The sounds of getting started—the click of the strap buckle against the guitar, pop of the mic as I switch it on, the way the strings of the guitar vibrate ever so slightly when I rest it on my leg—those are my favorite sounds. I used to notice them every single time I played, but this is the first time in a long time that I’ve even heard them.

The couple who was already done with dinner is about to leave, but they sit down again and order another bottle of wine when I start to play. The date couple orders dessert. He gives her a bite of his lemon meringue pie, holding the fork across the table, hand under it, ready to catch pieces of the crumbling crust. I do a little cheer for her in my mind and play Something in the Way She Moves. James Taylor. Not Beatles. Because it’s the sweetest song I know. Because maybe it will help. Because I still want to believe that people can fall in love and stay there, the way I desperately wished the unicorn Margo took me to see at the Renaissance Fair wasn’t just a white goat with one horn sawed off.

I hope for a bigger crowd, but it never happens. A guy comes in and sits by himself in the corner. He orders coffee and pie and reads a book the whole time like I’m not even there. No one runs in from the street, moved by the music leaking out to the sidewalk. Robert won’t ask me back. This wasn’t enough.

While I pack up my guitar, I make a mental note of the things I need to gather from Ethan’s so I can head for Florida first thing in the morning before he wakes up. So there’s no need for awkward breakfast talk. It’s easier to leave when you aren’t burdened with goodbyes and loose promises about keeping in touch. Just go if you’re going to go.

Robert comes out of the kitchen and says, “Thank you, April.” He’s formal when he says it, looks at an order pad in his hand, and I feel like it’s the way you would dismiss someone if you were of the high and mighty variety. Thank you, April. That’s enough of you.

But he flips the page on his pad and says, “Can you play at the bar tomorrow, and then back here on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I can do that, possibly.” You have to adjust quickly. You can’t be too eager. Eager people get screwed. But I want to cry from the relief of it.