With gentle politeness, Oberon said, “He sometimes tends to be a little flat.”

Ángel snorted. “Ya think? He wanted a live set for every song on the album, and he’s ethically opposed to auto-tune. All of which is fine if you can stay on key, but Con has trouble. Never go see him live. It can be tough.”

“I’ll cross his concerts off my schedule,” said Oberon gravely. “You are conspicuously the better singer, more controlled and on-pitch even though you’re singing above your modal voice. The only interesting thing about this song is that he’s singing the melody and not you.”

Ángel smiled. “Thank you, but it was his album, Oberon. I’m just a session man.”

“Why don’t you have an album?”

“Never really wanted to be a star. I like session work, and I like to write and play and perform in small venues. It’s fun, and I make a living. But I don’t want fame. Fame sucks. As you know.”

“And why did you have this song on your phone?”

That was a perceptive question. Ángel had been playing and singing other people’s music for years; he didn’t carry around many examples in his pocket. “We dated for a while,” he admitted. “Con and me. We broke up not long after we recorded this. I guess it’s nostalgia or something.”

“Do you love him still?”

“No,” said Ángel, surprised. They ate in silence until “Sunrise Love” automatically started up again, Ángel’s guitar ringing through the room. Then Conner started to sing, and Ángel winced. “I don’t even miss him much, not anymore. It’s just, I don’t really know what happened. Why we didn’t work out. He wanted me to tour with him, but I had my business, my clients, in Miami. It wasn’t personal. But he got mad.” He listened regretfully. “It’s too bad I don’t have a better song to remember him by, but the rest of his stuff isn’t any better. He has a pretty voice, but he’s not a very interesting songwriter.”

He stood up to collect their plates, and frowned to see that Oberon had barely eaten half his slice of bread. “Eat that.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care,” said Ángel, brusquely. “You work out for ninety minutes every morning. You can’t support that on no food. Eat.”

Oberon’s green-gold eyes glinted at him. “Will you stay with me for a few minutes, while I eat?”

Did he really just want company? Somehow it was easy to forget how alone Oberon was.

He sat in the chair. Oberon took another bite of his zucchini bread. “Happy?”

Ángel gestured in the air, indicating “Sunrise Love,” which was winding down again. “Kill this?”