When I turn to find JP grinning at me, I realize I’ve just said more than five words in a row. As if to make up for it, my brain starts freezing up again.

“S-sorry, I know I get, like”—I stop and swallow—“weird about this stuff.”

I let out a freakish laugh and scan the room for something to occupy me before I can embarrass myself any further. I spot the still untouched piece of cake and lunge for it, resting the plate on my lap and shoveling pieces into my mouth with my bare hands.

Operation Appear Normal: Complete Failure.

Maybe he’s just waiting for the prime opportunity to run back to safety, but JP stays where he is, humming to himself as he scans over the rest of the collage and occasionally asks me a question about the paintings. I answer in one and two word statements, afraid I’m going to accidentally wax poetic on him again.

As we’re talking, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little rubber ball. He keeps it out of sight under his palm, rolling it against his thigh in an absent-minded way. I don’t think he even realizes he’s taken it out.

“That one’s by Banksy,” I say, answering his latest inquiry.

“Oh!” JP exclaims. “I know Banksy! He’s the one that does the, uh, you know...”

He lifts his hands up in front of him to try and illustrate something he doesn’t have the English word for. When he does, the little ball rolls off the mattress and onto the floor.

“Ah, merde,” he swears, before bending forwards to grab it.

His shirt rides up as he does and I can see the small of his back, along with what appears to be the waistband of a pair of Iron Man boxers. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“You’ve got a lot of papers down here,” he comments. He’s slumped so far forward his head’s practically under my bed now. “You sure you’re not an artist? Oh, attends, is that...me?”

A shard of ice shoots up my spine. All I can do is sit there silently as JP shuffles a few papers around and whistles.

“This is an impressive collection, Molly,” he teases.

I want to dive headfirst under my blankets. I couldn’t bring myself to throw away all my Sherbrooke Station posters after I finally caved and pulled them off my walls. They all got stuffed under my bed as a compromise. Some are official merchandise; others are print-outs of design work I did for Sounds of the Station.

“Damn. This one is fucking awesome.”

JP straightens up, and to my total mortification, he’s clutching a Molly Myers original. It’s an edit I did of Ace. I transposed his image onto a murky black background with the Sherbrooke Station logo underneath him. His face is shadowed, and a pair of graffiti-style wings I drew in Illustrator stretch out from his shoulder blades.

“I’ve never seen this before,” JP babbles. “Usually we get a look at the merch. Half the stuff they show us is crap, but this...this is vraiment cool. They need a graphic designer at our new label.” He taps the poster. “They should use this guy. Where did you get this?”

I blink at him. “A...a show.”

He stares like he expects more detail.

“In Kingston,” I lie. “I have a friend who goes to school there.”

“You mind if I take a picture of this? I’m going to ask the label to look it up.”

I nod weakly as he pulls his phone out and snaps a shot of my work. Someone taps on my bedroom door just then, and I hop up to pull it open. Stéphanie is standing behind it. Over her shoulder, I can see her now more-than-tipsy friends scrambling to grab their purses as they congregate by the apartment’s entrance.

“We’re going to the show now,” Stéphanie says cheerily. “Molly, you’re more than welcome to join.”

JP is already on his feet.

“You need to get ready or anything?” he asks me. “We’re going to see some band. They’re called...uh...something with ‘Code’ I think. Code...Viagra?”

I can’t help letting out a snort.

“Code Ventura,” I correct him.

He laughs along with me. “Yeah, that makes more sense. You know them, then?”

I stare down at my feet. “Just a few songs. They’re new on the Montreal scene.”

“Well, you’ll save us from looking like total posers, then. I don’t know anything about them.”

He smiles at me and walks out of the room, like there’s no doubt I’m following after him—following after him to go see a concert with Sherbrooke Station.

Usually when people try to include me, they do it the way Stéphanie does: with a hesitant suggestion and a sympathetic, “Yeah, that’s okay,” as soon as I start to mumble my excuses. On the other hand, some people think being pushy is the way to get a shy person out of their shell, and would have the whole group chanting my name to coax me out of my bedroom.

No one ever just assumes I’m going to agree. No one ever thinks I’m going to be normal about it.

I think that’s what has me pulling a pair of shoes on and grabbing my purse before I can fully process what I’m doing. The part of me that wants nothing more than to spend a night caught up in the rush of music and neon lights clings to the fact that there’s now another person in the room who wants that for me too.

I fist my hand around the strap of my purse as I step into the living room, bracing myself for social impact, but no one even notices my arrival. They’re all thundering and clacking down the stairs of the apartment building already.

JP is the last one out. He holds the door open for me and tosses a wink my way as we follow the group out into a Montreal Friday night.