“You,” I say, and I’m going to tell her that she’s my first real honest to goodness friend, she’s like my sister. I’m going to tell her how much she’s done for me, how much I love her. But I can’t say any of it. I can’t say it and then walk away, so all I say is “You,” and slip Adam’s key in her pocket and kiss her cheek and walk away as fast as I can and then faster, until I’m running to my car. The soles of my boots smack the pavement and splash melting ice and salt on my legs. It stings through my tights, and when I get in the car and close the door, everything outside is muffled and I’m stuck with just me and the sobs and my stinging red legs and how it feels like someone just ripped all my skin off.

I start the car and follow the roads out of the city. I just drive. I don’t care where. The only place I want to be is Ithaca.

— Part Two —

— Chapter 32 —

March 1997

Brewster, NY

The crowd at Perks is standing room only, but the pickings are slim. I’ve played here before, perched on this rickety wooden stool, on the platform they cover with worn out rugs, under lights that are way too close to the stage. There are faces I recognize. People who were here last time, who came to see me again.

I make sure I’ve figured out the balance of the stool and then I test my tunings, clip my capo to the head of my guitar, and tape three extra picks to the mic stand. One of them is my dad’s old thick black Gibson pick. It’s cracked and I use thins, but I put it there anyway. Because I always have. It used to be one of my rituals—to remind me where I came from, what the first few songs I wrote are supposed to mean—but it’s just procedure now.

The stage me is procedure too. Pretend I’m shocked by the crowd. Wide-eyed and aw shucks like all my wildest dreams are coming true. Eyes closed, three deep breaths, strum, open eyes. And then I make work of the music, my voice sighing over the audience, fingers strong on the strings.