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our first time in San Francisco, so we felt that we couldn’t go wrong with a little grass.”
    The crowd erupted in hoots and cheers. The shaggy, bespectacled man cracked up as he turned to Christian. “Or bluegrass, man. Though whatever makes you happy out there is completely fine with me.” He shot a shy grin to the crowd. “I’m Simon, by the way. And we are”—he pointed his finger like a gun between himself and the still grinning Christian—“anything you desire us to be. Though seriously,” Simon added, his accent more pronounced, “we’re The Lost Boys, and thanks much for coming out on this fine evening.”
    Seconds later the club erupted in wild, blistering music, so raucous that even the most cynical urbanite students were lost in the clear elation of the duo on stage. Despite the music, despite their obvious rapport, despite the insane brilliance of their lyrics, something was missing. Midway through the third song, she noticed Christian glance over at the bar, his smile even more radioactive than before. He nodded his head to the side as if to say, come on up, which Emily thought was odd, but maybe they were into audience participation. If so, wild horses wouldn’t keep Zoey in her seat tonight, she thought.
    The music toned down to background strumming, and Christian spoke into the microphone. “I love San Francisco.” The crowd cheered in return and he laughed. “But your public transportation sucks and so do your taxis.” More cheers erupted, as well as a few good natured boos. “Sorry, don’t mean to piss anybody off, but how the hell do you people get anywhere?”
    Simon rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, like, move on, laddie , to which Christian chuckled.
    “I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but we’ve been one short all night. And I can tell you ladies out there that I’m not used to faking it.”
    More hysterical yelling and clapping ensued. Just then a bra shot onto the stage and hit Simon on the shoulder. He was caught off guard for a split second before he recognized what he was holding in his hands. He made a show of draping it around the microphone stand. Christian was nearly bent over in laughter and hooted, “Oh God, not again.”
    “Hey, it’s red lace.” Simon smirked at Christian. “Last time it was black.” He returned his attention to the crowd. “I confess, I don’t like faking it either.” He fingered the lace affectionately. “Truthfully, we’ve been one short. But I don’t think we’ve been that poor. And what do you know—he’s finally here. Get your boney ass up here, Paulie boy.”
    Emily swung around to the direction of the bar that Simon had been addressing, but she couldn’t see anyone. The whole audience was going crazy, shouting and clapping louder and louder. The lights dimmed a little bit more, and a man climbed up the stage, his head slightly ducked down, a tight smile on his face.
    Everything disappeared at that moment: the crowded tables, the smoke, the music. Only one thing remained. His face. All of his face. His intense blue eyes, buzzing and alive. The sharp cheekbones. The determined mouth. He sidled up to the microphone as he slipped on his guitar, plugged it in, and tossed his red scarf over his shoulder. He spoke in a clipped accent—a voice she would remember anywhere.
    “Hello, all. I’m Andrew. Andrew Hayes. Terribly sorry for being late.”

3
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    A FTER T HE S HOW, A NDREW sat on the running board of their truck, a beer in his hands and his head on fire. They were parked in a lot near the Skellar, Golden Gate Park a block away. Andrew could almost see the wall where he had busked for the past week, but he was too tired to turn his head. Late for a show—for the first time in his life he was late for a goddamn show. How had he let that happen?
    “Where’s Christian?” Andrew asked Simon.
    “He got lucky, the bastard. Texted, said not to wait up. I told you we should have stayed behind