“Don’t keep the TV on all night, okay?” Amara asked. “It’s not good for him to have too much screen time, especially not before trying to put him to sleep.”

“I know, I know. Just a little while longer. Things were pretty stressful at work today,” Daniel said, tickling Charlie’s stomach. “Besides, it’s a special occasion. Daddy’s babysitting!”

“Nope,” Amara said. “Speaking of patriarchal bullshit, never say that again. You can’t babysit your own son. He literally exists because of your sperm. I manage to keep him entertained all day without a screen. You can do it for the hour before bedtime.”

“Jesus, Mari,” Daniel said. He turned off the TV. He could pout, but they were not going to have one of those partnerships where Amara made Charlie do his homework and Daniel took him to the zoo.

“Love you, boys,” she said, and ducked out the door.

She saw Claire from a distance as she approached the bar, that red hair a beacon in the evening light. Claire leaned against the brick wall in her cheap, worn jeans as if she hadn’t a care in the world, although she ruined the illusion somewhat by fidgeting with the zipper on her guitar case. The nervous movement touched Amara, made her want to stroke Claire’s hair and comfort her. When she’d first fallen in love with Daniel, she’d found herself having to suppress an urge, when talking with other people—longtime friends, coworkers, anyone with whom she felt a closeness—to kiss them. Not that she was suddenly attracted to them (she didn’t really want to kiss anyone but Daniel), but out of a sort of habit, as if her body was so deeply in love that it was incapable of turning off its loving behaviors. Now that same sort of thing kept bubbling up, but with mothering. She shook her head and tapped Claire on the shoulder.

“Oh, hey!” Claire said.

“Let’s go in and put your name on the list, shall we?” Amara asked.

An older coworker had told Amara about this place when she was just starting out in television production, working in an office in the Village. They’d go sometimes to watch the open-mic nights. It was always a fascinating grab bag of performers—bright-eyed kids who’d just moved from Long Island and who could carry a tune well enough but were never going to make it; old-timer folk musicians who didn’t give a shit anymore and would sit up onstage far longer than their allotted slot, singing a million verses of the same song (invariably about the environment or the government or both). Occasionally, though, a musician made you sit up and take notice. She’d seen a couple of performers there who she’d gone on to book when she was handling that sort of thing.

Claire and Amara got whiskey gingers and sat at a table near the stage, while a young man who consistently sang just under the right pitch played a song about a one-night stand that he couldn’t get out of his mind.

“Sort of a creepy song, huh?” Amara said. “Sounds like this girl should get a restraining order.”

“Yeah.” Claire drained her drink and gave a weak smile. “Sorry,” she said, drumming her fingers on the table. “Just having the smallest of panic attacks over here.”

Perhaps bringing Claire there had been a terrible idea, a spur-of-the-moment inspiration when Charlie had been twisting around so annoyingly in her arms yesterday and Whitney’s announcement about the coffee-table book had made her feel like the only thing anyone would ever see her as again was a mother, when all she had wanted was to go back to her carefree, childless life, and this place had popped into her juice-cleanse-addled head. “Hey,” Amara said. “There’s no way that you can be worse than Mr. ‘I’ll Never Forget the Smell of Your Hair.’”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Nobody here really cares how you are except me,” she said, taking Claire by the shoulders and looking her straight in her hazel eyes as the emcee called Claire’s name. “And even I don’t care that much.” Claire laughed. “So go get ’em.”

Claire slid in between tables and made her way to the stage, settling herself on the stool. She bumped against the microphone when she leaned forward to greet the crowd and had to catch the stand as it swayed. She gave off the nervous vibe of a girl unused to being onstage all by herself, and at their tables, people seemed to resign themselves to the prospect of another underwhelming performer, half paying attention and half continuing on with their conversations. Amara dug her nails into the palm of her hand as Claire took a deep breath and began to strum and sing.

Oh, thank the Lord, it wasn’t awful. Actually, Amara thought, as the song went on, it was rather interesting. Clearly a first draft of something, as if Claire were the human figure right behind Fiona Apple in the evolutionary chart. But there was potential. A sort of righteous rage. And she had some creative lyrics in there—a bit about how some “hot shit” person (clearly a member of her old band) was a “piece of hot shit”; some strange religious imagery that she managed to twist in unexpected ways. It wasn’t a song you’d ever hear on the radio, but maybe that was a good thing. Of course her voice was lovely too, and as she relaxed into the song, she radiated more and more of a refreshing openness, as opposed to other musicians, who withdrew into themselves when they played. At their tables, some in the audience kept talking, but others perked up and actually listened. When Claire finished, she gave a sheepish smile to the crowd, then sought out Amara’s eyes and shrugged her shoulders. Amara clapped, loudly, as Claire wended her way back to the table and sank down into her chair.

“I did it,” Claire said. “It’s over, and I did not die.”

“I liked it,” Amara said.

“Thanks. You don’t have to—I swear I’m not fishing for compliments. But you know that thing Ira Glass says about taste? How when you’re starting out doing a creative thing, your taste is so far beyond your abilities, so you know what you’re doing isn’t great but you can’t yet do any better? That’s kind of how I feel right now. I had all those years with Vagabond, but it feels completely different to write and make something all on your own.”

“I can see that,” Amara said. She leaned forward. “So, tell you what. When you get to a place where your taste radar is going, ‘Hey, I’m pretty damn good at this,’ let me know. A buddy of mine is the bandleader at Staying Up with Nick Tannenbaum, and sometimes he needs people to write these little commercial jingles they do on the show. Could be a good connection. When you’re ready, I’ll introduce you.”

“Really?” Claire asked. “That would be amazing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Amara said, and finished her drink. “Well, we did it.”

A lanky guy came over to their table, focused on Claire. “Hey,” he said to her, “I dug your performance.”

“Thanks!” Claire said.