It’s pointless. There is no rest of the world anymore. There’s only him. I watch him move, his eyes drifting across the crowd, looking through it rather than at it. The muscles of his arms flex, making the scattered designs inked along them twitch and writhe. Sweat beads on his skin, the same way it does when he’s on top of me, those arms of his caging me in as he brings us both higher and higher...
Someone behind me slams into my back as the crowd lurches forwards. I glance over my shoulder to see a guy in a muscle shirt waving his apology as he continues to shout the words of the song. It’s only then that I realize what the band is playing: a cover of ‘Teenage Dirtbag.’
Everyone around me is belting out the words, but all I can do is blink up at the stage lights and wait for this to be over. My body is screaming with the pain of wanting him this much.
“Merci, tout le monde!” JP calls into the microphone when the final notes are fading and the crowd continues to chant the chorus. “Bonne nuit!”
“Fuck yeah!” Kay shouts beside me as the band exits. “Remind me to screw that drummer tonight.”
She and Stéphanie high-five. I use the moment to pull my shit together. I can’t just fall apart in the middle of a crowd.
“Speaking of screwing, Molly looks like she’s ready to crawl onto the stage.”
I nod over to where JP’s girlfriend is standing with a group of friends. Her face is flushed, and she’s beaming at everyone like she’s just discovered the key to sexual enlightenment. She’s a cute little thing, with the craziest curly hair I’ve ever seen. She’s a bit timid, and not at all the kind of girl anyone expected JP to end up with, but I’ve never seen him as happy as when he talks about her.
We all wave when she catches us staring, and she leaves her friends to come over and say hello.
“Lucky girl,” Stéphanie teases her, “getting a song dedicated to you like that.”
I guess I was completely in the Cole Zone when that happened.
Molly blushes even harder and tucks her hair behind her ears.
“Are you guys coming to the after party?” she asks, before quickly looking around us and dropping her voice. “Not the official one. There’s a secret one at Taverne Toulouse. JP just texted me that the band is going—or, most of the band. Apparently Cole already left.”
“I’d like to go,” Stéphanie offers. “I can’t stay late, but I think JP deserves some congratulations. You guys in?”
Kay shrugs. “We’re already out here. Might as well make an appearance. I’ll have to collect my boyfriend at some point anyway.”
Everyone turns their attention to me.
I didn’t miss Molly’s mentioning that Cole won’t be there, so I take a moment to weigh my options. Optionnuméro une: spend the evening alone with my cactus collection and my violin, playing songs that are meant to distract me from but will inevitably remind me of Cole. Optionnuméro deux: spend the evening drinking beer and dancing with my friends, which will also probably fail to distract me from Cole, but seems slightly more likely to work for an hour or two.
“On y va!” I announce.
Molly tells us she’ll catch up later and slips off to find JP backstage while the rest of us start walking the few blocks up to Avenue Mont-Royal.
Taverne Toulouse is already packed by the time we arrive. The bar is known for its cheap beer pitchers and two for one shots deals, which are advertised with slogans like ‘What have you gotToulouse?” and ‘You needToulouse-en up!’ On weekends, it caters to the hipster side of the student crowd: the ones who want to get trashed for cheap but still feel cool and alternative while they’re doing it. It’s the perfect place for a low-key after party, since all the nineteen-year-olds are too busy slinging back tequila shots and dancing their faces off to indie rock anthems to notice they’re in the company of a famous band.
Molly and most of her friends work for Sherbrooke Station’s record label, and I’ve met some of them enough times to keep up a casual conversation as we order a few pitchers and claim a corner of the bar. Monroe doesn’t work late shifts anymore—she says it’s her privilege as manager to avoid the shit show that is last call—but I spot DeeDee bouncing around with a tray of shots, her pink hair done up in two little space buns.
Close to an hour later, Sherbrooke Station,sansCole, makes their entrance with a few stage hands, and our group waves them over. We all give JP a round of congratulatory applause. He takes this as his queue to launch into a stripper routine that Molly shuts down before he can fully take his shirt off.
A few beers more, and we’re all bobbing on the dance floor. Some old school Tegan and Sara is bumping through the speakers, the lights are bouncing off of everyone’s teeth as they smile, and I’ve got a drink in my hand and the hint of a buzz in my head. It’s a good old-fashioned Montreal night, the kind that makes you feel young and alive and invincible.
Then the song switches, and my mood plummets along with the change in tempo.
This isn’t even a dance floor appropriate song. I don’t know what the DJ is thinking. People start swaying to the slow synth intro. Matt’s already pulling Kay into his arms, but I grab her shoulder and yell into her ear that I need some air.
She must see something in my face because she holds up a finger to Matt and steps closer to me.
“You okay?” she shouts.
“Yeah!” I yell back. “I just need a break.”
“But you love The Killers!”
I shrug and try to smile, but I’m sure it’s more of a grimace.
