My palms become slick. I haven’t even left the booth yet and already it feels like people’s eyes are on me. Waiting. Judging. It’s probably just my imagination, but knowing that doesn’t keep my throat from tightening.

“Prudence?” Trish asks, searching the audience. “You out there?”

“Do you want me to tell her you’ve changed your mind?” asks Ari.

I shake my head. “No. No, it’s fine. It’s just a song. I’ll do it.” I exhale sharply and slide out of the booth.

“Wait!”

I look back at Ari. She leans forward and reaches her thumb for the corner of my mouth, rubbing hard for a second. “Your lipstick was smeared,” she says, settling back into the booth. She gives me an encouraging nod. “All better. You look great.”

“Thanks, Ari.”

I clear my throat and approach the stage, making a point not to make eye contact with the goons in the booth. Or Quint, for that matter. I tell myself that I’m not nervous. That I’m not positively terrified.

It’s only four minutes of your life. You can do this.

But please let Jude have picked a decent song …

Trish sets the microphone stand in front of me and I look at the monitor, displaying the song choice. Whew. Okay. Not bad. Jude took Ari’s suggestion and has signed me up to sing the John Lennon song, one I love and definitely know by heart.

I lick my lips and shake out my shoulders, trying to get into a performance mindset. I’m no great singer, I know that. But what I lack in natural-born talent, I can make up for with stage presence. I am Prudence Barnett. I don’t believe in mediocrity or lame attempts, and that includes belting out a karaoke song in a dimly lit tourist trap off Main Street. I will smile. I will work the crowd. I might even dance. I figure, my singing may not win me any awards, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.

Loosen up. Right, Quint? Let’s see you get on this stage and loosen up.

The first chords of “Instant Karma!” blare from the speakers. I don’t need the monitor feeding me the lyrics. I flip my hair and start to sing. “Instant karma’s gonna get you!”

Ari whoops encouragingly. I wink at her and can feel myself getting into the song. My hips sway. My heart races, with adrenaline as much as nerves. My fingers spread out like fireworks. Jazz hands. The music builds and I do my best to channel John Lennon and the passion he brought to his music. My free arm stretches to the sky, then drops toward the crowd, my finger pointing, searching. “Who on earth do you think you are? A superstar? Right—you are!” I’m trying to give a shout-out to Carlos, but I can’t find him, and soon I find myself pointing at Quint instead. I’m startled to find him watching me with marked attention. He’s smiling, but it’s in a stunned, almost bewildered way.

Pulse skittering, I swivel my attention back to Ari, who is dancing inside the booth, swaying her arms in the air.

I take imaginary drumsticks into my hand and hit the cymbals in time with the drum solo that launches me into the chorus. I’m feeling almost giddy as I sing. “Well, we all shine on, like the moon … and the stars … and the sun!”

The song blurs into familiar chords and beloved lyrics. I roll my shoulders. Stretch my fingers to the sky. Belt my way through to the end. I don’t dare look at Quint again, but I can feel his gaze on me, and despite my determination not to let his presence unnerve me, I am unnerved. Which just serves to make me even more determined to appear unnerved. Because it would have been one thing if he’d been outright ignoring me, or cringing with embarrassment on my behalf.

But no. In that split second when I caught his eyes, there’d been something unexpected there. I don’t think it was simple amusement, or even sheer surprise, though I definitely think I surprised him. There was something more than that. Something almost … mesmerized.

I’m overthinking it. I need to stop thinking at all and focus on the song, but I’m on autopilot as the lyrics repeat and start to fade. Like the moon and the stars and the sun …

As the song comes to an end, I take an elaborate bow, flourishing my hand toward Quint like how he fake bowed to me in biology class that morning.

And yet, Quint’s whooping cheer is the loudest in the bar. “Killed it, Pru!”

Heat climbs up my neck, burning across my cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like a rush, a glow, from his unwanted, unsolicited, totally unnecessary approval.

As I step away from the microphone, I can’t keep from glancing at him. I’m still energized from the song, a smile stretched across my lips. He meets my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I think, okay, maybe he’s halfway decent. Maybe we could be friends, even. As long as we never have to work together again.

To my surprise, Quint lifts his glass, as if toasting me. Which is when I realize I’m staring.

The moment ends. The weird connection snaps. I pry my attention away from him as I head back to the booth.

