Zane:

It feels like someone’s kicked me in the gut when Scott and I walk into the Merry Cockatoo and see Nina hugging two guys.

She pulls free of their embrace and glares at me. “Hello Zane,” she says, her voice just as cool as mine. “And Scott. What an unexpected delight.” She looks at us as if we crawled out from under a rock, and then she performs introductions. “James and Lucas, meet Scott and Zane. James and Lucas work at the bar. Scott and Zane were just leaving.”

The weight in my chest eases. “No, we’re not,” I tell her with a grin, pointing to the guitar case in Scott’s hand. “I hear it’s Open Mic Night.”

“Fine,” she says sweetly. “I’ll show you to your table.” Grabbing a couple of menus from the bar, she walks us to a table by the window. “James will swing by in a minute to get your drink orders,” she says. “We have a happy hour from four-thirty to six. All our craft beer is four dollars a pint, and appetizers are half off. Any questions?”

She bites off each word through clenched teeth, looking at us with anger and hurt in her eyes, and regret sweeps over me. I feel like a dick. “Nina,” I say quietly, putting my hand over hers to get her attention. “I’m sorry.”

She stops dead in her tracks. “What for?” she whispers.

I’m sorry for so many things. For how things went down between us. For being so focused on Evolving Whistle that I didn’t tell her how much I cared about her. Every minute of every day I spent with Nina, I should have cherished her, and I didn’t.

“I’m sorry I assumed that you were involved with those guys.” My lips twist. “It was dumb of me. You agreed to play a game yesterday, and you wouldn’t have done that if you were with someone.”

She gives me a long look, her expression unreadable. “Thank you,” she says finally. “You’re right. I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“We aren’t either,” I say quietly.

She gives us a small half-smile. “I know,” she says. “When we dated, women kept throwing themselves at you, but I was never worried. I trust you. You’re not cheaters. If you were with someone, you would have never suggested the game.”

We’re not playing, Neen. With you, it’s never been a game.

James walks over in a couple of minutes to take our drink orders, and we each order a pint of the local brew. “You’re in that band, aren’t you?” he asks me. “Evolving Whistle?”

We’ve made it big in the last couple of years, big enough to get occasionally recognized by strangers on the street. Our manager Chris is delighted at our fame, but both Scott and I find the attention disconcerting. “Yes,” I admit. “Have you seen us play?”

“Yeah, you guys played a show in Brooklyn three months ago.”

“At the Way Station,” Scott remembers.

James nods. “Yeah, that was the place. You guys playing tonight? We do ten-minute slots, but if you stick around to the end, you can have another turn if you like.” He gives us a direct look. “Unless Nina wants you gone.”

“I think we’re allowed to stay for the moment.”

“Hmm.” His gaze stays on us. “How do you know Nina?”

“We used to date,” Scott says.

James nods grimly. “Let me be blunt, gentlemen,” he says. “I like Nina. She’s a good boss, and she’s a nice person. You cause any trouble for her, and you’ll get kicked out.”

I can’t decide if I should be irritated that this guy’s threatening to throw us out or be glad that Nina has people that are watching out for her. I land on glad. “Fair enough,” I say evenly. “And yes, we’d like to play a set.”

* * *

Nina:

A little after six, James goes up to the makeshift stage we set up against the back wall of the Merry Cockatoo. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, tapping the mic to get everyone’s attention. “Welcome to Open Mic Night at the Merry Cockatoo. We have a lot of people on our list today, so a quick reminder to keep your set ten minutes or less. Without further ado, let’s have a warm round of applause for our first performer, Sandra Jones.”

I don’t usually stick around on Wednesdays. It’s hard for me to be around musicians, but today, I listen to the acts. Okay, fine. Who am I kidding? I want to hear Zane and Scott.

The bar is packed to the rafters by the time Zane and Scott take the stage. As I have countless times, I watch them transform into rock stars as soon as they’re in front of the audience. In person, both men are fairly introverted, but when they get up to perform, they change. “Hey everyone,” Zane says into the mic, looking around the room with a cocky grin. “I’m Zane Marshall; this is Scott Leyland. We’re in New Summit working on our next album, and we’re going to play a couple of new songs for you.”

Tiffany Slater is in the audience, holding up her phone. She’s probably taping this, and I’m sure Scott and Zane’s impromptu show will end up on YouTube before the end of the day. Good publicity, I think sourly. Chris Muller, the manager of Evolving Whistle, will undoubtedly approve of this move.

Then they start playing, and I can’t think anymore.

I can’t breathe. The room swims around me, and my entire body trembles. I can’t take it. Don’t tell me what love is, I want to scream at them. You didn’t try to stop me. You didn’t try to find me. You picked your music over me.

The tray I’m carrying rattles, and beer sloshes over the edges of the pint glasses. I set it down carefully on the edge of the bar before I lose my grip on it. “Can you deliver this to table three?” I say to Lucas, not meeting his eyes, knowing I’m going to find concern there, knowing I’m inches from breaking down.

And I flee.

The text message arrives later that night from Zane.

Tomorrow evening, it says. 6pm. Don’t be late.

The game begins.