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looked brand-new. “I thought you said this place has been around since the ’60s?”
    “That was their old space, eighty folding chairs in a brick building, one bathroom, and no parking. It took them thirty years to scrape up the money for this.” James gestured at the recessed lighting and fresh carpet. “Come on, let’s get some seats.”
    As the show started, Gabe could honestly say he’d never given two thoughts to bluegrass music, except for some possible associations with Deliverance , but the kid on the fiddle who was part of the first act had the fastest fingers Gabe had ever seen. They were practically a blur. Next up were multicultural drummers, followed by a young woman singing folk tunes that sounded three times older than she was. In between numbers James would lean close to whisper some comment about other acts he’d seen or share some general knowledge of the genre.
    As intermission neared, Gabe started wondering if maybe he was on a date. James’s whispered breath in his ear was quite pleasant, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He’d never been good with these moments. He could negotiate million-dollar deals in three languages, but he couldn’t tell if he was actually on a date, if a date was intended, or if he’d simply made a friend who was horrified at his musical ignorance.
    The houselights went up, and people started milling toward the coffee bar at the back of the theatre. “So, are you enjoying it?” James asked.
    “Yeah, some of those acts are pretty impressive.”
    “Good. Coffee?”
    Gabe told himself the offer was for actual coffee and not coffee. “Love some.”
    James collected their coffees and found a quiet corner. “So…. Tamyra spent the afternoon telling me I must be going on a date because according to her, this is my first-date shirt.” Gabe was sure that sounded smooth and humorous in his head. A nervous chuckle spilled out even as the awkwardness of the whole situation skyrocketed. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. “Not that I would mind if this was a date or not. I’m having a good time.”
    James flushed as he fiddled with the little straw in his coffee.
    “Dylan kept saying the same thing. Not the shirt bit, but the date bit. Of course most of my dates are pretty disastrous, and I think I’m enjoying myself a little too much.”
    “I know what you mean.” Gabe scrambled for something that would get the evening back on steady ground. “How about if this is a not-date? Like an un-birthday.”
    “Not-date. I like that.”
    Gabe relaxed as the awkwardness faded. The lights blinked, and there was a little chime. Everyone made for their seats.
    The first kid out—he looked about fifteen—had his arms wrapped around a guitarra huapanguera that dwarfed him. But his fingers danced across the strings in the same son huasteco rhythms Gabe remembered coming from his grandmother’s small radio when they would visit her in the Central Valley. She would place it in the window and turn it facing the garden so she could listen while picking peppers and tomatoes in the heat. Gabe would sit in the shade under the window, trying to catch a breeze with a glass of cold lemon-mint tea sweating in his hands.
    The boy finished and took a small bow. Gabe clapped hard, suddenly craving cold mint tea despite the chill outside. He must have had an odd look on his face because James leaned in close.
    “Are you all right?” he whispered.
    “I’m fine. Just a bit of sense memory.”
    James touched his arm for a second before turning back to the stage.
    For the rest of the show, Gabe’s mind was three decades and a hundred miles away, deep in childhood summers. He managed to applaud the last act as the houselights came up, and the audience started filing out.
    The fog had come in thick and damp, putting a sheen in the air.
    “Well, what did you think?” asked James, breaking Gabe from his reverie.
    “I liked it. You can count my musical horizons as having been