Your Echo (Sherbrooke Station Book 2)

by Katia Rose

  I sit on the couch in Matt and JP’s apartment, eating a ham sandwich. For someone who loves food as much as JP does, he doesn’t seem to know much about cooking. I’ve been fed a combination of ham sandwiches, boxed mac n’ cheese, and pudding cups for the past day and a half.

  Not that I’m complaining. It’s better than I’d be feeding myself if I were at my own place.

  After I was discharged from the hospital, the guys all insisted that I go home with Matt and JP. I was too caught up in a haze of pain to protest and spent last night on their couch. I woke up with the ability to open both my eyes again, but the painkillers I took this morning have only managed to mellow the stabbing pain in my ribs to a dull ache.

  I deserve worse. I deserve a smashed rib instead of a fractured one. I deserve three smashed ribs.

  “I ruined her life,” I keep repeating between bites of ham. “Everything she missed out on was because of me.”

  Matt finishes up the last bite of his own sandwich and sighs in the armchair across from me.

  “It can’t be as bad as you think.”

  I shake my head. “She ran away at the hospital. She blames me as much as I blame myself. I know she does. She’s gone, Matt. I lost her.”

  “She was in shock,” Matt argues, for probably the fifth time today. “Give her some time to process it. I think it’s fucking stupid to let what you guys have fall apart because of something that happened when you were just kids.”

  “You weren’t there.” I sound hollow. “It’s not just some childhood memory. It changed both our lives. Forever. It made us who we are.”

  Matt drags a hand down his face. “I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, so I’m going to let this drop. We’ll continue the conversation when you can actually breathe properly again.”

  There’s a knock on the apartment door before Cole lets himself in. JP pops his head out of his bedroom at the sound, and the two of them join us in the living room.

  “Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” Cole says, taking a seat next to me on the couch.

  That leaves JP to sit on the beanbag. This must be one of the last apartments in Montreal to have a beanbag inside it. It’s also one of the last to have a lava lamp. No one has ever accused JP of having fashionable tastes.

  “Late?” I repeat.

  “We, um, we have to talk about some stuff,” Matt explains, “as a band.”

  All three of them have tensed up, staring at me like I’m a grenade about to have my pin pulled out.

  “What stuff?” I demand.

  Matt holds up his hands. “I want you stay calm when I tell you this, okay? You know what the doctor said about your rib. I’d rather put off telling you for a few days, but you’re going to find out anyway, so it might as well be from us.”

  “What. Stuff?” I repeat. I’m really not in the mood for another dramatic reveal.

  “Atlas Records dropped Sherbrooke Station,” Cole blurts. “They cancelled our contract.”

  He might as well have just thrown a punch at my gut. The sensation is the same.

  “They can do that?” I demand.

  I already know the answer, though. Our old manager, Shayla, made sure we were aware of it when we signed with them. At the time, we were so sure of ourselves we figured we’d be leaving them long before they ever wanted to leave us.

  Matt nods in answer.

  “The goblin is the one who convinced them to do it,” JP tells me, “and now they’re signing a deal with GHOULS.”

  “Fuck GHOULS!” I shout, jumping to my feet and ignoring the ensuing pain. “We were on our way to becoming the biggest band on that label. How could they throw that away?”

  Matt throws JP a glare. “You didn’t have to tell him that part.” He turns back to me. “Sit the fuck down, Ace. Your rib.”

  I hiss as another wave of pain hits me and do what he says.

  “Atlas told us we’re too big of a risk,” Matt explains. “They said if we keep missing shows and deadlines, we’re not worth the trouble. We’re big, but we’re not big enough for that yet.”

  “You can be honest,” I say darkly. “They meant I’m too big of a risk.”

  I stop and swallow, focusing on the coffee table in front of me. Last night, when the pain kept me from catching more than a few minutes of sleep at a time, I spent the long hours before dawn staring up at the faded paint on the ceiling. Regret coursed through me with a burn stronger than any alcohol I’d ever tasted. I’d never felt so weak before, so fucking pathetic.

