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“No.”

I stare down at the empty stage.

I don’t say the fuller truth. That Becca and I have been ending for months and somehow it still feels like a fresh bruise.

There was no fight. No infidelity. She just stopped being quiet one day. Said she’d been talking to a guy at the ice cream parlor by work. He was nice, and she thought it could become something real. More real than what we had, I guess.

It was the first time we’ve broken up without anything actually breaking.

And then there’s the other truth, which I definitely can’t say: that the shows have felt off because one man stopped coming.

Zane kicks his heel against the concrete.

“Still making decent money?”

“Some.” I peel more label off the bottle. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shit. Serious voice.”

“Forget it.”

“No, ask. I can be serious.”

I glance over at him. He’s pink from the heat, hair damp at his temples, sunglasses hooked on his collar. He looks like every straight guy who ever used the word bro as punctuation, except he also knows what brand of lube photographs best under cheap lighting.

“Have you ever… crossed a line?” I ask. “With a viewer, I mean.”

His eyes widen. “Dude.”

“Not like that.”

“You hooked up with a viewer? That’s how people get serial killed.”

“I didn’t hook up.”

“Then what?”

I look back at the stage.

“I don’t know. Talking too much. Messaging outside of shows. Sharing stuff you maybe normally wouldn’t.”

Zane is quiet for a second.

“Clint.”

I hate when he uses my name for emphasis.

“What?”

“Don’t do that.”

I take a drink. The beer is warm and gross.

“I’m just asking.”

“Those guys are mostly weirdos.”

“Thanks.”