After taking in a famous Dartmouth sunset, we decide to try a new place for dinner. At Sunapee Roadhouse, we order cheeseburgers and pints of Sam Adams. We always alternate between burgers and pizza when we’re working long hours researching and writing.

When our beers arrive, I look across the hardwood dance floor to a small stage with a round stool and a mic stand. The stage is otherwise empty, so I guess there’s no music tonight. Or maybe the mic goes live after the dinner rush.

I slide out of the booth. On my way to the restroom, I see a sandwich board chalked with the words Amateur Nite Tonight! Newcomers Welcome!

I know in that moment what I have to do. I spot a young guy lugging some black cases into a small alcove behind the stage. I’m not proud of it, but what happens next involves a lot of pleading and a little flirting.

When I return to the table, I’m carrying a beat-up six-string acoustic guitar with a sweat-stained leather strap and a broken pick guard.

“What the heck is that?” Garrett asks.

“I believe it’s a Gibson. All tuned up and ready to go.”

Garrett looks at me like I’m crazy. “Go where? Did you buy that from somebody?”

“Nope. Borrowed it. For exactly twenty minutes.”

The overhead lights dim a few notches and the house music cuts off. After a few seconds, the crowd noise dies down too.

A spotlight pops on and hits the empty stool on the stage. I hear a microphone rattling and then a man’s voice comes through the stage speakers.

“Testing, one, two…”

I look at Garrett. The man I love. He squints back at me, not understanding what’s going on. Not yet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice says. “Welcome to amateur night at the roadhouse!” Shouts and applause all around. And a lot of foot stomping. I do a couple of stomps myself.

Garrett looks confused. Then he turns a little pale. “No way.”

The voice continues, dialing up the energy. “We have a new face here tonight, a first-timer on the roadhouse stage all the way from the wilds of Connecticut! Please welcome… Mr. Garrett Wilson!”

Garrett’s mouth is hanging wide, then his eyes narrow into a squint of disbelief.

I hand him the guitar. No backing out now. He’s up.

The crowd is clapping and shouting: “Let’s go!” “Showtime!” “Get up there!”

Garrett weaves through the tables and walks across the dance floor. He steps onto the stage and slides the guitar strap over his shoulder.

I perch on the edge of the booth as he takes his place on the spotlighted stool. He gives the guitar a few test strums. The sound comes through the speakers loud and clear.