Natalie came bustling out of the back office, her face lit with eagerness. She looked as fresh as springtime this morning, and he had to wonder if she and that guy—No. Don’t even go there.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “I was hoping you would get here early today.”

“Cool,” he said. “You got your wish.” When Dorothy was away, he treated Saturdays like any other workday.

She didn’t seem to notice his foul mood. “That was a surprise, running into you last night.”

Ditto, he thought.

“Your group is fantastic. I’m really impressed, Peach.”

“Yeah? Glad you liked it.” He’d been planning to roll out a new song at the Chalk Bar, a duet with Suzzy about a woman who lived in an attic garret and read romance novels late into the night, but he’d changed his mind about that.

“Your whole group,” she said. “So good. Now I know where Dorothy gets her musical talent. Have you been making music all your life?”

“Yep. Mom’s a music teacher. Still teaching piano back in Georgia.”

“You sound great. She must be really proud of you.”

He nodded, not necessarily in agreement. He and his parents had a complicated past. He and his younger sister, Junebug, had grown up in a grand house on Peachtree Road that came with all the trappings—private schools, tennis lessons, trips to Europe, a household staff. His first guitar and composition teacher had played with R.E.M., and on his twelfth Christmas, he’d received a genuine Rickenbacker guitar.

Everyone who was anyone would have agreed that the Atlanta Gallaghers had it all—until everything had come crashing down in twin disasters. Peach and Junebug had been seventeen and sixteen at the time. His father, who’d built an empire in finance, was arrested for defrauding his investors and was sentenced to three years in federal prison. Almost overnight, the family fortune had vanished. At the same time, Junebug had fallen into the vortex of addiction, lured by painkillers she’d been taking for a field hockey injury. To pay for her treatment and rehab, Peach had liquidated his entire college savings plan, the only family money that hadn’t been confiscated in the raid on his parents. Instead of going to college, he’d enlisted in the Marine Corps and never looked back.

Years later, his parents lived in a tiny home he’d built for them outside the city. His mother gave music lessons. His dad built patio furniture out of old whiskey barrels and reminisced about the old days, as if he hadn’t destroyed anyone’s future. Junebug worked as a tennis pro at a country club, hanging on to sobriety by a thread. They weren’t close anymore. They were like disaster survivors who made one another uncomfortable because their very existence was a reminder of the trauma.

His mom hadn’t heard him play music in a long time.