Jane can enchant a room, inspire passion and love notes and phone numbers from unsuspecting listeners. But I haven’t heard him sing like this in years. It takes me back to the day I met him, at a barbecue at my cousin’s in Silver Lake. Jane and Marcus were in for a visit, and Jane sang “Walking on Sunshine.” His joy that day was infectious, but I haven’t seen it since.

By the time Jane reaches the chorus, the whole room is swaying. It isn’t the seductive spell of Nina, but it’s magic all the same. An instrumental break follows, and Arthur beckons Jane to join him at the piano. Jane takes over playing for an extended solo that goes a long way toward justifying his tuition at Juilliard. My heart gives another squeeze. Watching him play is always a treat, but this is something else.

The rest of the band joins in, trumpet and drums and bass and sax meeting Jane’s exuberance with each note. He returns to the mic; there’s no question that every word that follows is meant for Charles. My vision swims with tears. When did this happen? It’s been less than two weeks. I look from Jane to Charles and back again. There’s just enough light from the stage to illuminate Charles’s smile, and Jane—

Jane drops to his knees. I gasp, thinking of Monday’s accident, but he keeps singing, radiating bliss and pointing at Charles with every “you.” He belts out the last five words of the song, and Charles tosses the bouquet just as Jane’s voice tapers. By some miracle, Jane catches the flowers in his free hand. The curtain drops, concealing the stage at the exact moment the music ends, and the audience erupts in cheers.

My seat gives me a clear shot to the stairs, and I charge backstage as the applause roars on. The guys in the band carry on almost as loudly as the crowd on the opposite side of the curtain, high-fiving and congratulating Jane on his performance. Jane is still on his knees, panting, and I rush to him for a hug.

“Jane, that was fantastic! How are you? Your head okay?” I ask. His heartbeat is racing.

“I don’t know what happened,” he says, gasping. “It’s like . . . I felt the song.”

“You’re really taking that bravery thing seriously, aren’t you?”

He fans himself, cradling the roses in the crook of one arm. For a moment, he admires the bouquet, smiling. But the smile fades. I meet his eyes, and he worries his bottom lip. “Seeing him out there, after Monday and the past few days, I had to show him how I feel, Ben.” Jane’s eyes are wide. “Do you think he got it? What I was trying to say?”

I laugh. “From where I was sitting? I’d say loud and clear.”