“KAI, THAT OLD GUY IS BACK.”

Misty’s words, dumped on me as she’s entering the bathroom and I’m leaving, stop me in my tracks. That has to be Rhyson. He told me he would call, but I haven’t heard from him in a week. We’re not dating. We’re not sleeping together. We are tiers below all of that. We’re just friends. That’s my decision, and it’s the right one. He respected my wishes and backed off, which makes my disappointment when he didn’t call all the more irrational.

It’s near the end of my shift. I started with only cherry chapstick and mascara, so not much to do there. I turn back toward the bathroom, thinking I’ll just freshen up, but stop myself. No. I’m not fixing up. If it were San, I’d go out just as I am. I’ll treat Rhyson the same way.

If San were in my section though, my heart probably wouldn’t be pumping high-octane rocket fuel into my veins. My palms probably wouldn’t be damp. And we probably wouldn’t be looking at each other for seconds without speaking like the place isn’t packed wall-to-wall with customers. Like we’re the only ones here.

Other than that, just like San.

“Hey,” He speaks first and flips the napkin-wrapped silverware roll back and forth between his hands. “What’s up?”

“Hello, sir.” I hand him a menu. A smile buds somewhere inside me and blossoms on my lips before I can stop it. “Can I interest you in our senior special tonight?”

His eyes smile back at me for a second, and then his mouth curves under the greying moustache.

“No, but kind of you to offer, young lady. I already know what I want.”

He just looks at me for a few seconds, the smile falling away. His eyes go smoky grey, and a girl could be fooled into thinking he’s not just talking about food. I snap the live wire crackling between us by dropping my eyes and reaching for the order pad in my back pocket.

“So what’ll you have?”

“A friend recommended the bison burger. I had it last time I was here.”

“And was it good?” My grin is back, stretching between my cheeks.

“It was perfect.” He hands the menu back to me without glancing at it. “Let’s do that again.”

“Fries with that?”

“Sweet potato fries, please. I heard they’re a little better for me. When you get to be my age, you can’t be too careful.”

“I can imagine. Excellent choice.” I nod and turn to leave.

“Miss?” Rhyson’s voice stops me, and I turn back. His eyes fall to my name tag. “Kai, is it?”

“Some of my friends call me Pepper.”

That’s flirting, Kai, the annoying voice of reason warns me.

“Some?” One brow rises, taking the left corner of his mouth with it.

“Well, just one.” I definitely wouldn’t flirt with San like this.

“Ah, just the one.” He nods and holds his lips back from a full-on smile. “Well, Pepper, you didn’t take my drink order.”

“Oh.” I can never get this waitress thing right with him, and I’ve been doing it since I was twelve. “So sorry. What’ll it be?”

“You’ve got a great selection of beers, but just water.” He picks up his phone and starts a text. “I’m driving a friend home after work.”

And that’s how I came to be sitting in my apartment again while Rhyson eats another leftover bison burger.

“Sorry I didn’t call.” His voice is pitched low and confined to my tiny kitchen. This voice crooned to me from the radio earlier today, and now I have it all to myself. It’s intimate and outrageous. “Meetings. Sessions. We’re gearing up for a world tour. My first. Well, since I was a kid, at least. My last world tour was when I was fourteen. That was piano though. Very different from this crazy production my team is planning, even though it’s not that big. Just six weeks next year.”

“It’s fine.” I squirm in wobbler seat number three. “How’d you know I needed a ride?”

He chews and clears his throat for one word.

“San.”

“He was at Grady’s?” I run through what I remember of San’s schedule, and don’t remember a session with Grady. Matter of fact, now that he’ll be working as a Spotted correspondent, I think he’s abandoning voice lessons altogether.

“No, I called him to see if you might need a ride tonight since I wasn’t sure you’d tell me if you did.”

I can’t find words to respond, so I don’t. I can only imagine how full Rhyson’s life must be. For me to be on his mind . . . for him to ask San about my schedule . . . for him to come get me from work . . .

“That was sweet.” I focus on the circles I’m tracing on the wooden table with my fingertip. “Thanks.”

Over the last week of radio silence, my curiosity about him has fed on itself, and a dozen questions line up in my mind. Not all the things I could Google to find out, but the things only he can tell me. I don’t want to go all Barbara Walters on him. This should be a conversation, not an interview. He said he wanted to get to know me, and I want to get to know him, not through what everyone else has said, but from him.

“Can I ask you something?” I brave a glance at him, and he leans back, linking his fingers over his flat stomach.

“Shoot.”

“How does it feel to be . . .” I stop the word that almost came out. It feels like a fangirl word. Or like I’m writing a piece for Vanity Fair instead of chilling with a friend in my apartment.

“How does it feel to be what? Just ask, Pep.”

“A genius.”

His laugher startles and embarrasses me. Total fangirl. I knew it.

“I can’t believe that’s your real question.” His smile fades a little, but vestiges of it linger in his eyes. “I’m not, you know. A genius, I mean.”’

“You were playing Mozart at three years old, Rhyson. I’m pretty sure most toddlers aren’t doing that.”

“Well, I can’t do that body roll thing you did in your class. Or any of those moves.”

“That’s different.”

“Exactly. It’s just different. It’s my thing. Something comes naturally to everyone. Music’s mine.” The look he gives me is careful and searching. “For example, I have synesthesia. I didn’t ask for that, or do anything to make it happen. I know some people think it’s a load of crap, and it is rare, but it’s real.”

“Isn’t that the thing where you see colors when you hear music?”

“Well, that’s how it manifests for me, yeah,” he laughs. “They used to call synesthetes insane, but I think the kind of hyperfocus required of great art calls for some madness. You have to be a little crazy to be as obsessed, as consumed by music as I’ve always been.”

I think of the long hours I’ve devoted to dancing, singing, and performing, chasing that high; needing to create and add something beautiful to a grimy world. With Mama gone, it feels like all I have left—the thing that keeps me pushing forward. The reason I can’t stop.

“I get that,” I say softly. “I was always shy as a little girl, but as soon as I hit the stage, Mama said it was like another person took over. Like an alter ego stepped in, always ready to perform.”

“Exactly, and you didn’t ask for that. It’s just there. That drive, that need. That’s how it is for me. It’s just there. Some folks pick up languages—Italian, Russian, French—like it’s nothing.” He shrugs. “I pick up instruments.”

“And how many instruments do you speak?”

He squeezes one eye shut and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Like eight, I think. Piano is the only one that felt like I knew it before I learned it. The others I had to learn, but they were much easier for me than for most, I guess. And I had to work hard at piano, too. I just had this head start.”

“Is there an instrument you’ve wanted to try, but haven’t yet?”

Okay. I’m Barbara Walters, but I can’t help it.

“You’ll laugh.” He’s already laughing a little at himself. He moves across the apartment to sit on the living room floor, back propped against the couch. “The harmonica.”