TWENTY-FOUR

At the Eden, things were very much not the same with Dave.

A form-fitting Henley replaced his usual crisp, preppy plaid. Instead of soft, clinging jeans, he wore a skinny pair, and gone were his generic boat shoes. Instead, he sported a pair of black Chucks. The ragged hems of his jeans dusted the crisp white laces, teasing in contrast. His blond hair was freshly cut, with a bit of spike to it now.

He moved comfortably, throwing his head back to laugh as he talked. He slipped his hands into the back pockets of the jeans, loose-limbed and relaxed in his own skin. Apparently, now that he was allowed to flirt with anyone he wanted to, he did it before the show, too.

The smallest part of me was surprised that he didn’t acknowledge me. But the reasonable parts beat that into a paste. We weren’t together anymore. He didn’t have to help me set up. I was completely capable of sound-check on my own.

It was even all right that mingling before the set, he stayed on one side of the stage while I lurked on the other.

At a table on my side of the stage, Grace, Jane, and Ellie sipped at their drinks as they waited for the show to start. Having them there made me nervous. Though I usually had a bolt of adrenaline right before performing, this was different.

Tonight was a wild card, our first performance since the breakup. I had no idea what to expect. And I hated that. That was the one constant with Dave—I always knew what to expect. I always knew that performing would be amazing; I always knew that we would laugh afterward. Now all of that was gone.

When the lights switched down, I steeled myself and stepped onto the stage. Too many bodies and burned coffee perfumed the air. Though it was a bar, most of the hardcore drinking happened upstairs where the dance floor pounded away with bright lights and electronica.

Pulling my guitar strap over my head, I watched Dave bounce in place a couple of times before taking the stairs up.

All at once, he stood beside me. And it was beside. He could have had blinders on, the way he stared out at the audience as he pulled on his guitar. The piney scent of an unfamiliar cologne clung to him. It was like standing up there next to a stranger.

Producing a set list from his case, he taped it to the inside of his mic stand. “It’s the usual set,” he informed me.

The house lights shifted, casting red behind us and bringing the audience glare down to shadow. It wasn’t a particularly packed night. Most of the tables had someone at them, everyone still talking over their drinks. The buzz wouldn’t stop, and we didn’t expect it to. But tonight, it made it harder to concentrate.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Dave said, strumming a few chords to get his guitar in tune. “I’m Dave Echols. This is Sarah Westlake, and we’re Dasa.”

Polite applause smattered through the crowd. The bartender chipped away inside the ice bin, some unexpected percussion.

Skimming the set list, I was glad we hadn’t put together a new one. No matter how off we were, these were songs we’d sung a thousand times together. A lot of those performances had been right here. The playlist was familiar as a favorite pair of tennis shoes. Worn, comfortable, reliable.

As Dave introduced our first song, I struggled with the sudden weight of emotion. This might be our last gig at the Eden. I remembered how punch drunk we were the first time we talked our way in to play. That whole experience glittered in my memory, a field of perfect stars on a moonless night.

As we started playing our first song, an upbeat piece, I suddenly realized how sad I was to leave this all behind.

The stage was hot. It always was. There was a restaurant kitchen on the other side of the wall. The lights weren’t gentle, either. We segued into another fast number, and I had started to let go of all my thinking when it was time for the third.

It was a ballad Dave and I had written together after we’d gone to see some bad art movie because we thought it was something we were supposed to do. It was miserable, three hours of French people posing to death in black and white. Except for a single red glove, the only flash of color in the whole picture.

Afterward, we’d tried to discuss it. We wanted to be those people who strolled through the night, richer and deeper, conversing like true artists. But I broke down first and admitted I had no idea what the red glove was supposed to mean. Dave dissolved into laughter, his blue-gray eyes dancing. He didn’t get it either.