Your Echo (Sherbrooke Station Book 2) Read online

  The members of said hit are all sprawled on the musty, second-hand couches, staring at me like I’m about to be sent to the gallows.

  “What’s up?” I ask, freezing when I pick up on the tense expectation in the air.

  Matt nods toward an empty armchair. “Sit.”

  Even JP, who’s usually running around like some kind of French Canadian Christmas elf on crack, looks serious. Cole’s glaring at me like he has the ability to set me on fire with his eyes. Honestly, if anyone could actually do that, it would be Cole. I shuffle over to the chair.

  “This,” Matt begins, pausing to dramatically crack his knuckles, “is an intervention.”

  I breathe out, sighing half in relief and half in annoyance.

  “Don’t go all reality TV on me, guys. It was one fuck-up. Look, Cole, I don’t remember much of last night, but I take it I was more of an ass than usual and—”

  “Shut up,” he grumbles, staring me into silence. “Listen to Matt.”

  Matt and Cole share a nod.

  “We’re nipping this in the bud,” Matt continues. “We’re not going down this road again. A few months ago, we made a commitment to not let this band fall apart. We all set aside whatever fucking problems we had with the Atlas Records situation and we decided to move forward, and you know what? We crushed it. We took Europe by storm. We need to keep building on this momentum, and that’s going to take continued commitment from all of us.”

  He’s drumming out a rhythm against his leg as he speaks, like he’s imagining a musical accompaniment to his speech.

  “That was great, Matt,” I tell him. “I feel like you should have a flag fluttering behind you right now. Should we put the national anthem on?”

  “Ben là, don’t be a dick,” JP interjects. “You have a problem, man.”

  “I don’t have a—”

  “You told my girlfriend she could still go back even though she went black, and asked her to give your dick a call once she got over her ‘chocolate phase.’ You might not think you have a problem, but I have a fucking problem with you.”

  I can actually hear Cole’s teeth grinding as he spits the words out through a clenched jaw.

  So much for avoiding ground zero. I start to stammer out an apology.

  “Cole, I’m sorry, man. You know I don’t feel that way. I don’t even remem—”

  “And that’s your problem,” he growls, cutting me off. “The world doesn’t shut off when you do. The rest of us do remember. I’ll take a lot of shit, man, but the second you bring Roxy into it...”

  He trails off and I see the muscles in his arms twitch. A few moments of silence tick by before Matt clasps his hands together.

  “Okay,” he surmises, “so now that we’ve established Ace is a dick, a fact we were all already aware of, let’s move on to the point of this intervention.”

  I still can’t believe he’s actually calling this is an intervention. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a crumpled sheet of blue paper. I look over the black lettering and see that it’s an ad for something called the Société de Méditation de Montréal.

  Free guided meditation session offered every Sunday in Parc Lafontaine, reads the title in both English and French. Free your mind, eliminate stress, and find your focus. Bilingual instructions. Donations accepted. All proceeds will go to support the Société.

  I crunch the paper into a ball.

  “Funny,” I say, letting the ad fall to the floor.

  Matt’s already on his feet. “It’s not a joke. We’re going right now.”

  “We’re going?” I repeat.

  “Yes, all of us. We’re going to support you and get you back on track. Meditation is supposed to be very helpful for”—he stops and gestures up and down my body to indicate my general existence—“things.”

  Matt knows better than anyone what ‘things’ go on in my head. I’ve never told anybody about the dreams, about the way the images are pressed into my brain like scar tissue, forcing an indent into the channel of my thoughts. Matt knows enough about my past that I’m sure he guesses. Hiding from someone gets harder after six years of being friends.

  “No way.” I shake my head. “That stuff is all bullshit. You want to sit in a park and say ‘om’ for an hour?”

  Right on cue, JP pulls himself into a cross-legged position on the couch and closes his eyes, hands poised on his knees.

  “Ommm. Ommm,” he chants. He draws a huge breath in and slowly lets it out before jumping to his feet and raising his arms in the air. “Holy shit, it’s a miracle! I’m a new man.”

  “See!” I say to Matt. “Even JP is making fun of this, and he usually loves stupid shit. He uses your Facebook group all the time.”

  Matt glares at me. “It is a useful tool,” he hisses. “Now come on. We’re going to be late.”

  He opens the door to the stairwell and JP trots after him, still holding his arms up like he’s celebrating his spiritual rebirth.

  “You too, Cole!” Matt shouts back from the top of the stairs.

  “Yeah, about that,” Cole calls. “I think I’ll—”

  “No fucking way!” Matt’s disembodied voice protests. “This is a Sherbrooke Station group activity, and you don’t get that half bottle of Jameson I promised you unless you come to meditation.”

  “You promised him Jameson if he helped me stop drinking?” I shout, giving in and following JP up the stairs. “You have to see how totally fucked up that is.”

  Matt admits he does, and then hurries us the few blocks up to the park like we’re some kind of dog sledding team. The afternoon sun feels like it’s searing my retinas as the headache I didn’t manage to sleep off throbs in my temples. Just gorgeous. If nothing else, sitting in the park with a bunch of chanting freaks will be a good opportunity to catch a nap.

