CHAPTER 41
TYLER
Tyler was convinced she was pregnant. Her back ached, her boobs were sore, and she’d gained five pounds—okay, maybe six, but who was counting?
She’d promised herself she’d wait three weeks before taking a test, but that didn’t stop her from spiraling.
She googled foods to avoid + pregnancy and immediately cut caffeine and dairy from her diet.
Raw fish was also on the list, but thankfully, she hated sushi—one less sacrifice in the name of hypothetical motherhood.
A few days from the three-week mark, a familiar pain jolted her awake.
“No!” she cried, holding her hand below her waist. Her period had arrived like an uninvited guest, but at least she was home in bed. Rory snuggled her as she sobbed on his head. “Mommy’s not pregnant, buddy.”
He gave her a kiss.
After an ugly cry, she dragged herself to the bathroom, sat on the floor, and texted Cary. No baby :(
Her phone vibrated right away. It was Cary on FaceTime. “Cary . . .” She started to cry again.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said. “We’ll keep trying.”
She pulled Rory against her chest while she lay in the fetal position. “I had so many symptoms, but it was just wishful thinking, I guess.” She wiped her nose with a few sheets of tissue paper. “It took Dylan seventeen years, Cary.”
“We’ll keep trying,” he said again.
“We could do IVF . . . or adopt a baby?”
“We’ve only tried once.” He smirked. “Well, one night, that is.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I can come out there if you want? I’d have to fly back tomorrow but could be there for a few hours, at least.”
“That’s okay.” She sniffled, holding the tissue paper against her nose. “You’ll be here soon.”
“The end of next week,” he confirmed. “We’ll get to spend two weeks together, but I have to work a bit. I hope you don’t mind? The pictures for my art show are due soon, and I’d like your input.”
The Winnipeg Art Gallery—the WAG—had asked Cary to display his photographs beside the professional shots from his career. The exhibit was called “Cary Kingston: In Front and Behind the Lens.”
“I love the WAG.” She blotted her eyes with a new sheet of tissue paper. “It’s so much better than the galleries here.”
“It’s an embarrassment to the art world,” he said. “It’s good that Vancouver has those mountains to look at.”
“The public art is embarrassing too, except for A-maze-ing Laughter.”
The 2009–2011 Vancouver Biennale curated a bronze sculpture of fourteen laughing men as part of its exhibition. Every time she walked past it, she marveled at its creativity.
“You’d think the city would have a better art program with all the money I pay in empty homes taxes,” he complained.
She wrinkled her brow. “What’s an empty homes tax?”
“It’s a vacancy tax. The City of Vancouver calculates the penalty as a percentage of the property’s assessed value, which in my case is expensive.”
“But you live here.” She scratched her head, not understanding what he meant.
“Not long enough for the city’s liking.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “How long are you supposed to live here?”
“Six months.” He paused before saying, “They invented the tax to penalize rich people, so we should get a say in how the money’s spent.”
“I bet they’re going to use it for bike lanes.”
“No kidding,” he said.
“Maybe the new mayor and city council will be better?”
“They couldn’t be any worse.”
In a city where it rained half the year, Vancouver had morphed into a bleak imitation of Amsterdam. The failure was apparent, yet city council doubled down, clinging to its Greenest City Action Plan. Not much help to those left homeless or dying from fentanyl.
“Hey, are you sure you’ll be okay?” Cary’s voice sounded strained.
She nodded. “There’s a game tonight.”
“The Jets are going to win the cup,” he predicted.
“Shh,” she hissed. “Don’t jinx it.”
Later that morning, Sebastien bellowed from his office. “Tyler! Get in here!”
Could this day get any worse? She wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit—not that she ever was.
She leaned in his doorway, arms crossed. “What?”
“Sit,” he barked, gesturing to the empty chairs.
“I’ll stand. What is it?”
“Your niece . . . Nada?”
“Nadie,” she said coolly. “What about her?”
“Nada, Nadie—whatever. She’s the anthem singer?”
“She is.”
“Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me?” His jowls quivered like Jell-O as he snapped, “I asked you—”
“And I said she was local. She is.”
“You should’ve told me who she was.” He hated looking like a fool, even though it happened every time he walked past a mirror.
She shrugged. “Take it up with Cary.”
“Nada . . . she’s Native?”
“She’s Cree,” Tyler corrected. “Indigenous. And her name is Nadie.”
“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes, vacant as always. “Seems like she’d qualify for that kind of funding.”
Government grants had become a lifeline in the Canadian music industry—especially for Indigenous artists. He saw dollar signs. She saw red.
