Her blue eyes cloud. “What do you mean?”

“I’m faking it these days, Stells. I go on that stage and it feels like an echo of me. I experience it as if from far away. Sometimes, I think about those early days, when we’d have to cajole a club owner to let us play and be damn thankful when one finally agreed.” My mouth quirks at old memories. “When we were really new, and really terrible, there were times we’d go and play on the sidewalk, just so someone other than our friends could hear us. I was hopeful back then. Music was my air, not the water rising over me.”

I don’t know why I’m unloading on her, only that it feels good to talk to someone outside the band, someone I’m not paying to listen to me. It occurs to me that Stella is the only true connection I’ve made with someone in my adult life who is solely for me. I don’t know whether that’s fucked up or we’re all living in these isolated social bubbles, but I like it. I look at her now, not finding any pity, just acknowledgment.

“I want to breathe freely again, Button. Does that make any sense?”

Her nose wrinkles as she stares off, contemplating. “I think at some point, we all start feeling that water closing in. We all want that air.”

“You choking too?” I ask softly.

Absently, she nods. “Some days.” A gust of wind blows down the avenue, tossing her air about her face, and I realize we’re standing still while people on the sidewalk rush past, flowing around us as though we are rocks in a river.

Stella tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “When’s the last time you performed just for the music?”

“When I played for you at Sam’s shop.” That didn’t exactly end well, and we both know it.

She hums thoughtfully. “I think you need to do it again. Let’s go.”

“Wait, where?” There’s a light in her eyes; she’s plotting things. Stella kind of things.

She squeezes my hand. “You’ll see.”

“Last time I heard those words with that tone, Rye got us all drunk and convinced us that it was a great idea to shave our pubes.”

Stella misses a step, almost stumbling off the curb. I haul her against me, wrapping my arm around her waist. She laughs up at me, the sound short and shocked. “All off?”

“Yep. Itched like fuck growing back,” I grumble, fighting a smile. I’d blame that one on the ignorance of youth but it was only three years ago.

“Welcome to the world of women’s problems,” Stella deadpans. “Talk to me after you’ve tried a Brazilian wax.”

It’s my turn to nearly stumble.

“Stop gaping like a fish,” she says with another laugh. “Come on, we’ve got to get going.”

“Wait. Can we talk about your adventures in waxing? Or maybe give me the rundown on what you’re doing these days?”

Sadly, she keeps walking, leaving me to follow.

We end up in Battery Park, and when Stella stops near a group of young and ragtag musicians busking, I start to get the idea. And take a huge step back. “Nope. No way, Button.”

Her eyes are wide and innocent. An excellent farce. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know your evil little mind better than you think. You want me to busk with them, don’t you?”

She blinks, her lips parting in surprise. “Okay, you’re good.”

I snort. “Like I said, I know you.”

Hot color washes over her cheeks. “Damn, already predictable.”

“Like hell. You surprise me all the time. It gets me hot.”

She blushes a deeper shade of pink but then shakes off my sad attempt at distraction and tugs at my sleeve with renewed determination. “These kids are here every weekend and never get any money.”

“Because they stink.” When she glares, I hold up a hand. “Come on, you have ears. They’re horrible. No use sugarcoating it.”

“I know they’re horrible. But you aren’t.”

“And, what? I’m supposed to go over there and say, hey, can I borrow your gear and upstage you with my professional licks?” I make a face. “I’ll come off as a complete wanker.”

Stella’s grip on my wrist is firm, as if she thinks I’m going to turn and run. I might. I just might. But it’s kind of cute that she thinks she can hold me back; I’ll just put her over my shoulder and take her with me.

“Okay,” she says, “maybe it’s a stupid idea—don’t agree yet. Hear me out.”

“Wasn’t going to say a thing,” I lie.

“If you go over there and offer to play with them, maybe sing a few songs, you have no idea how it will go.”

“I have ideas,” I mutter. “None of them are good.”

“But you don’t know,” she says emphatically. “It isn’t planned like your gigs. It isn’t safe. You go over there and you’re on your own without a net.”

I study the teens playing. They’re attempting a Lincoln Park song. It’s painful to hear. They know how to play, just not in a cohesive way. They need guidance. And about two years of practice.

“I have no idea what it’s like to be a rock legend,” she says in a soft voice. “I don’t personally understand the pressures you’re under. But I do know that some of the best experiences in life happen when you’re not playing it safe.”

“When have you not played it safe?” I ask, truly curious.

She stares at me like I’m dense. “With you, John.”

I swallow hard, and then nod, not knowing what to say. She’s struck me dumb. I’m not playing it safe with her either, but I feel like a bit of a shit because part of me knows that, at the very least, she’s into me the same way I’m into her. Being with Stella might not be exactly safe ground for me, but it doesn’t seem like a risk. Is that how she sees it? Is she terrified?

She’s waiting to see what I’m going to do, her hand still holding my wrist. The tips of her fingers press against my pulse point, surely feeling the agitated beating of my heart.

The potential for embarrassment is high, but then that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m doing something with music that involves risk. When was the last time I even felt that when performing? Maybe at eighteen, and not even then really. I’d been an arrogant bastard, completely assured of my worth and my place in the world. Killian used to say I had enough balls and bravado to haul us all out of obscurity. Yet Killian wouldn’t hesitate to do this. He is the more reserved one out of the two of us, but he’s never been afraid to fail.

Even when at the top, I’d been afraid to fall.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. My head is hot and too heavy to hold up. Then I exhale, and I’m lighter. “Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck where the tension has fled.

Stella stares up at me. “You gonna do it?”

“Yeah, babe, I am.” I give her a swift kiss, then head toward the group, nerves thrumming through my veins, heart kicking against my ribs. I don’t know if it’s nerves or the anticipation of doing something risky. Maybe both.

There are three of them, all guys. All wearing skinny jeans and tatty trainers. One is taller than me and rail thin, his brown hair falling in his eyes, his beard spotty in places. The other is fairly short, blond, and already sporting an impressive amount of tats along one arm. Though he’s dressed in the most ragged clothes, I know a kid who comes from wealth when I see one. The last kid, the one holding a bass in a death grip, is around my height and sporting an ink-black mohawk. I had the same cut when I was around his age. Was I ever that young? God, I feel old.