  We reach the edge of Parc Lafontaine: a few sprawling, tree-filled acres with a huge pond and a network of twisting paths. Shirtless douchebags in shorts that are way too tight run laps around the edge with iPhones strapped to their biceps. College kids sit on blankets by the water, strumming guitars and covertly smoking weed. Someone’s throwing their kid a birthday party at a picnic table, balloons and streamers hanging from the tree above.

  “Do we know where in Parc Lafontaine this thing is?” JP asks.

  “We’ll find it,” Matt assures us, stepping forward to take the lead again.

  We scope out the park for a solid ten minutes without any results.

  “What are we even looking for?” Cole asks. “Do they like, sit on mats? Chairs? Are there...candles?”

  “We’re probably looking for an old person surrounded by other old people,” I supply.

  “That’s not it, is it?”

  JP’s pointing to a group of about a dozen people, all of them sitting cross-legged on a variety of mats and cushions, facing a blonde chick under a tree.

  We walk over and the blonde gives us a wave, motioning for us to sit down as she chatters to the group about something in French. I don’t bother tuning into what she’s saying as we settle onto the grass. I focus on her mouth moving, but the sounds don’t turn into words. I’m too busy processing those fucking lips of hers to have room for anything else in my brain.

  This girl is stunning: creamy skin, wide-set pale eyes, impossibly blonde hair that turns gold in the shifting sun, all wrapped up with a pair of bow lips and a cute gap between her front teeth. She looks like the definition of a sunny disposition, the kind of girl who laughs easy and twirls her hair, but I see right through it all in an instant.

  I see the screaming matches, the shattered glass, the trail of broken hearts. There’s no way this woman hasn’t brought men to their knees just by passing them on the sidewalk, and beauty like that never strays too far from suffering. Girls like her either hide sadness in their smiles or a thirst for blood and tears, because you can’t be that pretty and not fuck shit up wherever you go.

  She’s the kind of girl people write songs about.

 
2 Trojans || Atlas Genius

  STÉPHANIE

  There’s sweat pooling between my boobs. I can feel it sliding down my skin and collecting in the bottom of my bra, which I’m now strongly regretting wearing. Puberty went easy on me back in the day. I used to feel self-conscious about being an A cup, but I’ve seen enough girls spill out of their leotards on stage over the years to have finally realized my itty bitty nichons were a gift in disguise. With most shirts you can’t even tell I’ve decided to go without, but I pulled a sports bra on today anyway.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” I tell the crowd of ten seated on their mats in front of me, speaking in French first and then repeating myself in English. “I know it’s a little muggy, but I appreciate you being here.”

  Even with the distraction of my boob sweat situation, I switch between languages seamlessly. I taught three hours of ballet today and I’m in full-on bilingual mode, my English so perfectly pronounced even an accent couch would have a hard time figuring out it’s my second language. The hard part is adjusting to the fact that I’m speaking to adults now, not eight-year old girls in slippers.

  “I noticed some new faces here today, so we’re going to...”

  I trail off for a moment as four guys turn off the path a few feet away and start heading towards us. They look like some kind of rock band, all of their arms covered in tattoos, their haircuts messy but clearly styled. What they don’t look like are people who came to Parc Lafontaine to meditate.

  They keep coming closer and I flick my eyes back to the group in front of me, who are all staring expectantly as they wait for me to go on.

  “...We’re going to get back to basics today and really work on building a strong foundation for our practice,” I continue in French. The rock band/troupe of male models hovers a few steps away and I motion for them to sit down. “Learning to meditate is like building a new muscle. It’s not all going to happen at once. You have to stretch yourself, test yourself, and, most importantly, you need to have patience with yourself.”

  “Damn. Yoga chick is hot.”

  It’s just a whisper, so low I’m sure most of the group didn’t even pick up on the comment, but I see one of the guys’ mouths move along with the words.

  So that’s what this is. Another group of douchebags who think it’s perfectly okay to barge in on my session and try out a few pick-up lines.

  “Stop being an asshole, JP,” the guy next to him hisses, loud enough that some people in the group turn around to glare.

  “Sorry,” the one who called me ‘yoga chick’ whisper-yells. “Whew, is it just me or is it really hot today?”

  He reaches for the bottom of his shirt and the guy next to him hits him in the stomach.

  “Leave. It. On.”

  The second guy is so worked up I almost laugh and forget to be annoyed. They look so out of place right now, four hip guys with muscled arms sitting cross-legged in their skinny jeans behind a bunch of forty and fifty year-olds in track pants. My meditation students don’t seem so happy about the new company.

  “Meditation is also a silent practice,” I warn, giving the guys the kind of look I reserve for the worst of the eight year-olds. “So let’s begin by getting in touch with our breath.”

  I lead the group through a few warm-up breathing exercises, closing my eyes and trying to tune into the sensation of my own inhales and exhales filling up my chest, but even when I’m not looking at them, all I can focus on are the guys at the back. They’re attractive, sure—in the kind of way I would have been all over as a teenager, at least—but what has my attention is how strangely familiar they look, like a question on a test I know I should have the answer to.

