Gibson cleared his throat, staring at me pointedly. Vee ducked her chin, going back to fiddling with the microphone stand.

“Well, my coffee’s getting cold, I guess,” I said.

“Yeah. Okay. You’ll come back sometime? When you can stay, I mean.”

“Definitely.”

I grabbed my food and stacked the three coffee cups, balancing them by using my chin for support. Vee called my name. I turned.

“I just realized. Shelby’s been hanging around at igNight a lot.” She slid the microphone into the stand, glanced at Gibson, and came to me. “She has been for a few weeks. Acting really weird. Like she’s going to quit the band or something. It may be nothing. Shelby’s kind of a flake. She might have met another guy, or who knows what. But it’s just weird that right when you’re looking for Luna again, Shelby’s . . . being like she was. Before.”

“igNight?” I asked. The bottom cup was starting to burn my hand through the cardboard.

“Hookah dance club in the city. Full of dopeheads, mostly. But also rich girls like Shelby who think smoking orange-flavored tobacco makes them look sophisticated. Not really my kind of scene. She goes, like, every night.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “And she broke up with Gibson, so things are totally awkward right now. I’m not complaining when she doesn’t show up to practice. She is constant drama. It’s kind of nice not having her around, you know?”

“Vee,” Gibson barked.

She checked the clock behind the counter. “I should get going.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know about igNight. I’ll check it out.”

She grinned, letting her hair point flop forward over her face. “Have fun with that.”

She went back to their little nook and turned on the mic. There were a few muffled whumps as she tapped it to see if it was on. Gibson turned knobs on a small amplifier and then gave her a nod. He sat back on a stool and strummed out a few soft chords. Vee began to sing. Her voice was low and sultry, and while not exactly smooth, it was still coarse in the way waves are coarse crashing onto shore.

I recognized the opening lines of the song.

She was singing “Black Daisy.”

“GOD, FINALLY,” MARISOL breathed when she saw me with the food. She grabbed a coffee and pulled the lid off the top. “Ew, black?”

“Seriously?” I said, ready to punch her no-white-food-no-dressing-no-black-coffee face.

She rolled her eyes and sat on a box, hunkered over her coffee as if it was twenty below zero outside. Which it most definitely wasn’t. The back of my neck was damp with sweat. I was kind of wishing I’d opted for soda. Though I wasn’t sure a place like Morning Glory would be the kind of place to sell soda. Organic unsweetened fruit juices, yes. Pepsi, not so much.