“Absolutely.” I tried to keep a straight face. In principle I agreed, but over his shoulder, Tyler was biting his lip and smiling at me in a way that made it impossible for me to pay attention to anything. A plum blush lit my neck and worked its way to my cheeks.

“Let’s…get you a drink,” David said genially, glancing at Tyler.

“Danger Beach,” Tyler said. “Don’t tell her anything about me. I want her to think I’m a good person.”

David laughed. “It’s too late for that.”

From there we headed to the Theatre and piled into the green corduroy seats. I tried to sit next to Tyler, but got stuck between Kerry and Anele instead, who were gossiping over me about the extramarital affair of a famous downtown artist.

“This grad student was crying about it to one of her friends at the bar in Philmont,” Kerry whispered. “I was sitting right there. I almost leaned over and said, Honey where do you think you are, the Port Authority? Everyone in here has an asymmetrical haircut. We all know exactly who you’re talking about. Anyway—I texted him to stop being so indiscreet.”

“What an idiot,” Anele agreed. “His wife is on the Biennale committee.”

The gray plastic table swarming with mixing boards and orange extension cords was still there, as were the screens and the stacks of speakers, but Jes didn’t touch any of it. Instead, she dragged a folding chair into the middle of the stage, then disappeared into the wings, returning with her cello.

She set it between her legs and held the bow aloft.

“I’ve been trying to remember who I was before Pine City,” she said. “Not that I don’t love you.” The group laughed. “But I want to get back to basics. So—I’m a little rusty, but here we go. This is from the Philip Glass score for Dracula.”

She played for twenty minutes, the bow rising and falling as the notes climbed over each other, her dyed fingers plucking the strings, kohl-smeared eyes squeezed closed between occasional glances at a grid of sheet music on the floor. She did not use a looping pedal or an amplifier; that night she used only the sound of rosined horsehair on catgut strings and their deep echoes in a belly of bent maple. Her foot smacked against the floor between the occasional releases of held-in breath.