She shakes her head. “Oh, Lord, I don’t know. I love him a lot. I’m scared to go and I’m scared to stay.” She sighs. “Can we please talk about someone else’s mess of a life?” Willowdean asks.

“Not it,” I mumble.

At the Hideaway, all seven of us file in with big black Xs on the tops of our hands. Tonight’s event is more of an open mic, which means I’m not actually competing for anything. It’s one of the only things keeping my nerves at bay.

“This is where we leave you,” Hannah says, after making a quick run to the bar to sign me up.

Behind her, Alex and Kyle wave at me, flashing me their thumbs-ups.

I must look helpless to Hannah, because she touches my arm and says, “She’ll be here.”

“I know.” Clem hasn’t texted or called yet, but I don’t want to nag her. I want to show her that I can be totally chill and that she can trust me not to freak out every time she does something without me. I’m a whole new Waylon. Sort of.

“Thanks,” I tell Hannah. “Text me if you hear from her.”

Behind me, I step through a parted curtain into a small open-air backstage that has been set up for anyone who needs to prep their hair and makeup. There are a few folding chairs and a table with a mirror tilted against the wall and a few floor lamps without shades. I plop my bag down on the table and unravel my headphones to plug into my phone, so I can listen to my song over and over and over again.

I brought Clementine’s Merle Norman makeup kit, which I plan on replacing with much better products the moment I have actual money that belongs to me.

As I’m plastering my eyebrows to my forehead with a stick of glue, an older man with a potbelly and olive-toned skin sits down beside me with a dress bag in one hand and a makeup-stained lavender Caboodle in the other.

He smiles at me in our reflection, and I yank the headphones from my ears.

“First time onstage?” he asks over the tempo of the music.

“Yes,” I say. “No, well, yes, formally.”

He opens his Caboodle to reveal stacks of makeup palettes and piles of lip liners and lipsticks. “My kit is your kit.”

“Thanks,” I say, my face nearly turning into the heart-eyes emoji at the sight of his stash.

I continue to do my makeup, but now that I have company, I hesitate with every stroke. My new friend is doing everything he can not to stare at me, but we can’t really avoid each other, and it turns out that painting your face with an audience is actually awful.