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it.” Marion was borderline obsessed with the color—she even had pink streaks in her hair.
    Blake balled up his apron, tossed it into the back, and smiled wryly. “Remember when we dared her to wear all black?”
    Mac burst out laughing. “I thought she was going to have a seizure.”
    â€œGood times, Macks,” Blake said, using his old nickname for her, his gaze remaining on Mac for a beat. She pushed her black-framed glasses up her nose and stared at the floor, feeling suddenly guilty. Those memories with Blake were from before he was dating Claire. When Blake was still all hers.
    He opened the door to the back room. Mackenzie followed him through a cramped industrial kitchen filled with mixers and bowls, and then through another set of double doors, into a midsize storage room. Enormous sacks of flour and sugar, bags of napkins and cupcake holders, and stacks of receipt paper were piled on the shelves. In the center of the room was enough space for a drum set, a couple of chairs, and an amp. Blake’s violin was resting on top of a low file cabinet in its open case.
    â€œWhere’s the rest of the band?” she asked, glancing around as if the other band members might be hiding behind the shelves.
    Blake made a face, counting on his fingers. “Javier had an SAT cram session, Dave is rewriting his Yale essay for the fifth time, and Warren has, quote, ‘a thing with a lady,’ though I bet they’re just going to study for an AP Chem exam together.” He rolled his eyes. “So it’s just you and me tonight.”
    Mackenzie swallowed. Her and Blake . . . alone? That hadn’t happened since he started dating Claire.
    Forcing herself to be normal, Mac sat down, and they started going through the set list for an upcoming gig song by song. There were a few covers—Coldplay, Mumford & Sons, even a Beyoncé arrangement—but a lot of the songs were written by Blake himself. Blake had quit orchestra at the beginning of junior year, but he was more musically talented than almost anyone she knew.
    Mac played and played, trying to get that heady buzz that hit her whenever she was in the zone. That was what she lived for: making music, feeling music. She’d been playing the cello since she was four years old, when her parents had sat her down to listen to The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra and told her to choose the instrument she wanted to learn. They had a vested interest, of course: Her mother played the flute in the Seattle Symphony, and her father was a professional piano accompanist who’d worked with Yo-Yo Ma, James Galway, and Itzhak Perlman.
    Mackenzie had chosen the cello—she loved the warm, rich sounds and the enormous range the instrument produced. When she was focused, she felt like she was a part of the music, her instrument an extension of her. When she played, she could almost forget about the big Spanish test she still hadn’t started studying for, or the Audition with a capital A , or Nolan.
    Almost.
    After the first time she saw Claire and Blake holding hands at the spring concert, Mackenzie started deliberately avoiding both of them—not that they noticed. She’d holed up in her family’s airy practice room, going over every single song in her repertoire. Her parents had been thrilled. No one seemed to notice how lonely she was.
    And then, about a week into her heartbreak, Nolan Hotchkiss approached her in the hall. Mackenzie, right? he’d said.
    That’s right , she’d answered shyly.
    His smile grew wider. You look cute today , he said. And then he spun on his heel and walked away.
    The Nolan Hotchkiss. Captain of the lacrosse team, first in line for valedictorian. Cute, confident Nolan, with his strong jawline and intoxicating grin. He thought Mac looked cute. Suddenly Blake didn’t seem so amazing anymore. The one comment led to a lunchtime talk . . . and then to texting