Page 30

We walk slowly down Queen, heading east toward Spadina. The relatively warm evening and my Converse high-tops make the experience rather pleasant, as the city’s subdued sounds at night relieve my still-ringing ears.

Mackenzie walks at the pace of someone out for a late-night stroll, stopping to wait at every red light, sending me smiling side-eye glances as if daring me to roll my eyes or call him out for it.

“I will make a jaywalker out of you.” I tug the handle of his guitar case as I pull him across a quiet side street with no sign of traffic. “I am making an exception tonight for the slow walking since it’s after midnight, but you should know that all of your walking etiquette needs work to meet the minimum Toronto standards.”

He lifts his hands as if acknowledging his lack of defense. “What can I say? I am enjoying my evening.”

My head wants him to clarify this statement. What specifically is he enjoying? The exercise? The unseasonably warm air? Was it the sizable crowd at the bar earlier? The music? Or something else?

“The show was really great,” I say. “I know you want to be a songwriter and everything, but honestly, you kind of pull off the whole rock star thing pretty well.” He turns his head just enough that I can see his eyebrow lift. “I mean, that’s what Koko said. She seems to know what she is talking about. I think she goes to a lot of concerts.”

He nods as if what I’ve said makes sense, but then he clears his throat and asks, “So, did Koko enjoy the show?”

My gaze, which was on his face only a second ago, suddenly becomes very interested in the cracks in the sidewalk. “Uh, yes. She definitely did.”

I am still watching my feet, but I can somehow sense him smiling.

“And what was her favorite part?”

We are both very much aware of the lack of actual Koko in this conversation, but I shrug and keep it going anyway. “I think she loved all of it, but if she had to pick, it would be the song you wrote.”

I look up long enough to sneak a quick glance, and I’m just fast enough to see the brief curl of his lips at my answer.

It really was a beautiful song. The harmonies, and the melody, and the way he described falling for someone not as a series of pheromones and hormones and chemical reactions but as an act of surrender that made me consider that maybe I had been thinking about love all wrong.

“Who is it about?” I only listened to the lyrics once, but they gave me the sense that whoever he wrote about was meaningful to him.

“You want me to name names?” His voice teases, and I realize that not only have I asked something that might be very personal, I am also unsure what answer I want to hear.

“Sorry,” I apologize.

“I’m kidding.” He knocks his elbow into mine, but instead of pulling away again, he stays, the side of his arm brushing against mine as we walk. “The song is not really about anyone. It’s more about that rush that comes when you know you want something badly, and you’re kind of terrified both for it to happen and also for it not to.”

We hit another light. He stops, and I stop, too, but instead of facing the road, we face each other. Toe to toe. It’s a wide sidewalk, and yet we are close enough that I can feel the warmth of his exhale and smell just the faintest trace of drummer sweat. Percussion rush.

“High blood pressure,” I whisper as if in response.

His forehead wrinkles.

“That rush you’re describing. It’s a sympathetic nervous system response. The spike in adrenaline increases your heart rate. It makes you both excited and jittery at the same time.”

I am feeling both of these things right now. My palms are sweaty, and my stomach seems to be throwing tumble passes inside me, and yet I like everything about this moment.

“Sorry,” I apologize again. “You were being poetic, and I went and made it very literal.”

He laughs. “It’s okay, I like that. Both things can be true, right?”

I nod. “I guess they can.”

The light turns, and we walk again until we reach a spot in the sidewalk that looks to be under construction due to a broken water main. There is a small gap big enough for a single pedestrian to cross with a large step or a small leap. Mackenzie goes first. His long legs allow him to cross with low effort, and when he is safely on the other side, he stops and turns, holding his hand out to me.

I take it, noticing the strength of his grip and the slight scratch of his calluses as he helps me across. My shorter legs require a bit of a hop to make the gap, and when I land, I teeter slightly, relying on him to keep me steady.

He keeps hold of me until I’m still, but even then, he doesn’t let go. His hand stays firmly holding onto mine.

I know it’s entirely in my imagination, but I feel a slow heat seep out from where his fingers meet mine. It climbs up my arm and down my body, pooling low in my belly, where it multiplies as Mackenzie’s eyes meet mine.

I can see the reflection of the streetlights in his pupils. Gone is the ocean color—replaced with a darker, deeper blue.