“Let us know next time you’re headed this way,” the manager says. “We always get a good crowd for you.” And it feels good to hear him say that, to know that Flyer Guy heard it too. I built that crowd from nothing. I had to beg to open for other singers. I played for meals or free coffee. I fought hard for every bit of ground I’ve covered, and to have a notebook full of places that will book me—it means something.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Flyer Guy asks as I walk toward the door. “There’s a bar across the street.”

I usually try to grab one of the older guys. Divorced, with a kid who’s probably only five or six years younger than I am. The kind of guy who wants me but feels bad about it. I can go home with him and stretch my arms out, say I’m tired and thanks and he’ll let me sleep on his couch. Or he’ll sleep on the couch and let me sleep in his bed like some kind of penance for his dirty thoughts. I know him. I’ve met him in more than one town. He’s a type. He’s easy.

This guy is different. He’s probably in his late twenties. He’s cute. He knows it. He wants me. I know he does. If I go home with him, I won’t crash on his couch. But sometimes, maybe I can just try to be a normal girl and go on a normal date, even if it’s only a drink in a bar. Sometimes I can have something that’s mine.

So I say, “Yes,” and get jitters, actual jitters, so much so that I even stop thinking about how I’ll describe them in a song. I just enjoy being a girl out with a guy.

We walk across the street together. He’s quiet. His hands shake a little while he fumbles with a cigarette. It’s cute, makes me feel shy too.

The place he takes me to is next to the train station. It’s dark. Neon and worn out wood. Almost empty. We sit at the bar. He orders Jack on the rocks. I order a Coke. I don’t drink with strangers, and my fake ID isn’t that great. I only use it when I absolutely have to.

“So, April,” he says, when our drinks come, “where are you headed next?”

“New Jersey,” I say.

“Uch, Jersey,” he says, wincing, and I feel like I have to defend my tour schedule and maybe all of New Jersey.

“Red Bank is great,” I tell him. “I play at this place called The Downtown. Good crowd. I have a guy I record with sometimes when I’m there.”

“The Downtown what?” he asks.

“Just The Downtown.”