  No matter how far I’ve launched myself off the deep end before, I’ve always been able to handle the fallout on my own. I’ve never needed anyone to step in and take care of me, and I never want to need it again.

  I never want my friends to have to do it again, either.

  “I’ll walk,” I announce, lifting my head to face the guys. “I’ll leave the band. They’ll take you back if I’m out of the picture.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Cole replies. “You’re the only one they ever cared about.”

  I want to argue, but there’s nothing to say. The truth of his words hangs in the air.

  Matt leans forward and claps a hand on my knee. “It means a lot that you offered, though.”

  We lock eyes, and I remember him offering the same thing back when Kay’s article was threatening to tear the band apart. It hits me then—really hits me—that this band means more to us than just our individual parts in it; we’d sacrifice ourselves to see it live on.

  “Aren’t you guys pissed at me?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you all be cursing my ass to hell and back right now?”

  “We were.” Cole thumps my shoulder, deepening the ache in my rib. “Oh trust me, we were. But then Matt told us...”

  Matt gives me a guilty look. “I told them about your parents and about Stéphanie. I had to, man.”

  I nod to let him know it’s okay. It was time they found out, and I’m just relieved I didn’t have to tell them all that myself.

  JP clears his throat. “You should have told us sooner, mon ami. All those years we thought you were just fucking shit up for the hell of it, but you’re...You’re not okay, man. You don’t need people to be mad at you. You need people to help you.”

  My first impulse is to curse him out for even suggesting it. The notion of ‘help’ goes against everything I’ve told myself I stand for, but I swallow the indignation down and nod. I’m not ready to say it out loud yet, but he’s right.

  I need help.

  “That’s why we want to go on hiatus,” Matt announces.

  “What?” My anger flares up again. “No. No, we can’t. I’m not ruining anything else for this band. This is the worst possible time in our career for us to take a break. You said it yourself, Matt. We have momentum. We can’t—”

  “Look,” Matt interrupts me, “we all know how I feel about this band, so trust that it means a lot when I say that what’s best for our career isn’t what’s important right now. What’s important is what’s best for us. For you.”

  “You have a busted rib, man,” Cole continues, “and we don’t have a label. We need to regroup.”

  “And you need to get a therapist,” Matt adds.

  He must see the mix of panic and defiance the word triggers in me, because when he speaks again, his voice is quiet but firm.

  “We don’t mean to push you into a corner, and we’d much rather it be your choice than ours, but this band isn’t taking any more steps forward until you get a real therapist. There’s no shame in it. What’s going on with you is bigger than what we can help you with. It’s bigger than what meditation or yoga or burning sticks of incense can help you with on their own. You’re hurt, and when you’re hurt you, go to a doctor. It’s as simple as that.”

  “No shame,” Cole repeats.

  “No Shame,” JP joins in.

  I clutch my fractured rib and raise a hand to prod the bruises on my face. If I needed any proof that they’re right, it’s here: in the damage t
hat’s been done to my body, and the looming threat that things could have been much, much worse. My parents’ desperate scramble to avoid anything close to ‘therapy’ is still a part of who I am, but I want to let go of every trace of influence they still have on me. I need to.

  “Okay,” I agree, after a moment of silence.

  That’s all I can manage right now, but it seems to be enough. There’s a collective exhale, and JP shifts around noisily on the beanbag.

  “So, how does getting dropped from a label actually work?” he asks. “What happens now?”

  For the first time that day, Matt seems to lose control on all the stress he’s feeling and drops his head into his hands.

  “I don’t know,” he admits, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve been reviewing our contract and doing some research, but without a manager to help us out, I think we’re going to have to hire a lawyer.”

  “Can we...afford that?” Cole asks.

