He scratches the back of his neck. “Um, maybe? It seems like a reasonable question.”
I raise an eyebrow, doing my best to play it cool even though my heart is pounding in my ears. “So? Are you?”
“I can see how you would come to that conclusion, but no. Nabil called me in to help with some electrical issue they’re having.”
“So you finished, huh? Engineering school?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I watch as a mix of surprise, curiosity, and something close to pain works its way into his features.
“Yeah.” His voice is lower now, softer. “Yeah, I did. Never worked as an actual electrical engineer, though.”
He takes a few steps closer and leans against the edge of the booth. I do the same on the other end, mirroring his position before I even realize I’m doing it. We’re only a few feet apart from each other now.
“I started working here as a rigger during college, believe it or not. Then I dropped out of my first post-graduation placement with an engineering firm and did it full time while I tried to get my foot in the door at a recording studio. Now I master for them.”
I bite back all my questions, struggling to hold them in.
Did you keep making music all through college? How did you feel the first time you played for a crowd? How’s your family? When’s the last time you went back to Brampton? Did you ever see me there?
Did you ever stand outside my house and think about how different it all could have been before leaving without saying a word?
“Never really saw that coming,” he finishes, “but it’s funny how it all works out.”
“Except it didn’t,” I blurt.
He squints at me, and I feel a rush of heat rise in my cheeks.
“I mean, you’re describing this life where you’re all set up with a steady job,” I explain. “What about the part where your single is blasting in every club in the country every Friday night?”
“Ah, right. That.”
Now it’s me squinting at him. He just gave me an impromptu rundown of his life since he was a teenager and left out what most people would consider the biggest thing to ever happen to him.
“So what about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
I jump a little when he throws his head back and laughs long and loud at that.
“What?” I ask after a few seconds, trying to sound defensive even though I’m about to start laughing too.
It’s impossible not to join Youssef when he laughs like that. I used to try to stonewall him or get pissed about one thing or another back in high school, and he’d just laugh like I was the most entertaining thing in the world.
It would piss me off even more, but I’d always end up laughing with him in the end.
“I see you’re still as personable and forthcoming as ever,” he finally manages to get out. “Chatty, even.”
My restrained laugh comes out as a snort, and he starts laughing all over again at me snorting.
“But seriously, what have you been up to?”
I stay quiet for a moment, and the ease between us fades as reality sets in. We’re not old friends catching up on old times. This isn’t a casual chat. There’s too much we can’t say for anything wedosay to be more than a front for all the hurt we’re hiding.
Although why he thinkshegets to be hurt when he’s the one who left is still beyond me.
I turn my attention to the closest CDJ and let my fingers wander over the jog wheel, spinning it around and around as I imagine fast forwarding through this conversation like I could with a track.
“You’re really good, by the way.”
