Nate sets his guitar down too. “We think Bryan’s a better fit for us.”

I mouth the name Bryan Moore. “Are you talking about that guy who plays down at Freddie’s Oyster Bar on Friday nights? Women only like him because he plays shirtless and has nice biceps. He can’t even play a B7.”

Nate takes my elbow, gently leading me outside to the driveway, where we stand next to a planter of wilting orange and purple mums.

“I want you to hear this from me and not anybody else.” He drags a hand through his hair and focuses on the pavement. “I asked Hannah out.”

I shut my eyes. Dig my teeth into my lip. Is he freaking kidding me? “But you said you didn’t want to ruin the band’s dynamic by dating another member. Last I checked, Hannah is the synth player!”

His voice is gentle. “I really like her, My. I have for a long time. I just never had the chance to tell her while she had a boyfriend.”

I try to think if I’ve ever seen him staring at her. I don’t think I have… God, this sucks. Obviously he doesn’t care about the band’s dynamic. He just didn’t want to date me.

I sniffle. Don’t let him see you cry, I tell myself. “Today really sucks, you know?”

He nods. He looks remorseful, but he’s still a dick. How could he?

“But we slept together,” I whisper. One time, two weeks ago. I didn’t do it with him because he pressured me or anything. I did it because I wanted to, because every time we would hook up, I was left wanting more. I thought sex would make me feel amazing all over. I sort of liked it, but it didn’t live up to the hype. I’ve heard it gets better and better over time, and I kept waiting for us to do it again, but he never made another move, and I didn’t want to seem desperate by pushing to do it again.

“I thought you liked sleeping with me,” I say softly.

“It was good.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking at his heavy black boots. “But I want her. I’ve wanted her for a long time.”

“Asshole,” I say and storm back inside the garage.

“Maya?” Hannah asks, her voice trembling.

Ignore her. It’s not like we’re friends outside of the band.

Without saying a word, I pack my electric and acoustic guitars in their cases and carry them out to the road. I can’t drive my bike with them, so I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial Dave. Barely holding back the tears, I tell him what happened with the band…and with Nate. Dave’s the only one I told about hooking up with him.

“Babe, I told you he was no good,” Dave says over the phone, and I hang up on him, even though he was right.

When his ancient Nissan Sentra rattles up to the curb, Dave parks, and his Abercrombie-model-lookalike-self storms past me to the garage, where he throws open the side door and yells, “Nate, man, you’re a jackass! And to think I thought you were the hottest guy at school. No more!”

Slamming the door shut, Dave slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “C’mon. You need ice cream, stat.”

I laugh at my friend’s antics, but I’m struggling not to cry. I trusted Nate, and he betrayed me in every way possible. And now I’ve lost my band.

As a musician, I always thought the worst thing that could happen would be getting vocal cord nodules or arthritis in your hands. But I was wrong.

The worst thing is losing your band, the place where you belong.

Now what?

• • •

Later that day, after my whole damned life went up in flames, I’m sitting on my front porch, cradling my guitar. I thought I had the energy to strum its strings, but I don’t. What happened with Nate keeps playing over and over in my mind. It was almost as embarrassing as the time my knees locked during my “Scarborough Fair” solo in seventh grade, and I fainted in front of the whole school.

Dad pokes his head out the screen door. “You coming with us to your brother’s for dinner?”

I shrug. Might as well. I have no other plans for tonight. Dave has a mini golf date with Xander—the college boy he met at Taco Bell—and my former bandmates are probably somewhere not selling out.

Mom, Dad, my little sister, Anna, and I load up in the truck to drive across Franklin to Sam’s new place. He just turned twenty-four and moved into a house he rents with his girlfriend. Mom constantly complains that they are “living in sin” and wonders aloud why Sam doesn’t propose already, but I don’t really care how my brother chooses to live. I’m just excited I don’t have to share a bathroom with He-who-leaves-wet-towels-on-the-floor anymore.