  “I’ve looked into it. A good entertainment lawyer is going to cost us a lot. I know we’re all making enough to live off our music now, but we’re not exactly moving into penthouse suites, are we?”

  JP pats his beanbag. “I already have everything I will ever need.”

  “Good, because that chair might be all you’re left with once I’ve sorted this out,” Matt tells him.

  “I’ll help,” I offer. “You shouldn’t be the only one looking up lawyers and shit. I’ll help you deal with it.”

  The guys are all staring at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. I’m starting to get the impression that I’ve got a reputation for being even more of a shithead than I thought.

  “Thanks,” Matt replies. “That, uh, that would be great.”

  Another silence descends. Cole stretches his arms over his head.

  “Câlice, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat breakfast. I was with Roxy all morning...”

  We all give him questioning looks.

  “Is that a good or a bad thing?” Matt asks.

  A shadow passes over Cole’s face. “I don’t know. With us, I just never fucking know.”

  JP jumps up out of his chair. “I’ll make you a sandwich. I have ham.”

  He says that like he’s announcing the secret for eternal happiness. In his mind, he probably is. Matt heads out after that to see Kay, and then it’s just me and Cole left in the living room.

  “Have you talked to her?” he asks.

  I don’t need him to clarify who ‘her’ is.

  I shake my head. “I texted and called, but there’s been nothing. I think it’s the end. It has to be. There’s...There’s no coming back from something like that.”

  “Hey.” He claps my shoulder again, and I try not to wince. “If anyone knows anything about ‘the end,’ it’s me. Trust me, if you two...If you two feel even a fraction of the kind of thing Roxanne and I have—and I think you do—then it’s going to take a lot more than this to bring about ‘the end.’”

  That’s the most emotional thing I’ve ever heard him say.

  “If you both still feel it, it’s not going to let you go.” He stares down at the carpet. “Even if you wish it would.”

  Poor fucker.

  “I’d hit you on the shoulder too, but I kind of have a fractured rib,” I tell him.

  He lets out a huff of air that I think is a laugh.

  “You’ll work it out with Roxy,” I insist. “You have years between you. Stéphanie and I have only had months. I don’t think she can forgive me. I don’t even know if I can ask her to. It’s all my fault...”

  Cole’s face hardens.

  “Look, I’m not gonna try to convince you it wasn’t your fault. If you feel like you’re to blame, you have to work that out for yourself. You either find a way to let it go, or you do something that makes you feel like you’ve fixed it. You only have those two options, man. Otherwise, you’re just going to burn up from the inside.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. I don’t know about everything Cole’s had to face in life, but I’m starting to realize it might be more than I thought.

  “Jambon, jambon, jambon!”

  JP sings out the French word for ham in an opera voice as he delivers a heaping plate of sandwiches to the coffee table.

  “All of those are for Cole?” I ask.

  “Non,” JP replies. “One is for Cole. The rest are for me.”

  24 Weight in Gold || Gallant

  STÉPHANIE

  I think we should talk.

  I stare down at the text message on my phone. I sent it five hours ago, and I’ve yet to receive a reply.

  You took almost two weeks to respond to him, I remind myself. At least give him a day.

  Part of me wonders whether I should expect him to reply at all. He might have decided we’re better off without each other, and I can’t help thinking that maybe he’d be right.

  After I really thought about it, I realized all of Ace’s cryptic behaviour—all the shadows that seem to haunt him and all those monster in his head—probably stems from the same moment the monsters crept into my head. We were two children who saw something terrible happen and spent the rest of our lives trying to cope.

  Is being together the best thing for us? Shouldn’t broken people look for someone whole?

  I’ve never laughed the way I have when I’m with him, though. I’ve never felt so hard or so much. It was like I was an empty cave and he filled me with fire, the flames leaping and lighting up depths inside of me I didn’t know were there.

  Guita was right. I attached a meaning to the boy in the window. I gave the moment more significance than it deserved. Like Poe said, I multiplied the image of my sorrow. I had so much grief and rage inside me I had to pin it on something else.

