Awash in memories of her younger life, Frankie tried to envision what she would have done last night if she wanted to pretend that she was twenty-one again and inhabit that ghost. Well, she would have gone to Lemonhead; she already knew that. Her fingers reached for the set of keys in her pocket. She stood wearily and supposed she needed to at least check Steinway Auditorium. It was such a cliché. Good God! Did she get wasted and end up screwing Ezra in a music room? Honestly, she thought she was better than that, but the truth of it was that she knew that this wouldn’t have been unheard of. The question was not really if they ended up sleeping together, because for Frankie, the sex was beside the point. That was just a physical thing that bodies were designed to do. No, it was the vulnerability. The moments or hours leading up to it. To the intimacy, to the tenderness, to the space between how much she thought she hated Ezra Jones and somehow kissing him beneath the mistletoe.

She trudged up the steps to Steinway and pulled out the keys. But surprisingly, there was no padlock on the door, and instead, she reached for the gold handle and simply swung it open. No. This was not it. Not what she was looking for. She let the door close and stood and stared at her reflection in the glass. God, if her mother could see her now, she’d have an absolute fit. Disheveled hair, wrinkled clothes, wan face, slouched shoulders. Standing outside of the auditorium where Frankie should have come into her greatness.

She turned and walked away before she allowed herself another thought about that. She didn’t miss performing. This wasn’t a do-over story about a child prodigy who second-guessed casting aside her talent. Her talent had been an anchor that dragged her down so deeply she had to make the choice to either drown in it or cut herself free. She didn’t regret any of that.

A mountain bike passed in front of her, then came to an abrupt stop and skidded across the brick walkway. The biker hopped off, and the bike rattled to the ground. Then the rider turned and pointed herself toward Frankie.

“You!” she said.

It took Frankie a second to place her. She was still swaddled in wool but now had on earmuffs and a scarf tightly bundled around her neck. Her parka threatened to eat her whole.

“I’m sorry?” Frankie said, and then the glimmer of recognition formed a complete picture. Shit. The girl from Homer with the pepper spray. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“I called the police!” the girl said.

“Well, that wasn’t necessary. We left as soon as you got there.”

Also, Frankie thought, if she were to get arrested at some point in her life, she hoped it was at least for something exotic, like setting tigers free from a zoo or inventing a new strain of weed. Not breaking into her lame freshman-year dorm.