She digs her phone from the front pocket of her skirt and hands it to Willa. “It’s safer with you.”

Taylor crosses the room and stands near the front of the stage. A few people have already started to congregate, staking their territory for when Sister Kismet comes on later. She feels a little awkward standing alone, until someone shoulder-bumps her and Vanessa says, “Hey, you.”

Her bangs are caught back in a sparkly clip and she’s wearing a sleeveless yellow dress with a black Peter Pan collar and black over-the-knee socks. Taylor’s pulse ratchets up a notch as she smiles. “Hey back.”

“It’s so good to see you.”

“You too.”

Vanessa’s eyebrows hitch up. “Yeah?”

“Definitely.” Taylor smiles. “Yeah.”

Vanessa opens her mouth to say something, but she is cut off when the lead singer of the opening band shouts, “Hello, New York! We are the Tempura Shrimps!” and the band launches into their first song.

Taylor has never heard of the Tempura Shrimps, but their sound is catchy and fun for dancing. The music is too loud for talking, too loud even for sustained shouting, but she and Vanessa shimmy, bounce, and clap along through the entire set. Taylor’s T-shirt is soaked with sweat, but she can’t remember the last time she had this much fun at a show. Going to concerts with Finley and Willa was always a good time, but music was never their obsession.

“Let’s go upstairs and get a drink,” Vanessa suggests, pulling her damp dress away from her body.

“I don’t want to lose our spot,” Taylor says.

“We’ll get it back. C’mon.”

Taylor sees Willa perched on the arm of one of the leather couches, nodding as a guy talks at her. She doesn’t look panicked, just bored, so Taylor opts not to rescue her. Only fair, all things considered. Instead, she follows Vanessa up the stairs.

Willa

A GUY WEARING A BLACK T-shirt with a floral chest pocket cornered Willa, introduced himself as Jonathen—“with an e”—and launched into a no-reply-necessary monologue about how he’s trying to launch his own line of homemade, organic men’s grooming products.

“I make my own mustache wax using beeswax from my friend’s hive,” he says, twirling the skinny tip of his hipster villain mustache. “Want to touch it?”

“I, um—” From the corner of her eye, Willa catches sight of Taylor sneaking up the stairs and accepts this as her punishment for abandoning her at the frat party. “Not really. No.”

“No problem.” Jonathen shrugs it off. “You know, I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what you are. Am I picking up a little African American maybe? Latina?” He waves his hand in front of her face, trying to conjure the answer without Willa even speaking.