“I’ve got a new song I want to try out for you all tonight,” he said into the mic. “My band doesn’t even know it yet, so I’ll give them a short break.”

He looked at me and winked.

I love you, I mouthed back.

Your dad was always working on something new, and this song was fun, with a great upbeat rhythm and an earworm-y melody. The lyrics needed some work, but he had the audience dancing and clapping along by the second verse.

I wanted so badly to ice my hand—the only thing that seemed to provide any relief once the pain started—but didn’t think that would look too great. Nor would walking off the stage while he was performing. So I stayed and listened and danced and felt my hand throb.

The one song break wasn’t enough, but I knew it was all he would be able to give me. I played through the pain for the next two songs, and then it was time for our duet to close the show.

—

“Only love can break your heart,” your dad said, walking toward me. “But you know I love you.” And then he bent and kissed me—way before it was choreographed. “I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”

I turned away from him, the way I was supposed to. “Come on, Rob, not this again.”

The audience cheered. We had real fans now, and they loved this part.

“Go, Queenie!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Glad you’re back on keys!”

“Love me do,” your dad sang.

We got through the medley. We got to the final kiss. Everyone clapped and hollered and whistled, and then we left the stage and, out of sight of the audience, I collapsed into a mess of tears.

“It hurts so much,” was all I could say from my spot on the floor. “It hurts so much.”

Your dad got a bowl of ice for my hand, and two shots of vodka for me.

“Here,” he said, crouching down next to me and handing me one. “Medicine. I promise it’ll make you feel better.”

I did the second shot he brought over. And then a third that Tony was carrying. Between that and the ice, the pain dulled.

“Maybe some weed, too?” your dad suggested.

“I just want to go home,” I told him.

I could tell he wanted to stay, to celebrate our gigs the way we usually did, but he came home with me. We were silent as we rode the subway with our instruments. My hand still ached—just an echo of the pain that had been there, but enough to make me remember. I couldn’t do that again.

“I think I need a break from the band,” I told your dad.

“You can just sing more, play less. Give your hand a few more weeks. We can get the douchebag keyboardist back.”