“But that’s not really it.” This is colder, deeper water than we’ve been in before. I can’t see the bottom here. “I guess . . . I’m worried about what will happen when I do say yes.”

“Ah.” I can hear Flynn take a deep breath of his own. “I get it.”

My head snaps up. “You get it?” He does?

Flynn nods again. “Oh, yeah. It happens to almost everybody, man. You climb up the ladder, you walk down to the end of the diving board, and all of the sudden you see how high up you are, and you think maybe you don’t really want to jump. I get it.”

I twist in my seat. God, I wish I had my guitar. Just so I had something to clench in my hands. “No. It’s . . .” I scrape my fingers through my hair. My scalp is sweaty. “I’m not, like, scared of leaving town or something. I’m not scared of taking a chance. I’m—” I have to stop and swallow. “I feel like I’m about to get everything I’ve always wanted. You know? Everything.”

“And that scares you.” Flynn leans on his elbows. He brings his face close to mine. “We knew this was coming, right? Representation, touring, a record deal. I mean, the things you’ve been writing, the way you can play. People were going to notice.” He cracks a smile. “I don’t promise any of my students fame and fortune in the music business, but if I was going to make a bet on someone . . .” He gives my knee a quick, warm pat. “Listen. Anders. If you’re thinking the life of a touring musician isn’t what you want anymore, that’s one thing. That’s fine. That’s sane.” He grins knowingly. “But if you’re just doubting yourself, that’s another thing entirely.”

I stare hard at Flynn, grabbing every word out of his mouth like it might be the thing that saves me, that makes the shitty situation with my best friends seem not so shitty after all. For a second I think about Flynn’s life. Single. No family that I know of. Scattered friends. No roots but the shallow ones he’s put down here. Maybe music pulls people apart as often as it brings them together. Maybe I’m headed for loss no matter what I do.

Flynn leans back, the graying coils of his hair sweeping over his shoulder. “You know, life isn’t a one-way street. You can play lead guitar in a metal band for a few years, touring the world, doing crazy stuff, and then you can move to some small town where the rent is nice and cheap and teach guitar to schoolkids.” He shrugs, grinning. “But Anders . . .” He pauses. His face gets serious. “You need to at least try. I mean it. Go down that road far enough that you can see where it leads before you turn away.”

There’s another moment of quiet. I can hear the hum of pipes and vents, and the muffled plinking of a piano lesson in another studio seeping in under the door.