The melody was slower than the earlier songs, stripped down, almost intimate. His voice dropped lower, rougher. The lyrics were about a woman in a coffee shop, laptop open, coffee going cold. The way she'd stop typing and stare out the window. The way she didn't notice him noticing her.
Carrie squeezed Jen's arm.
Jen stared at her hands, the condensation from her cup cold against her palms.
The song ended. The applause was immediate, enthusiastic. Clint smiled—smaller than before, almost shy—and moved into the next song.
They played for another hour. The dance floor filled. The women migrated closer to the stage, moving together, laughing, not caring how they looked.
The lights came up. The audience headed for the exits while the band broke down their equipment.
Jen's eyes swept the room, casual, unconvincing. "He said he'd find us after the set."
Then her posture changed.
Clint was making his way toward them. A few people stopped him—a handshake here, a quick photo there—but he kept moving, polite but focused. He still had that stage energy around him, but his expression was different now. Softer. More uncertain.
The other four women drifted back a few steps, giving them space.
"You came," Clint said, stopping in front of Jen.
"I did."
"I hoped you would."
"The song," Jen said. "That was me. The woman in the coffee shop."
"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I probably should have warned you."
"It was beautiful." She looked down, then back up at him. "I finished the book. The mystery. A few days ago."
"That's great."
"And I've been writing the other thing. The fantasy." She shook her head slightly. "The one that has no business existing. And I can't stop."
Clint stepped closer. "Don't stop."
"I'm terrified."
He held her gaze. "Good. That means you're onto something."
"I should go," Jen said. "My friends?—"
"Right. Of course." He pulled out his phone. "Can I get your number? So I can let you know about the next show."
"The next show," she repeated.
"Or coffee. Or whatever." He shrugged. "I just want to be able to reach you."
Jen took the phone and typed in her number. Their fingers brushed when she handed it back.
"I'll text you," he said.
"Okay."
She walked back toward her friends, trying not to smile too widely.
They collected their things and headed for the exit, five women together through the maze of slot machines and late-night gamblers.
