I can feel tears prick the back of my eyes. I think this is the first time someone has done something for me without expecting something in return. I don’t even know how to react.

“Nick, I swear, I will pay you and your parents back someday,” I say. I look into his eyes. “I swear to God.”

Nick laughs. “It’s really no big deal,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s kinda nice to be back at my parents’ place, for a little while, anyhow. My mom makes way better lasagna than they make at the restaurant. And she does my laundry for me. Now stop worrying. Let’s go get your stuff.”

Not surprisingly, considering I barely have anything with me, it only takes a few minutes to pack.

“You sure travel light,” Nick says, looking at me a little funny after he’s zipped up my duffel. He swings the bag over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” I say noncommittally, hoping he won’t ask me to explain. Thankfully, he doesn’t.

The room above the restaurant, which is accessible through a private stairway that opens to the back parking lot, is tiny, but I feel instantly at home. It clearly wasn’t designed to be an apartment; even with the twin bed pushed against the wall, it’s barely big enough to move around in, and the teeny adjoining bathroom has only a shower and a sink.

“You have to use the toilet downstairs,” Nick says a bit sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, and I mean it. “Actually, it’s perfect.”

And it is. For the first time, I’m somewhere that feels like a home. The bed is covered with a quilt that looks homemade, there’s a tiny bedside table with a reading lamp and a few novels, and there are even a few photos of Italy pinned to the wall. Best of all, there’s no sign of roaches.

“Nick, I don’t even know how to thank you,” I whisper.

“It’s thanks enough to not have to worry about you being in that awful place next door,” he says dismissively. He hands me the key to the outside door. “Now are you going to unpack or what?”

Ten minutes later, Nick and I sit down side by side on the edge of the twin bed.

“You know, I meant to tell you how amazing you were tonight,” he says. “At the open-mic night, I mean. You’re an unbelievable singer.”

“Thanks.” His words make me feel good, but I’m unsettled. Singing in front of my dad—and still not having him recognize me—has made me feel emptier than I expected. Even the high of being appreciated by an audience who didn’t realize I’m Star Beck isn’t enough to bring me back.

“I mean, really,” Nick continues, shooting me a glance that looks almost nervous. “You blew everyone away.”

“Thanks,” I say again.