“That was brilliant, actually,” Bristol concedes. “Downloads for that song went bananas after the show.”

Rhyson and I lock eyes, smiling over our secret. Not only did he play “Lost” on Fallon, but he also tugged on his ear, his private greeting to me. I must have watched that performance a dozen times on DVR. The moment loosens something that’s been tight between us ever since I returned from the dance floor.

“Not a big deal,” Rhyson says.

“As the person who moved heaven and Middle Earth to book it, I think it’s a huge deal,” Bristol says with a frown.

“I’ve done Fallon before.” Rhyson takes his glass back and sips.

“Still a big deal,” Grip says. “I haven’t done Fallon yet.”

“If you’d let me manage you,” Bristol smiles at Rhyson’s best friend, “You’d get Fallon.”

“If you’d go out with me, I’d let you manage me.”

Bristol rolls her eyes and flicks her dark hair over one shoulder.

“I don’t mix business and pleasure. Although, I’m not sure there’d be any pleasure.”

“Guys, I have food coming.” Rhyson grimaces like he feels sick to his stomach. “Please stop talking.”

Bristol’s lips twitch, and Grip laughs aloud. Jimmi joins in. Eventually, Rhyson loosens his mouth into a smile, and I realize these are the friends he told me about. He said friends are more intimate than lovers in some ways. I see that now. He has a bond with them. He’s relaxed with them. I’m glad for him.

Food arrives, and everyone sorts out their meals.

“I ordered you the veggie nachos,” Rhyson leans toward me and says quietly. “There weren’t many healthy options.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” We share a quick smile before digging into our plates.

“Will you see Petra when we’re in Chicago?” Bristol asks, her voice loud and deliberate. I get the impression she’s returning to the subject for my benefit.

“Yeah. We talked the other day.”

“Petra Andreyev?” Jimmi asks with a frown. “Did she immigrate?”

“Yeah.” Rhyson pushes his plate away nearly untouched. “Couple of years ago. She lives in New York now, but she’s guesting for a few weeks with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and invited us to come see her while we’re there.”

Dub’s phone rings and he walks off to talk. Rhyson scoots his chair closer to me.

“You did look amazing out there.” His voice drops until the others at the table would have to strain to hear. “I didn’t even know you could dance like that.”

My cheeks heat and I dip my head until my hair covers my face.

“Can you believe Dub wants me to be in a video?”

“Yeah. I can believe it.” Rhyson’s voice goes gravelly, and he leans back, folding his hands over the tight muscles of his stomach. He hasn’t really eaten anything. I lean forward until I’m right at his ear, even if everyone else thinks it’s rude.

“Why don’t you ever eat in public?’

He stills and turns his head until only a few steamy centimeters separate our lips. It’s my first time being in public with him. Really in public, and he is much more guarded than I’m used to. The eyes that usually speak all the things he’s thinking are opaque, giving away nothing. I don’t look away. Honesty has become a habit between us, and if I wait, Rhyson will remember that.

He takes a quick sweep of our surroundings. Grip is dragging a laughing Bristol to her feet and toward the dance floor. Rhyson rolls his eyes when Grip turns to give him a thumbs-up and a silly grin. Dub is a few feet away, still on the phone. Jimmi has wandered off to talk with some of her other party guests. In a crowded room, we’re suddenly alone again. Just us at the table. Two peas that should never have ended up in the same pod. There should be nothing about us that mixes or draws us together, and yet, the veil hiding his secrets, dissembling his thoughts, floats away. And all that’s left is the truth and the connection always burning bright between us.

“I was attending state dinners by the time I was ten years old.” Rhyson looks at me from under his thick eyebrows. “Ten, Pep.”

“Got it.” I smile and push the wayward hair back from his forehead. “Ten. And what?”

“I could never get it right.” He catches my hand before I can pull away, toying with my fingers on the table when he speaks. “Always using the wrong fork. Talking with my mouth full.”

His mischievous smile invites me to smile back.

“Farting at the table.”

“Farting at state dinners.” I laugh and wrinkle my nose. “I bet you were a terror.”

“I really wasn’t.” His smile fades. “I was actually pretty well-behaved, but it wasn’t ever good enough for my mother. I infuriated her by, well, by being a kid.”

“But you were ten. Who cared if you used the fork wrong or burped or whatever?”

“I was a ten-year-old kid making thousands of dollars every night playing for my supper, so to speak.” Cynicism hardens the curve of Rhyson’s mouth. “My mother finally said if you can’t get it right, don’t eat.”

And I thought Bristol was a piece of work.

“But surely you . . . you ate, right?”

“I’d eat when we got back to the hotel or back home. I guess it became a habit not eating until later.” He sets my fingers aside and runs an agitated hand through his hair. “You think I’m crazy, huh? I promise I’m not. I just . . . some habits are hard to break.”

I hate that his own mother did that to him. Everything I hear about her and Rhyson’s father makes me want to peel back their scalps for hurting such a unique, gifted little boy. For hardening him into a cynical man who has had all of one girlfriend his whole life and settles for meaningless sex instead of meaningful relationships.

I pick up a loaded nacho and suspend it in front of Rhyson’s mouth.

“Eat.”

He looks at me for a moment and shakes his head, an uneasy laugh escaping his lips.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Don’t be stubborn.” I press the chip against his mouth. “Eat.”

Not letting my stare go, he opens his mouth and takes the nacho. I watch every bite, ready for the next one. I pick up one of the French fries in the basket in front of him and offer it to him. He eats one and then another until he’s almost done. When he’s down to just a few fries, I grab one and throw it in his face. Surprise drops his mouth into an “o” for just a few seconds, but he recovers quickly and throws a fry back at me. We volley the last of his fries at each other, laughing at how silly we’re being.

“You’re ridiculous.” Rhyson gathers fries off the table and I pick up a few from the floor. He places his hand over mine, making sure I look into his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what? A food skirmish? I can’t even call it a fight.” I laugh, but there’s suddenly not enough room in my chest for my heart because it’s swelling with some emotion that shall remain nameless.

“For noticing. For caring about me. For making me eat. It’s not even hard.” Rhyson looks away, dropping his eyes to the table. “I guess I was wrong. Maybe I did need another friend.”

“That’s what friends are for, huh?”

I need to change the subject, because this one, where I get to see the damage his parents did to him, makes me sad. Makes me angry. Makes me want to spoon him all night. And who knows where that would lead?

“How come you never told me you had a sister?”

Rhyson considers Grip and Bristol on the dance floor, his mouth loosening into a grin. “I keep her away from my friends as long as possible.”

“Are you older? Younger?”

“Technically, I’m older, but only by about two minutes. We’re twins. Like my dad and Grady. Twins run rampant in our family. We weren’t really that close until the last few years.”

“Why not?”

“She isn’t musical at all.” Rhyson chuckles. “I mean, at all. Believe me, my parents tried. If they could have wrung a few coins out of her, they would have.”

He pops a French fry into his mouth and points to the now-empty basket.