  “It’s okay if you still have thoughts moving around in your head,” I tell the group. “That’s fine. Picture them slipping by like clouds across the sky. Let them be there, but also let them go. Don’t judge them, but don’t hold onto them. Just let them go.”

  That was the hardest part for me when I first started coming to these classes myself.

  Laissez-les, laissez-les, the teacher would say, over and over again, but the more I was told to let go, the tighter my thoughts seemed to hold on. Releasing myself into the moment has always been easy when I’m moving. When I dance, the world unravels itself into something that makes sense. I’m a vessel for emotion, but it doesn’t control me. Feelings pass through me like they’re shapes in the clouds and I’m the wind that pushes them.

  Doing the same thing while sitting in a park took some practice, but giving up was never an option. I knew if I wanted to keep practicing the art of movement I would also need to learn the art of being still.

  “Now, see if you can go a little deeper. Let the world around you fall away, and try to take your attention inwards. I know that’s hard to visualize, but try to imagine all your senses—all the information your body is giving you about this park right now—just slowing down...Slowing down with your heartbeat...Slowing down with your breath...”

  I open my eyes a crack to make sure I haven’t totally lost the group. A few of them have their eyes squeezed shut so tight they look like they’re in pain, mouths set in harsh lines of concentration. I make a mental note to focus more on relaxation next week.

  I shift my attention to the back row. Three of the guys are sitting there with their hands on their knees, chests rising and falling in slightly different rhythms from one another.

  The fourth one is staring right at me.

  My eyes fly all the way open, and the steady breaths I was keeping up stop altogether for a second.

  He has his chin propped in one of his hands, and he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed to have me catch him staring. I take in the strong lines of his face, the sandy hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a thick metal ring on his index finger.

  Je le connais, I can’t help thinking. I know this guy from somewhere.

  The corner of his lip pulls up so slightly I’m not even sure I saw it, and then it hits me.

  He’s Ace Turner.

  Of course I know him. Everyone knows him. He’s the singer and guitarist for Sherbrooke Station.

  Even if my roommate wasn’t completely obsessed with the band, it would be impossible not to have heard of them. They’re Montreal’s pride and joy. Their songs play in every bar every single night of the week. Even my eight year-olds ask if we can warm up to their songs—which I always say no to, considering their music is totally inappropriate for ballet and half of it isn’t appropriate for eight year-olds.

  They’re good; I’ll give them that. Even I know all the words to ‘Sofia.’ I nod my head along to their songs when Molly doesn’t realize I’m home and blasts the volume on her speakers. I remember they had some rough patches with the media a few months ago, but not even that stopped people from going crazy over them.

  Ace is still staring at me. I blink and look away.

  A few more trickles of sweat slide down my cleavage—or lack thereof—and for some reason thinking about my chest with Ace Turner staring at me brings a flare of heat to my cheeks. I sneak another glance at him. Now I know I’m not imagining it; he’s smirking at me.

  He’s not even trying to meditate.

  As if he can read my thoughts, he raises one of his shoulders in a subtle shrug.

  I snap my eyes shut. I have a class to teach.

  “Now let’s bring our awareness back to our breath...”

  I wind the session down until eventually I’m asking everyone to slowly begin moving their fingers and toes before opening their eyes.

  “Thank you everyone for a wonderful session today. Feel free to take your time leaving. Since it’s such a sunny day, why not spend some extra time in the park, hein?”

  I wince as my accent slips for a second.

  “As always, you can feel free to leave a donation in the jar here.” I hold up the painted coffee can. “It’s pay what you can, and all donations are very appreciated. The Société de Méditation de Montréal is run c
ompletely by donations, and they help to keep our centre going. Speaking of which, the author of Meditation for Modern Minds will be speaking there next Thursday, so be sure to check out all the details online.”

  The members of the group start shuffling forwards, dropping bills and coins into the can before rolling up their mats and taking off. Most of them thank me by name, and I get so caught up in small talk I don’t notice who’s at the end of the line until I’m face to face with Ace Turner.

  He reaches out one tattooed arm and drops a ten dollar bill into the can.

  “Thanks.”

  Even when he’s speaking, his voice has the same smoky rasp I recognize from his songs.

  I throw my shoulders back and flash him my brightest and widest smile, the one I save for parents at the dance school. He’s still staring me down like I’m an open book and he’s deciding whether the story is worth reading. That smile never fails to dazzle people out of trying to judge me.

  “You’re welcome. It’s not every day we get a celebrity at this class.”

  He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.

  “Do you always watch your students like that?”

  I glance down into the coffee can and then back at him.

  “Like what?”

  “Do you open your eyes while they’re meditating and watch them?”

  “Not usually, no. I was having trouble concentrating today.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I can consider them. Ace raises his eyebrows.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I snap. “It’s just hot out.”

  I’m really not doing myself any favours.

  “It is,” Ace agrees. “You know, I thought the meditation teacher would be way older than you are.”

  I shrug. “Meditation is for everyone. Just look at you.”

  His lips quirk up. “What’s your name?”

  “Stéphanie.”