“We don’t manage female acts, remember?” she said sweetly.
Sebastien scratched his beard. “Might be time to revise that policy—for the right amount of cash.”
“She’s not eighteen. My sister won’t let me manage her yet.”
She lied so smoothly, even a polygraph would applaud.
“You asked?” he said, squinting like a mole in daylight.
She nodded.
He huffed like a cranky toddler, then pointed to the garment bag hanging from the coat rack. “Take that on your way out.”
“What is it?”
“Cary’s suit from the awards. The designer sent it over.” He sneered. “You’re probably living there anyway.”
“I’m not,” she said. “Yet.”
He laughed in her face. “Like you’re any different from the rest.”
She stared at him, deadpan. Fuck all the way off, Sebastien.
Tyler lifted the hanger from the rack and carried it back to her office.
“That’s it,” she said, slamming the door. “I can’t take it anymore, Rory.”
The dog shook his body from head to tail, seeming to understand.
Tyler called Allie on FaceTime to hatch an exit plan.
“I was just about to call you,” Allie said. “I booked the girls a tour down the coast. They’ll be in LA at the end of next month.”
“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “Hey, ASCAP is giving us a slot on their showcase, so why don’t you add it to the end of their tour?”
“The ASCAP showcase at the Hotel Cafe?” Allie whistled. “That’s a coveted gig, man.”
“I know,” she said. “All the experts will be there.”
“I’m on it.” Allie tilted her head. “You called for a reason?”
Tyler closed her eyes and let out a sigh, emphasizing her frustration.
“You okay?” Allie asked, moving her face closer to the screen.
“I hate it here, Allie. I’m thinking about quitting, but Yestown’s deal hasn’t gone through yet.”
“They’re still not signed?” Allie asked in disbelief. “What the hell?”
“Sebastien’s sniffing around about Nadie too. I won’t be able to shop her without him knowing about it. At least not in Canada.”
Allie shook her head. “It was a good idea taking those Cowtown chicks Stateside and hiding them from SDM. Sebastien and fucking Tommy are vultures, man.”
“Cowtown?” She shook her head. “I thought they were from Toronto?”
“They live here in Toronto, but they’re from Calgary. The Oh Claires, as in the Eau Claire District in Calgary.”
“Oh!” She laughed. “I’m an idiot. Hey, do you ever think about leaving there?”
“I’m not going to lie, man,” Allie said, “I think about it a lot, but Porter’s a decent enough guy.”
“He looks like a nerdier version of Clark Kent, don’t you think?”
“Totally,” Allie agreed. “I don’t know how you do it? There’s no way I’d work for Sebastard. I’d sooner leave . . . or die. No, I’d kill him first. And Tommy. A double homicide.”
“I mean, I’m going to quit.”
“Just do it, man.”
“What do you think about us working together? Management and agency? I’ve already talked to Kim.”
“If I can keep my bands, I’m all in.”
“There’s just one thing . . .” She paused, unsure of Allie’s reaction. “I’m moving back to Winnipeg. But you can stay in Toronto. It’s not a problem.”
“I like Winnipeg.” Allie shrugged.
“You’d consider moving?”
“Why not? It’s too fucking expensive here.” Allie’s eyes became wide. “Kim showed me the pictures of Vegas’s house. It’s fucking insane what you can buy there.”
Tyler nodded. “You’re going to love it, Allie.”
Tyler worked on setting up the Oh Claires’ showcase for the rest of the day.
She no longer considered her employment in terms of the separation between church and state.
She’d paid for her laptop and phone, so she wasn’t using SDM’s resources except for the office itself and its terrible no-name coffee.
They owed her that much and more.
When the clock struck five, the steam whistle from The Flintstones sounded in her head. She almost yelled, “Yabba Dabba Doo!” but didn’t.
“A quick detour, then home,” she told Rory while searching for Cary’s keys in the console of her car where she’d left them. She loved driving her Mustang but was more determined than ever to pay him back. She hated owing anything to anyone and refused to be in his debt.
Minutes later, she pulled into a spot outside Cary’s building, gripping the wheel as she exhaled. Sunlight glinted off the windows, but she lingered, pulse unsteady.
“We’re here,” she said.
Rory smudged the window with his nose and thumped his tail against the seat. There was only one problem: Cary wasn’t home, and she didn’t want to disappoint the miniature panda.
“You stay here,” she said, cracking the window an inch. She grabbed Cary’s suit bag and closed the door while Rory looked at her, bewildered. “Sorry, buddy. I’ll just be a minute!”
A plexiglass sign sat on the concierge’s desk. It read back in 20 minutes.
Not super helpful.