14Do You Mind? || The XX
MOLLY
My ‘You Go Girl’playlist is thumping in my ears as I climb up the steps at the Lucien-L’Allier metro stop. The address JP texted me is in Griffintown, a neighbourhood down by the water at the edge of the city. I spot a few pieces of street art as I’m walking, but I don’t stop to check them out.
I’m on a mission.
I sent JP a text just as my bus pulled into Montreal today, asking him what he was up to. When he said he was rehearsing some songs at his apartment, I asked if I could come over. He replied with his address and a long string of thumbs-up emojis.
He’s a big fan of emojis. It’s kind of adorable.He’skind of adorable, and I’m going to tell him just that.
Well, maybe not with those exact words. I’m aiming to get the point across by grabbing his face and kissing him like the world is ending. That’s the plan, at least, and I’m forcing myself not to rethink it. I’m forcing myself to let the sound that’s been building inside me for weeks whenever he’s around finally crawl up my throat and be heard.
I might crash. I might burn. This might turn out to beProm-posal: Take Two, or a fiasco of Halloween-level proportions, but as I lay awake in the spare bedroom of my dad’s apartment last night, I realized something: I don’t care anymore. I’ve survived two epic boy-related mistakes, and if this ends up being number three, I’ve already got proof that I’m strong enough to make it to the other side. If I have to lay down my weapons and be Awkward Shy Girl Molly forever, I will. I know that role inside out, and it’s not the worst one in the world.
But today I’m going fishing for a new role.
I can’t help thinking about how many Sounds of the Station members would kill to be in my shoes right now, standing at the door of an apartment building and waiting for JP Bouchard-Guindon to come bounding down the stairs. He really does bound as he flies down the last few steps, man-bun bouncing on top of his head, smile as lopsided as his floppy sweater.
It’s the Ferris Bueller sweater.
“Salut, ma belle,” he greets me. “Come in, come in.”
He glances up and down the street before he pulls the door shut behind me and leads me up the narrow stairs. When I ask him about his stealth-mode behaviour, he explains that the band’s rehearsal space is getting stalked by more reporters than ever. It’s only a matter of time before they start following Matt or JP home.
The building is old and cramped, like most places in Montreal. There are only three units, each one taking up an entire floor. Matt and JP’s place has that typical occupied-by-men smell, but it’s tidy by bachelor standards, and filled with knick-knacks that make it look like it’s inhabited by a mad scientist, a frat boy, and a kitschy old lady all at once.
“Is that...a bong?” I ask, nodding over to a poorly-crafted glass dragon sitting on the windowsill, clutching a long pipe between its claws.
JP dashes over and grabs it, holding it up like a trophy. “Behold, the Dragon Bong!”
“It’s really ugly,” I tell him, barely holding my laughter in.
He looks offended. “This is one of mypossessions les plus précieux! I won this in a bet when I was sixteen.”
I gesture around the apartment. “Do all of thesepossessionsbelong to you?”
“Most of them, yes. Matt hates when I leave shit lying around, but I have too many projects going on to keep them all in my room.”
His ‘projects’ are all bits of minor machinery in the middle of being repaired or remodelled, lying in heaps on side tables and shelves. Standing in the room feels like getting a look inside JP’s head: a million ideas all chugging and churning, the flash and spark of something new catching your eye no matter which direction you look. I could spend hours letting him show me how everything works.
I don’t have hours, though. I have this moment—this moment before my nerve fails me, this moment that will determine every moment after it.
“I...I came here to tell you something.”
He sets his hideous bong down and takes the few steps back to me across the room. “You did?”
I nod, suddenly wishing I’d planned this better, written a speech or something.
“How about I take your coat?” JP prompts, his voice softening as I struggle. “Then you can tell me something.”
I reach for the buttons of my black pea coat. JP’s eyes stay fixed on my fingers until I start pushing the coat down my shoulders. He steps behind me to help slide it off, like some kind of gallant footman. His knuckles brush the bare skin below the sleeves of my t-shirt. When my coat’s finally gone, I feel like I’ve been stripped of way more than just one layer.
I don’t turn around as he hangs the coat up by the door. I just stand there, rubbing my hands over the goose bumps that are rising on my arms.
“You wanted to tell me something?”
He’s behind me again, close enough that his voice makes my spine stiffen, but still I don’t turn around.