  The Ace I know isn’t that little boy. It took me a long time after listening to Guita before I could truly accept that, but I did what she said. I made the choice. I changed my perspective, and what I saw left me stunned.

  Ace isn’t the source of my pain; he’s possibly the only person in the world who can truly understand it. He shares it, and for the brief time we were together, he made me feel like I could overcome it. He’s a tie to my past, but I’m starting to believe he could also be a key to my future.

  Everything is still so muddled I don’t know the difference between up and down, but I don’t want to work it out alone anymore. Even if we decide it’s too much and go our separate ways, I want to make that choice with him. I need him beside me. I need his voice in my ears and the pressure of his hand in mine.

  “Merde,” I curse under my breath, realizing I just missed my bus stop.

  I’m on my way to dinner with my mom, and I watch helplessly as a few blocks speed by before the bus stops again. A text pings on my phone as I trudge back towards the apartment. I whip it out of my pocket only to feel my heart sink when I see the message is from Maman. She’s asking if I’m almost there and ready to see the surprise.

  She’s been going on and on about whatever ‘surprise’ it is she has for me tonight. I got her to drop enough hints that I know it’s something about the apartment. I hope she hasn’t had to have another plumber in. Neither of us can afford it.

  When I finally knock on the door, she opens it up with a huge smile on her face.

  “Finalement!” she exclaims, lifting her arms out for a hug. “You’re late.”

  I pull back and find her still smiling as wide as before.

  “Maman, are you...wearing makeup?”

  She’s definitely got some mascara and lip gloss on. Even her hair looks like she’s paid more attention to it than usual, and silver dangly earrings are swinging from her ears.

  “What? I can’t get dressed up for dinner with my daughter?” she demands.

  “Of course you can,” I reply, bemused. “Am I...missing something here?”

  She’s still grinning at me with a weird kind of expectancy. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was high as a kite.

  “Not at all, not at all.” She wh
eels herself away from me. “Come and see the surprise! Well, one of the surprises.”

  She literally cackles to herself, and I consider asking her if she’s accepted any brownies from strangers lately. She leads us towards the bathroom, and I have to hold back a groan. I knew she must have had the plumber in again. Passing off a repaired pipe as a fun ‘surprise’ sounds just like her idea of always looking on the bright side of things.

  She flips the light switch on, and I gasp.

  “Maman...Maman...”

  “Isn’t it magnifique?”

  She sweeps her arms around the transformed space. It’s the bathroom of her dreams, the one she’s always talked about building. My uncle did his best trying to make it accessible for her when we first moved in, but the modifications were shoddy at best, and there was always something going on with the plumbing. I remember all the times Maman would show me pictures on the internet of ‘what she’d do if she had the money.’

  I don’t understand how she’s got it now. The bathroom is clearly still under construction, but it looks like several thousands of dollars have already been poured into it.

  “The contractors say it will be finished in just two weeks!”

  “Contractors?” I repeat, my voice hoarse with shock. “Maman, how are you paying for this?”

  She wheels herself out and motions for me to follow her into the living room.

  “I think you should sit down.”

  I do as she says, wishing she would just cut out the dramatics and tell me what the hell is going on.

  “Ace Turner came to see me,” she announces.

  I straighten up on the couch like I’ve just been zapped with an electric shock.

  “He told me everything,” Maman continues, “and then he gave me a cheque for twenty thousand dollars and a percent of all his future record sales. And you know what, Stéphanie?”

  She looks at me expectantly, but all I can do is shake my head as my heartbeat swells in my ears.

  “I didn’t want to take it. It didn’t feel right, not after what he told me. His story is...Well, I hope you’ll let him tell it to you himself. That’s why I took the money. I know you always wished I’d gotten something from the Thompsons, and now I have. I just want you to move forward, ma chérie. I just want you to be happy. That’s what every mother wants.”