“What is it?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“You can’t bring up a secret tattoo and then refuse to elaborate.”
“Sure I can. It adds to my mystique.”
“You don’t have mystique. You have flannel shirts and a subscription to Songwriters Monthly.”
“How do you know about my subscription?”
“You mentioned it in an interview in 2019. Rolling Stone.”
He stares at me. “You read my interviews?”
“I may have…kept track of you. Occasionally.” I take a sip of wine to avoid his eyes. “I also went to seven of your concerts. In disguise. I always left before the encore so I wouldn’t run into anyone.”
The silence stretches. When I look up, his face has gone soft. Open.
“You came to my shows?”
“I couldn’t stay away, even when I was trying to.” I shrug, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “The songs were about us. I knew that. And I kept listening, though it hurt.”
“They were always about you.” His voice is quiet. “Every single one.”
“Even ‘Kitchen Floor at 3 AM’?”
“Especially that one.”
“That one’s about eating cold pizza alone after a breakup.”
“I wrote it the week after you left. The pizza was real, and so was the loneliness.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Missing you was all I had left.”
The waiter arrives with our crab cakes, and we separate reluctantly. The food is excellent—Dean was right—and we settle into easier conversation. He tells me about a disastrous interview where the host kept calling him “Lenny.” I counter with the bride who demanded blue roses and then accused me of ruining her wedding when I explained they don’t exist naturally.
For a while, it all feels right.
Then his phone buzzes.
He glances at it, frowns, and silences it.
“Problem?”
“Just my manager. She can wait.”
Five minutes later, it buzzes again.He ignores it.
Ten minutes after that, it buzzes a third time. His jaw tightens, and he pulls it out.
“I’m sorry. I need to take this. One minute.”
He squeezes my hand and steps outside. Through the window, I watch him pace on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, free hand running through his hair. He’s stressed—shoulders tight, gestures sharp.
I try not to read into it. Managers call. It’s part of his job. It doesn’t mean anything.
He comes back looking apologetic. “That was Diane.”
“What’s going on?”
