From the direction of the stage comes a scuffling sound. I look up to see a tall skinny guy with a guitar strapped to his back drag a stool to the middle of the stage and set it under the microphone.

“Here you go, Claire.” Pete sets a small tumbler in front of me; ice cubes clink against the glass, and my attention diverts. I inhale smoky fumes. Mmm, whiskey.

Pete’s hand is still on the tumbler, eyes dancing from Ruth to Harriet, and the idea that I’m being censured in some way raises the hair on my arms. “Maybe you should stop at one, you know, with Alice here and all and . . .” He trails off, an eye toward Harriet, and the look makes it clear that I’m doing something that bothers them. It fuels a guilty churning in my stomach.

But it doesn’t stop me. I pull the glass from his hand and force a smile. “Thank you, Pete.”

He bows his head and steps back. Thick salt-and-pepper hair piles around his ears and the back of his head in unruly waves. Deep creases pan out from his blue eyes. Pete’s the kind of Alaskan old that weathers like the rocks along the shoreline, the years wearing upon him slowly, taking only a little bit at a time.

The first sip burns. The next is smooth, with hints of apple and woodsmoke.

Harriet and Ruth stare at me. I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve had whiskey. I take another sip and can already feel the alcohol spreading its fingers through my limbs, touching my lips, making the note card on the table that tells me Tate moved on and has everything I wanted with him blur.

“One more please, Pete.”

Ruth makes a noise, but I ignore her and smile, look around, take in the guy playing a scratchy tune—some Bob Dylan song, I think, but the young guy’s voice is no Bob Dylan. Too high, more boy-band material, and his guitar playing is mediocre, beginner at best—no match for the song he’s attempting. I sit back in the chair. “He’s not very good,” I say in a low voice.

“He should have listened to you, Claire,” Ruth says.

“Listened to me what?”

“He’s your guitar student. You suggested he wait before he signed up to play open mic. Told him he needed much more practice.”

My head is already spinning from the alcohol, and the idea that I’m teaching this guy how to play the guitar only adds to it.

Harriet clears her throat and tries to find something positive. “But his guitar playing is better on this song, isn’t it? I mean, he’s not having to stop and find the right notes, so good for him!”

Ruth grunts and I eat a whiskey-soaked ice cube.