Ari claps enthusiastically. “You were so good!” she says, with, I can’t help but notice, a hearty sense of disbelief. “The whole place was mesmerized!”

Her words remind me of the look Quint was giving me during the song and I flush deeper. “I actually enjoyed that more than I thought I would.”

She raises her hand for a high five. I’m still a few feet away, passing by the booth where the hecklers had been sitting, though they’ve since left.

I move to accept the high five.

I’ve forgotten about the spilled drink.

My heel slips forward. I gasp, throwing my weight to try to regain balance. Too late. My arms flail out to the sides. My feet kick out from underneath me.

I go down hard.

SIX

Prince is playing over the speakers, but no one is singing. The back of my head feels like it was just hit with a two-by-four. The pounding inside my skull is in perfect rhythm with the drumbeat of “Raspberry Beret.”

It takes three separate tries to pry my eyes open, only to have them accosted by neon tequila advertisements and a TV on the wall showing one of those weird karaoke videos from the eighties that don’t have anything to do with the song. I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut again. Ari is saying something about calling an ambulance. Carlos is talking, too, sounding confident and calm, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.

“It’s all right, Pru,” says another voice, a deeper voice. One that sounds an awful lot like … Quint?

But Quint’s never called me Pru before.

A hand slides under the back of my head. Fingers in my hair. My eyes squint open again and the light is less intense this time.

Quint Erickson is kneeling beside me, watching my face with an expression that is weirdly intense, especially with those dark eyebrows stooped over his gaze. It’s so different from his usual goofy grin that it startles a painful laugh from me.

He blinks. “Prudence? Are you okay?”

The pounding in my head gets worse. I stop laughing. “Fine. I’m fine. Just … this song…”

He glances up at the monitor, as if he’d forgotten there was music playing at all.

“Doesn’t make sense,” I continue. “I’ve never found a raspberry beret at a secondhand store. Have you?” I grit my teeth at another onslaught of head-throbbing. I should probably stop talking.

Quint’s frown has deepened. “You might have a concussion.”

“No.” I groan. “Maybe. Ow.”

He helps me sit up.

Ari is on my other side. Trish Roxby is nearby, too, biting her thumbnail, along with a waitress who is holding a glass of water that I think is probably meant for me. Even Quint’s friend, Morgan, has finally put down her cell phone and is looking at me like she halfway cares.

“I’m fine,” I say. The words don’t slur. At least, I don’t think they do. It gives me confidence, and I repeat them, more emphatically: “I’m fine.”

Ari holds two fingers in front of my face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

I scowl at her. “Twelve,” I deadpan. The throbbing in the back of my head is starting to subside, which is when I realize that Quint is still holding me, his fingers tangled in my hair.

Alarm surges through me and I shove his arm away. “I’m fine.”

Quint looks startled, but not particularly hurt.

“Your friend is right,” says Carlos. “You might have a concussion. We should—”

“He’s not my friend,” I say. It’s a bit of a reflex. I’ve started now, so I keep going, lifting an explanatory finger. “Plus, I’ve seen the way he handles lab results. Forgive me if I don’t have a whole lot of confidence in Dr. Erickson’s diagnosis.”

“Well, she sounds okay,” says Ari.

I reach for the ledge of a table and use it to pull myself up. As soon as I’m on my feet, a wave of dizziness passes over me. I steady myself on the table, squeezing my eyes shut.

My free hand feels around the back of my head. There’s a lump, but at least I’m not bleeding.

“Prudence,” says Quint, still hovering too close. “This could be serious.”

I round on him so fast that stars flicker in and out of my vision, cutting off my hasty response. “Oh, now you decide to take something seriously?” I say as the stars begin to dissipate.

He takes a step back, deflates, then rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why do I bother?”

“Why do you bother? I don’t need your help.”

His expression hardens and he lifts his hands in surrender. “Clearly,” he says. Rather than turn away, though, he reaches past me, suddenly so close that I press my hip against the edge of the table with a rush of panic. Quint grabs the stack of napkins left behind by those jerks and turns away without acknowledging, or perhaps even noticing, my reaction. He throws the napkins onto the spilled drink that I slipped on and starts sopping it up, pushing the soggy paper around with the toe of his sneaker.

“Pru?” Ari touches my elbow. “Really, should we call for an ambulance? Or I could drive you to the hospital?”