Evelyn Sinclair left this world looking like a million bucks. I made sure of it. Her owl brooch—the one now pinned to the leather strap of my Music Man StingRay bass guitar—twinkled in the light of her bedside lamp. She was wearing her favorite bubblegum-pink sweater set with matching polyester pants. I dressed her that morning, almost two months ago, knowing it would be the last day she’d get to spend in this world. Things had gotten bad. She’d fallen and hit her head shortly after Mr. Sinclair died, and she hadn’t gotten out of bed since.

I knew it was time, because her eyes told me so.

She died with all the dignity and compassion she deserved. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be. Adam was ready, too. Even though those words never came out of his mouth.

As the stage lights whirl around me, tiny specks of radiance spread over the audience, moving and swirling across their skin. The dots are only reflections of light, bouncing off the owl’s rhinestone eyes, but I like to think of them as little pieces of Ms. Sinclair. Every time I move, she’s shuttled in a million different directions, spreading herself around the room in erratic prisms of radiance and light.

My bass notes vibrate their love through everyone’s chest as the bits of Ms. Sinclair dance with joyful exuberance. It seems that tonight, there’s no better place for a person to be than right here. At Crackerjack Townhouse’s feet. Jarrod’s voice pours over the audience like icing over a still-warm cake.

With me thumping inside his heart and his grandmother’s light dancing around him, my bed-headed swooner looks more than happy. He’s encased in Jarrod’s voice, too, and as I look down at Adam, standing at the corner of the bar with a shot glass in his hand, I know everything there is to know about forgiveness and love. I know about perfection. He smiles up at me as numbness settles into my fingertips, unstoppable music rushing out of them. Naysayer Records may not have been impressed by what they saw at Bartholomew’s three months ago, but it doesn’t matter. Crackerjack Townhouse will keep doling out the panty-dropping feels for as long as Philadelphia thinks funk deserves a home.

As the notes of Marquis’s trumpet solo cut through the air, yesterday returns to my mind. Jarrod sang the National Anthem at the groundbreaking ceremony, and it was absolutely beautiful. Adam insisted on it, saying the Evelyn Sinclair Alzheimer’s Center deserved one hell of a welcome reception. I’ve heard Jarrod sing a million times before. But, I’ve never heard him sing like that. It was breathtaking. Ms. Sinclair would’ve loved it.

After Jarrod sang, Adam’s mother gave a touching dedication to her husband, reminding us all that, sometimes, money can do a lot of good. Even when it comes from a giant dickhead. She and Adam fully funded the Center’s construction using his trust fund and some of her inheritance from Mr. Sinclair’s life insurance policy. She flew back to Seattle this morning, leaving Adam to oversee the project and represent their family on the Center’s Board of Trustees. As I see him out there tonight, dressed in his favorite hoodie and slurping down a shot of vodka with Grace and couple of her friends, I’m so proud of him. Of us.

After a few more measures, Crackerjack Townhouse ends the song with a deafening punch of horns. The sound ricochets around the room for a hot instant before the audience erupts with appreciation. We don’t stop very long to let it soak in, because a moment later, Liam delivers the first tight chords of “Break It Out,” quickly turning the crowd into a fresh frenzy of drunken exuberance. I’ve come to realize they’re watching all of us move around the stage, not just Jarrod. They’re soaking in our music, but also our presence. It’s the part that makes it a live show, instead of a bunch of songs coming out of an iPod. I’d never thought about it before, about how much the actual performance makes us who we are. Not until I saw the pictures from Perry Devine.

I waited until I got home to open the bloated manila envelope he’d left on Adam’s dash that night, and as I sat alone in my bedroom sorting through the contents, things became clearer. There were dozens of photos of me, surveillance shots likely taken by Mr. Devine himself. Images of me on the street in front of Wicked Mocha, on stage at Bartholomew’s, slapping my bass at The King’s Court, opening the door of a twenty-four-hour pawnshop, walking into Pine Manor, stepping onboard the 61A on my way to work and off the 43D at one in the morning. There were pictures of my empty apartment and some of the things he’d found there while I was at work. There were also plenty shots of Adam and me together, too, taken at the Mexican restaurant, the coffee shop, my place, and his.

But the image that probably made the biggest impact was of the vial of pentobarbital from the dealer on Latham Street sitting inside the small wooden box of syringes in the back of my closet. The photo was obviously taken before I threw the contents of the box down the garbage chute.

Also in the envelope were pages and pages of handwritten notes, filled with information about my childhood, my father, and Charlie—including her pregnancy. There were even notes about Jarrod, things that happened well before we even met.

I burned every one of the photos—and every last page of Perry Devine’s handwritten notes—in a metal trashcan in the alley behind my apartment building. And when I was done, I called Adam and told him about everything that was in the envelope. Everything except for that one photo. He said he was angry but not surprised. Then he apologized again for having the kind of father that would do such a thing.

A small river of sweat makes its way down the front of my neck as the last few notes of “Break It Out” spring from my fingers. Sometimes, I can still feel the downy head of a mourning dove nestled between those same fingers, and if I listen hard enough to my own thoughts, I can hear the snap of their small, brittle bones. Ever since Mr. Sinclair died, I’ve been dreaming about my daddy’s quarry and the flocks of mourning doves flying overhead. In my dreams, there’s always a single bird sitting in my lap, its dark eyes watching me without fear as it waits to die. And in my dream, just as in my life, I’m swift and sure. I end the dove’s suffering exactly how my daddy showed me. In the dream, when it’s over, I cry. I only remember having cried once in real life, on the day I met a dying Lindsay Chapman in the parking lot. After that, I don’t remember shedding a single tear in that quarry. I only remember feeling thankful and necessary and right.

Soon after “Ecce Homo,” our final song of the night, comes to its always-rousing end, Crackerjack Townhouse leaves the stage, overflowing with satisfaction and energy. I step off the stairs and follow Jarrod down the narrow hallway toward the back room, knowing my Mr. “Soul to Squeeze” is headed there, too. With a quick snap of his fingers, Jarrod turns on his heels, cursing about leaving his cigarettes on Liam’s amp yet again. As he slides past me in the slender hall, he gives me one of his sly smiles.

The moment he does, a stampede of happiness washes over me and weaves its way through my scarred heart. I suddenly know without a doubt that we’re both going to be okay. Because for the first time ever, I see hope in Jarrod’s eyes.