Steinway was empty when he got there. She wasn’t onstage; she wasn’t anywhere. A few students lingered in the lobby with their string instruments, so he circled back out and asked if they’d seen a girl come in. “She’d have been playing the piano? She’s incredible?” he added, as if they’d be mesmerized by her talent.

They raised their eyebrows at this, unimpressed, but they didn’t know Frankie, didn’t know her gift. Ezra barely did, actually, but the lone time he’d seen her a year ago, right in this very spot, it had taken his breath away. He hadn’t grown up going to symphonies or paying much mind to music other than whatever was on the radio when they carpooled to school, but he knew enough to know a generational talent when he saw one.

But she had to be there. Intuitively, he knew this. She wouldn’t have run to the dorm to be by herself in the silence; she wouldn’t have run to his room for comfort because that wasn’t the sort of thing she did. Or had ever done, at least. And for once, he wanted to be the one to nurture her, to lean in and say: How can I help? And just as important, for her to tell him. Frankie had been clear that she didn’t want a white knight, had never wanted a fixer. But just this one time, wouldn’t it be nice if he could offer?

He took the stairs up to the stage, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space of the thousand or so seats behind him. When he got center stage, he turned and stared out. What a marvel it was, he thought, that she could sit here and lose herself in front of such an audience. Or had a long time ago. That took guts. That took discipline. That took a steely spine that he had never been called to rely on. Crushing the LSAT or making dean’s list wasn’t nearly the same thing as stepping out in front of a rapt audience and willing yourself to make not a single mistake. He looked out into the empty seats and knew there wasn’t a thing in the world that he wouldn’t do for Frankie. He’d walk to the ends of the earth if he had to.

He heard a clatter from behind the stage and turned with a start. He’d obviously never been back there, so he fumbled a bit through the darkness, over music stands and set pieces, toward the noise that was still reverberating. He found her sitting behind a partially broken down drum set, her hands on either side of a cymbal, trying to quiet it.

“Frankie,” he said.

“Shit,” she said.

She looked terrible. Her cheeks were spotty, her eyes damp and bloodshot, her nose an angry red. She’d piled her dark hair into a messy bun on top of her head, and though he had seen her just this morning, her hair looked greasier, like this whole thing—whatever it was—also made her in need of a shower. She played with the cuff of her sweatshirt, then grabbed a wayward thread and pulled it until the seam of her sleeve partially unraveled.