And picked up the guitar.

And tuned it.

And adjusted the amp.

And tested the mic.

And a couple of customers and the couple of people who were working at Last Gas sidled into the café section to see who was about to play—including the middle-aged woman who worked the counter and had scowled at Justin’s hair and fingernails.

And then Justin sang the song he had written for his uncle.

It was about how, when you’re a kid, all you want to do is grow up. And then you reach a point when all you want to do is stop growing up. Because growing up means having to say goodbye to people you love.

His singing was light but earthy. Sweet but scarred. Pained but hopeful.

When he finished, people clapped. And some were crying. And someone asked him to sing another song. And Justin looked to Michelle to see if she was okay with him singing another one. But she was leaving—in a hurry.

Justin put the guitar on its stand and thanked everybody, but said he needed to catch up with his friend. And as he made his way toward the exit, the woman at the counter seemed to have changed her opinion of him and told him to come on by and play anytime. And Justin said, “Sure,” even though he knew he’d never play there again.

And he headed out to the car. And found Michelle sitting at the wheel. Justin got in the LeSabre and joked, “That bad, huh?”

But it wasn’t a good time to be joking. Because Michelle was crying. Hard. Not from sadness. Just from too much feeling. “No. It was so good. That’s a good song.”

“Thanks.” Justin was glad his songs still made her cry. But he didn’t want them to make her cry as hard as she was crying.

“Sorry—just—growing up is hard,” she said, referencing Justin’s song. “That really got me,” she heaved. “I guess ’cause it’s happening so fast—to me—right now. But—not because I had to say goodbye to anybody. But because I’m about to say … hello to someone.”

Michelle looked at Justin. And Justin looked at Michelle. Because he felt like she was giving some kind of clue. And she was. But it wasn’t a very good clue. So she just told him the thing she wanted to tell him.

“I’m gonna have a baby.”

There are things people tell you that make you grow up fast. Things like your dad telling you that you need to find another place to live. And your aunt telling you that your uncle who raised you like a son has died.

And your old best friend telling you that she’s going to have a baby.

Michelle didn’t breathe for a while, because she was waiting to hear what Justin would think of her news. And, while she waited, she felt a strange lightness fill up her insides. It made her feel like she had the light of a new day dawning inside her—which she did. And it made her feel giddy with excitement, because she had finally shared—with her best friend—a wonderful secret, a secret that only she and the father of her unborn child knew, a secret that would soon reveal itself to the world. And she felt like she was floating through the air, like a ballerina mid-lift. She had always wanted to be a ballerina. But her body had gotten too big too fast for her to ever get to dance ballet.