“Amanda . . . or Star . . . or whoever you are,” he begins, a troubled look on his face. “Geez, I don’t even know what to call you. I just . . .” He pauses again. “This is just a lot to deal with, you know?”

“Why?” I ask, feeling a sort of desperation set in. “I’m still the same person. I mean, you know me.”

“No, I don’t,” Nick says. He stands up to leave. “I know a klutzy waitress named Amanda Pepper. But this . . . this makes everything really confusing. I just need to think about things for a little while.”

“What is there to think about?” I ask, hating how needy my voice suddenly sounds.

“It’s just a lot to absorb,” Nick says. He stands up to leave. “I’m sorry. I know you want me to say something different. But I really don’t know what to say right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly on his way out. I nod, afraid that if I speak, I’ll cry. “Don’t worry,” he adds, like an after-thought. “I won’t tell anyone. Your secret’s safe.”

“Thanks,” I say. I appreciate it. But I hate that I have this secret at all. I hate that I can’t just be me. Before I can say that, Nick, the one person in the world who saw me for what I am inside rather than for all my Grammys and hits and hype, is gone.

I walk up to my father’s store the next morning after a mostly sleepless night. I tossed and turned and hoped that Nick would come back, but he never did. Somewhere over the course of the night I decided to do my best to just let him go. I didn’t come to St. Petersburg for him; I came here to find my dad. And that’s what I have to focus on.

I spot him immediately, in the guitar room, his back to me. He’s restringing a guitar. The store has just opened, and I’m the first customer here. I don’t see another salesperson. We seem to be alone.

I take a deep breath, stride across the room and stop a foot away from him.

“Hi,” I say. He turns around, looks at me for a moment and smiles pleasantly.

“Well, hello there,” he says brightly. “Amanda Pepper, right? You were fantastic last night. Have you come to sign up for lessons?”

“No,” I say softly. “I’m not here for lessons.”

He looks pained.

“Now, now, don’t be hasty,” he says right away. “Your technique is great. But I can definitely work with you to improve your chord sequences. And the pitch of your voice.”

I look at him for a moment, slightly caught off guard. What’s wrong with the pitch of my voice?

“No,” I say after a moment. “That’s not what I’m here to talk about.”