I watch Frankie approach the crowd.

Anders spots her. Something freezes on his face. I see him glance at the others, then move away from the group, following Frankie into the thicker darkness at the edge of the parking lot.

Nobody looks my way as I drift across the patio, between the rusty sculptures and the bathtub full of weeds.

At first I’m too far off to hear their voices. I see Frankie gesturing, the smooth skin of her bare arms catching what little light there is. I can see the V of Anders’s back, the broad line of his shoulders. The way he hangs his head.

Frankie steps closer to him. She throws her hands out.

The trees rasp and groan.

Then Anders speaks.

I see Frankie lean back. She sways a little. As if the words physically hit her.

A needle of excitement hits my lungs. But I can’t let it distract me.

I creep closer, divided from them by one parked car.

“I’m not pushing,” I hear Frankie say. “I’m just asking you a question.”

“And I don’t have to answer it.” Anders’s voice is rough. “Maybe you’re so used to getting everything you want that you haven’t even noticed this. But I don’t belong to you.”

Another needle. If he’s not hers, he’s a tiny bit more mine. Even if he doesn’t realize it.

Frankie’s eyes widen. “What is wrong with you? Two nights ago you were a totally different person.”

“This is me,” says Anders. “This has always been me.”

Frankie shakes her head. “No, it hasn’t.”

Anders lets out a little laugh. “And this is proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“How little you know me. You think you know me,” Anders goes on before she can speak. “Because you watch me play. You watch me perform. That’s it. You’ve never known anything else.”

“That’s because you push people away!” Frankie lashes back. Her hands fly out again. “You won’t talk to me. You won’t come out with me and my friends. You won’t even answer me when I ask one stupid little question about where you went last night.”

“Yeah,” Anders answers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I don’t want to spend my time with your shallow poser friends.”

“Right. Because you’d rather sit by yourself in your mildewy little bedroom, pretending to be some tortured rock star—”

“Oh, fuck off, Frankie.”

Frankie sucks in a breath.

Across the parking lot, Jezz and Patrick and the clustered fans have gone quiet. Everyone is watching.

The back of my neck prickles.

He’s losing everything. He’s doing it to himself.

“You wanted the rock star,” Anders goes on. “Just like everybody else. You don’t know me. You just imagine that you do. And then you’re mad when what you imagine doesn’t match the truth.”

Frankie’s eyes are huge and flashing. “I didn’t want the rock star,” she says, loudly and clearly. “I actually thought that I wanted you.” She leans back. Her shoulders straighten. “But you’re right, Anders. I didn’t know the real you. Because the real you is a piece of shit.”