She steeled herself and went inside, the chill from the outdoor air dissipating as the heat from the overhead vents assaulted her. It was almost too much at once: the memories and the atmosphere and the cacophony. Frankie took a sharp right to the restrooms, where she did a double take at herself in the mirror. She’d forgotten she had on the ridiculous bridesmaid’s dress, forgotten that she had attempted to pull her hair into what she hoped was an elegant bun, forgotten that April had requested a vibrant pink lipstick to complement the magenta dress, which it did not. Nothing about her was recognizable. She gripped the counter and stared into her own eyes and, once again, reminded herself to breathe, as if she were Ezra, as if hers was the mind that needed quieting. For her whole childhood, Frankie Harriman had been trained, like a robot, like a machine, to ward off nerves by leaning into adrenaline, not running from it. But now, alone, vulnerable, and extremely sober, she discovered that the same grit, the same steeliness was no longer accessible. As an adult, she had toiled with the most temperamental musicians, the peskiest of celebrities; she had built careers into superstardom from nothing; she had fought her way through the boys’ club and had lived the life she wanted on her terms. And here she was, in the bathroom of Steinway Auditorium, worried that she was about to become totally undone. She angled over the counter and moaned, her face falling into her hands.

She forced herself upward and met her own eyes. Breathe, she told herself again. The door to the bathroom creaked open, and an older woman entered, nodding hello. Frankie didn’t want to linger, so she painted on a smile and said, “What an amazing ceremony!” in a voice that didn’t sound like hers at all. She saw herself out.

The auditorium had been transformed for the event. The lights were dim over the stadium seating, but the stage itself had been converted into a genuine party space: round tables adorned with gold cloths and white and magenta flower arrangements, a lacquer dance floor in the center, twinkling white lights draped above and around. If Frankie hadn’t known the feel of a stage intuitively, she never would have had the sense that this was where performers sat and destroyed themselves for the love of their art. Or maybe that was just Frankie. Plenty of the kids she knew from back then loved it. Or told themselves they did anyway.

She moved down the darkened aisles toward the revelry, a pit blossoming in her stomach. Ezra and Mimi were on the far right at the bar; with her red hair and green dress, she was impossible to miss. Ezra turned to look toward the open stretch of the auditorium, a drink in one hand, and Frankie pulled back, as if he were looking for her. His eyes flitted back to Mimi, then he smiled at whatever she had said. Frankie had never seen Ezra in a tuxedo, and honestly, it kind of took her breath away. Something about seeing him all grown up moved her, set her on fire. She thought of the kiss again. Maybe it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise.