“Good coffee,” Ethan says. “Good people. What else do I need anyway?” I have the overwhelming urge to hug him and tell him everything will be okay. I don’t. But I want to.

“How do you like your eggs, April?” Robert asks.

“Over easy,” I say. I’ve never liked eggs, but people at the diner always ordered them that way, and mostly they came out looking less gross.

“I like mine scrambled,” Ethan says.

“Eggs or men?” Robert asks.

“Both, apparently,” Ethan says, flashing me a grin.

Robert has to go to the restaurant so he can start working on lunch. He leaves me and Ethan with topped-off mugs of coffee and bellies full of eggs and potatoes.

“See you later, Alliga-tor-idae!” Ethan yells after Robert. He leans in and says, “He makes me watch PBS.”

“In a while, Crocodylidae,” Robert calls back, laughing. They sound like little boys who can’t wait to meet up later and play trucks in the dirt.

Ethan gets up and puts his plate in the sink. “So, what do you need to do to get ready for your performance tonight?”

“Tune my guitar,” I say, shrugging. “But not until I get there.” I may as well stay for the gig at this point. Sneak out tomorrow morning instead. Maybe I can busk downtown again before the gig to grab some extra cash. Leave here caught up on sleep and food and money.

Ethan looks disappointed. “No pre-gig ritual? Smudges of sage? Herbal tea and complete silence to channel your muse?” He takes my plate for me.

“My muse?” I laugh. “I just get up and play. When I’m done I have a beer or something. That’s about it.”

“No fanfare?” He pours me more coffee and empties the pot filling up his own cup.

“On a good week, I play three to five gigs and I drive the rest of the time. There’s no room for fanfare.” I could tell him about my dad’s guitar pick. I bet he’d like to hear it. But I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud.

Ethan smacks the table. “I’ll give you fanfare! Come on.” He downs the rest of his coffee. His eyes tear a little. “Bring your guitar.”

“Where are we going?”

“Up, up! You’ll see when we get there!”

We walk across town. I like the way our footsteps sound. Half a beat apart. It’s sunny and so much warmer than New York. It seems strange to me that people choose to live with winter when they could see the sun in March.

Ethan points out things while we walk. The one perfect cloud in the sky, crocus buds peeking through the damp spring soil, a tails-up penny he flips over so the next person who sees it gets some luck.