For my thirteenth birthday Mom and Dad got me a secondhand electric, an Epiphone Les Paul Special. That same year Flynn helped me find a great deal on a decent Yamaha acoustic, something I could afford with two summers’ worth of lawn-mowing money. Later I found out the deal was so great because Flynn had paid for half of it himself. And the whole time that snow-white Fender hung there, above the lumpy couches, just out of my reach.

I’d gaze up at that guitar week after week. I’d picture it in my hands. In my bedroom. I could see our future together stretching out in front of me, all the glory, all the music.

You can want something so much that it feels like it’s already yours.

I thought I’d never want anything as much as I wanted that Fender.

But that was before Frankie Lynde.

And it was before Yvonne.

I remember how it felt the very first time I played her. The skin of my forearm on her curve. My hand wrapped around her neck. The way her name just came to me, Yvonne, like someone had whispered it in my ear, like it already belonged to her, just the way she already belonged to me. It seemed impossible that something so exciting could feel so familiar. I guess that’s how you know it’s right. I guess that’s why you should just take it, without dissecting it into pieces. Even if you know you don’t deserve it.

Thea

Before the Crow’s Nest opens, the woods are louder.

It’s early in the afternoon. The coffeehouse doors are locked, the parking lot empty. There’s no one here but me to hear the trees roar.

I sit on the back stoop. Behind me two broad steps lead up to the Crow’s Nest’s kitchen door, set back in a frame of scarred gray wood. Moss and mushrooms and tiny white flowers sprout from the earth on either side. My bike leans against the wall nearby. It’s shady here. It smells like coffee and pine.

The wind pulls my hair. The trees shake. They would like to lash out and brush me away.

I should be at school right now. History class. Second to last row, right-hand side. Mrs. Wilder probably won’t even notice that I’m gone.

The thought of Anders being there alone makes my chest tighten for a moment. But being here mattered more.

This morning when I went into the living room with the coffee tray, I found Aunt Mae half unwrapped from the wadded blankets. She was shaky and dew-drenched with sweat, whispering, “No. Not too late. No.” The TV babbled in the background.

I sat down on the edge of the couch. There was some whiskey left in the bottle. I poured a slug straight into her coffee. Then I helped her sit up and curl her fingers around the cup. The oily surface trembled.

“So hot,” she muttered, her eyes still shut. I was ready to take the coffee back, to pull away the loose cocoon of blankets. Then Aunt Mae went on. “It melts the glass.”