“Fuck, I think I might. It was like, physically painful not to cringe when she said it.”
“My sympathies. I felt your struggle.”
I can see the glow of the neon sign above the noodle shop up ahead. It’s one of those famous, greasy little hole in the wall places every twenty-something in Montreal has drunkenly stood in line for at least once in their lives. People are queued up down half the block, shouting and dancing to the music from passing cars. Paige and I don’t exchange any more words as our group files into place.
I don’t want to push my luck. I don’t know what’s safe to say and what’s going to make her retreat even farther into that giant hoodie.
“Your friend was supposed to talk to me about playing The Cube Room,” she says after we’ve moved up a couple feet in line. She tilts her head toward Nabil, who seems to have made a new best friend in the past ten minutes and is now ignoring us.
I have a suspicion that’s partially so I’ll have to keep talking to Paige. Nabil can be an interfering pain in the ass when he wants to be, but I can’t say I haven’t done the same to him.
“Oh, he won’t let you go without bringing it up again,” I reply. “That place is his life.”
“Mmm.”
A few people walk past us with takeout boxes and head for the metro station across the street. It’s closed for the night, but the plaza in front is packed with people who seem to have the exact same plans as us. I watch a few of them drunkenly manoeuvring chopsticks.
“Have you played there?”
“Huh?” I turn back to Paige.
“The Cube Room. Have you played it?”
“You...” I wait for my brain to catch up as she stares at me. “You know I DJ?”
I haven’t told her that. I haven’t told her anything.
She shifts on her feet and stares down at the sidewalk. “I mean, uh, you’re not exactly a secret. I’d have to be pretty fucking out of the loop to be a DJ in Montreal and not have heard of you by now.”
“Heard of me?” My voice comes out all weird and high-pitched as I absorb the shock.
She looks up and rolls her eyes. “Your stage name is ‘Youssef’ in all caps. You’re kind of hard to avoid. Especially after that EP.”
“You’ve heard of my EP?”
Another eye roll. “I mean, it’s not like I’m stalking you. I didn’ttryto hear about it. You’re on the radio all the time. Like I said, it’s hard to avoid.”
She drops her eyes to the tips of her shoes again, letting her hair fall forward to shield some of her face, and I let what she said sink into my skin like a blade.
Even six years later, I’d still find myself staring up at my ceiling some nights wondering what I’d do if I got just a hint of where Paige Rivera ended up. Would I reach out to her? Send an email? Call her name if I saw her getting on a bus?
Would it change anything?
Would it change everything?
I asked myself those questions less and less as the years went on, but they never stopped.
Yet she got exactly the hint I dreamed about—more than a hint, even—and she didn’t say a word. She’s known we live in the same city, work in the same industry, and probably even play for the same crowds, but it never made her wonder enough to reach out.
“Did I hear you guys talking about Youssef’s EP? Is he trying to be all humble on you?”
Nabil turns away from his other conversation and throws an arm around my shoulders. Paige raises an eyebrow.
“Let me tell you something about this guy,” he continues. “Every time anybody tries to congratulate him on how crazy successful that EP was, he gets all, ‘Oh, it was really just a joke. We released it for shits and giggles so my friend could get his label started. It’s really not a big deal.’ You need to take credit for making the smash hit of the summer, man.”
I step out from under his arm. “I mean, it’s true. It really was kind of a joke. It’s—”
Nabil starts making a ‘blah blah blah’ motion with his hand, and I cut myself off to glare at him.
