The memories flood in faster than I can stop them. Hearing these names again, watching his face as he talks about home—it’s a pang in my chest I feel ricochet all through my body.
“So what do you say?” he asks. “Does it sound like a fair trade?”
To an outsider, one wedding for all the work and time that goes into putting on several shows wouldn’t sound fair at all, but we both know he’s getting the better end of the deal by far. Weddings are not my comfort zone, especially not weddings where I’ll be Youssef’s stand-in date and surrounded by his entire family.
“I...”
I pause and scroll through my schedule again. My popularity is still riding the high of the festival season, but there’s no way to tell how soon that will drop off if I disappear. I doubt I’ll even be able to make music worth releasing online until my hand is somewhat back to normal. I’m okay with taking a little risk with my reputation as a graphic designer, but there’s no way I’m putting out a track I’m not fully convinced is perfect.
The shows Youssef would be playing are game changers. They’re the result of a summer spent busting my ass. Some are headliners people have already bought tickets for—tickets to seeme. I’d be crazy to give up the chance to at least have my name promoted onstage and a few of my tracks played.
I really should have just taken him up on the offer before it turned into a deal, but I’m not going to back down.
“We’ll have to see what the venues say, but...okay, challenge accepted on a few conditions.”
He tilts his head and waits.
“One: we tell everyone we’re at the wedding as friends. Two: if this involves staying at a hotel, I don’t just want separate beds. I want separate rooms. Three: I amnotdancing.” I point at my injured hand. “I have a great excuse.”
“Fair points.” He grins. “All right. Challenge accepted.”
* * *
Over the next few days,we develop something of a routine. Daily life gets a little easier once the worst of my soreness is gone. I insist that Youssef doesn’t stay the night anymore, but he still shows up every morning and evening to help me with stuff around the apartment.
“You really don’t have to do that,” I say one night after he comes back from taking the trash out. “Zach will be home in a couple days. I’m sure he’ll understand if the place is a bit of a mess.”
Youssef shrugs, and the movement pulls his t-shirt tight against places that make me have to stare at the wall behind him before I can continue the conversation.
“And you don’t have to come every day anymore. I really appreciate it, but I’m a lot better now that all the swelling is gone. Even my bruises are going away.”
My face has faded from a purple splotch to a yellow-green one. It’s a great look.
He shakes his head and gives me that smile people usually reserve for kids who just don’t learn. “You do need to eat, Paige, and now that you’re my salvation for Aaliyah’s wedding, I have to preserve your health as best I can. I don’t want you slicing up your arm trying to cut a cucumber with one hand.”
He heads to the kitchen and starts unloading the paper bag of groceries he brought, pulling out three whole cucumbers and turning to laugh at me.
I didn’t even remind him cucumbers are my favourite. He just knew. He remembered.
He starts cutting one into slices, and I can’t argue that I could manage that with one hand. I give in and head for the couch. He brings a plate over a couple minutes later and sets it on the coffee table but doesn’t sit down beside me.
“I was thinking, for the gigs I’m playing, we should go over what tracks you want me to feature.”
All the venues he emailed for me jizzed their pants when they found out they’d be getting Youssef—or YOUSSEF, as his name is stylized in the music world.
“I know I can’t recreate them like you do, but I could work some samples into my own set and take it from there.”
I still can’t believe he’s doing this for me. I can’t believe he’s doing any of this for me. If I stop to think about it, my head starts spinning, so for now, I roll with the moment.
“All right.” I lean forward and grab a cucumber slice with my left hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Salah.”
He takes a dramatic bow. “The gauntlet has been thrown, Rivera. What should I use for this?”
“You can go get my laptop and controller. I’m too poor to have CDJs.”
“I will always be a controller DJ at heart.” He heads for the bedroom. “Hey, can I try out your Ableton Push? I’ve somehow never used one.”
My Push is my baby. It’s what took me from playing basic club sets to really turning my live performances into something special. My hesitation must be obvious because Youssef waves his question off a second later.
