I get to Asheville on fumes and busk in a tiny park in the middle of the city. It’s sunny and breezy and the people who stop are friendly. I keep my guitar case open and start it off with the ten from Cory’s mom. I decide it will bring me luck, and it does. There’s a steady stream of foot traffic. Children step up to my case with quarters from their parents, staring cautiously as they chuck them in, like I might stop playing to reach out and grab their arm. College kids throw pennies and pocket lint. Older people, professors and the like, hover with folded ones in their fingers, waiting for me to make eye contact before they drop them in. I play for three hours and make thirty-three bucks and a bunch of change I don’t bother to count.

As I’m packing it in, a man comes up and introduces himself. His name is Ethan. He’s wearing a rumpled white shirt and loose, faded khakis. Bright blue eyes, small nests of lines that frame them when he smiles. My best guess is he’s pushing forty, because I think he’s one of those people who look younger than they are.

“I’ve been listening all afternoon,” he says, pointing to a bench a few feet away. He’s soft spoken, but his voice has a melody that makes me think of the low bars on a xylophone.

“Thanks,” I say, wishing I’d left my guitar case open a little bit longer. If he listened all afternoon, he should pay me something, but I hate taking money from a stranger’s hand. I hadn’t noticed him or the bench, which makes me feel a little sideways. I’m usually good at keeping track of what’s around me, but my mind keeps drifting away, trying to avoid thoughts about Justin.

“Hey, can I buy you dinner?” he asks, and he’s not nervous or awkward about it, but he seems intently hopeful that I will say yes and we will eat food and it will bring something to his life he didn’t have before. It doesn’t feel like he’s hitting on me. His eyes are sad in a way I recognize.

“I know a place that makes great gazpacho,” he says. “I think this is the first batch of the season.”

I probably look kind of rank. The offers to feed me come more frequently then. Although it’s usually a bagged lunch left in my case, not the commitment to sit across from me in public eating cold soup.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I need to hit the road.” My stomach is hollow and aching, but I have to be done falling for people just because they seem fine. I pick up my guitar case.