There’s no way I’m doing the show alone. The songs need a band. That crowd, roiling and yelling and waiting—if we don’t get up there and play, play together, they’ll tear this place apart.

Maybe I should apologize to the guys. Maybe I should beg. Tell them how much I need them, how the songs would be incomplete and lifeless without them. But suddenly I’m so angry at Patrick for even threatening to back out on Last Things that all I can imagine is punching him in the face. I might try it, if I didn’t know he could rip me apart with one hand.

Jezz faces him. “I get it, dude,” he says placatingly. “I do. But everybody’s already here. They’re waiting for us.”

Patrick stares back at him. His jaw flexes.

“Come on,” Jezz says softly. “Maybe Last Things has run its course. But let’s at least do one last totally amazing show first.”

Patrick’s eyes slash to me again.

I glare back at him. Patrick, the pulse of this band, can’t just quit. I can barely fit my brain around the idea, it’s so impossible and selfish and ridiculous. It would be like your heart deciding it was sick of all this beating BS and climbing out of your chest and stomping away.

You can’t do this, I think, staring into his eyes. You can’t do this to me.

He’s probably thinking the exact same thing.

There’s a burst of noise from inside. The crowd is yelling for us. Another jolt of adrenaline hits me. My hands twitch, hungry to hold the guitar, to feel Yvonne’s sleek neck slide through my palm, to feel the stage rumble under my boots with Patrick and Jezz’s rhythm. Maybe for the last time.

Damn it. This could really be the last time. I want to grab it with both arms and dig my fingernails into it and hang on to it forever. I need this. I need my band. And I hate them both for how much I need them.

“Fine,” says Patrick at last.

He turns and walks away. Jezz follows him. They’re heading toward the back door, and I’m staggering a few steps behind, when I feel a soft touch on my arm.

I whip around.

Frankie.

She’s wearing a dark top that curves down her chest, showing a slash of soft golden-brown skin. She looks amazing. And kind of unhappy. But I’m too full of rage and loss and hunger for this to really sink in.

“Hey,” she says.

“What?” It comes out harsh. Too loud.

Frankie gives a tiny flinch. “So. I was just wondering,” she says. She smiles a little and touches her hair in a way that would normally make my skin get hot. “What happened to you last night?”

The rage flares. She knows about the stupid meeting, too? Jesus. Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t think they know everything about my life?

And then I remember. I was supposed to meet up with Frankie after the show last night.