Robert says, “Oh, that’s great!” and claps his hand to the side of my arm excitedly. “That couple”—he points to their now empty table—“ordered two very expensive bottles of wine. One more than they would have if you hadn’t been here. And them”—he points to the table where the daters had been—“they never would have ordered dessert if it weren’t for you. Thursdays are always a little slow over here, but you turned it into a good one for us.”

“It’s what I do,” I say, smiling as he pulls a small wad of bills from his back pocket and hands it to me. When you have happy accidents, it’s best to own them. They don’t happen often enough.

— Chapter 45 —

The bar the next night is fine. Nothing to write home about. But on Saturday night at the restaurant, the wine couple is back. They’ve brought friends and the bottles of wine come and go more often than I can keep track.

The following week when I play at the restaurant, there’s a huge crowd. People stand and listen while they wait for tables. Robert rushes around. Every time he catches my eye he smiles. Ethan sits at a double by himself, holding a cup of coffee in both hands, mouthing all the words along with me. He’s been listening to me practice.

Monday morning, I wake up and there’s light streaming in through the lacy curtains in my room at Ethan’s house and I know I’ve slept in way longer than I ever let myself.

“Hey, sunshine,” Ethan says when I stumble into the kitchen. He has a mess of papers and pamphlets all over the table.

“What are you doing?”

“Filling out applications,” he says, handing me one of the pamphlets. “Help me!”

It’s for Emerson College in Boston.

“Are you going back to school?”

“Looking for a new job.” Ethan points to the coffeepot. I pour a cup for myself and give him a warm-up.

I sit at the table and spread out his pamphlets so I can see them.

“Looks like I’ll be moving to cold weather,” he says. “All the good theatre schools seem to be up north.”

“It’s not so bad,” I tell him, holding up a Middlebury brochure. “I did a gig at a bar near Middlebury last year. It’s nice.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah. Gorgeous hills. Snowed like a motherfucker and I didn’t have snow tires, so I got stuck there for a whole week longer than I meant to, but you know… if you don’t need to get anywhere because you live there to begin with, it’s probably nice. Stay in. Eat waffles. The maple syrup’s real.”

Ethan buries his head in his hands.

“Or get snow tires,” I say. “Trade in your Saab for a Jeep?”