Charlotte laughed, knocking at Kate’s door. Had Kate once imagined that she would have a second, third, or perhaps fourth child with Quentin? Had she thought they would create a family together—the kind of family Charlotte and Quentin were building, at least in “feel” if not in biology?
Thin, tight-faced Kate opened the door, stretching a near-false smile between her cheeks. “Hello there, Charlotte,” she said.
Morgan bounced past her, tossing her backpack upon the floor.
Charlotte pointed, shrugging her shoulders. “I keep telling her that she needs to clean up after herself,” she said. “Not drop her backpack on the floor.”
“Of course, her father’s exactly the same kind of messy,” Kate said.
“Oh, believe me. I know.” Charlotte shifted her weight, realizing she needed to forge a friendship with this woman sooner, rather than later. She would be linked with her—perhaps for life.
“Wish Quentin luck for tonight,” Kate said, her eyes growing bigger. “I know how much his music means to him. It’s my hope that he can find a way to choose that path without the stuff that made him crazy.”
“I’m sorry you got the brunt of that,” Charlotte told her.
“It’s okay. Marrying him, having his kid, it changed my life. But for the better, definitely. I can’t say that I would wish him to be with anyone other than you.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Kate, giving her an awkward hug. After shifting uncomfortably away from her, she grinned sheepishly. “You know what? We’ll get better at hugging. I’ll make it a mission.”
“No. It’s really okay,” Kate laughed.
Charlotte left Kate’s home, rushing home to change into a leather jacket and a black dress, before taking a taxi back down to Brooklyn. The show was meant to begin at eight in the evening, with an opener she and Quentin had both discovered at a recent party in Queens, of all places, and Charlotte wanted to cover the entire evening for Rolling Stone. She’d told her boss it was a necessity that they catch the beginning arc of Quentin’s return to music. “Not just because he’s my partner,” she’d told him. “But because this will be one of the single-greatest events in this decade’s music scene. I can promise you that.”
Her boss had said she’d never led her astray before.
In the crowd, Charlotte sipped a dark beer, shifting her weight. She was surrounded by Brooklyn hipsters who were around her age or older, each with an air about them that assured their “asshole” status. They spoke about bands that “nobody had ever heard of,” saying that the main act of the evening was going to “blow up in the next few months.”
Charlotte grinned inwardly, knowing they couldn’t even comprehend what they were about to see.
As she sipped her drink, a man who looked to be in his late twenties approached her. He was thin, with broad shoulders and a stern face. He’d grown a beard, perhaps recently, and gave her a half-confident smile. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for someone to stand with?” he asked her.
“Not really,” she responded, sounding sweet, yet wanting him to back away.
“Why not, honey? Haven’t you ever been to one of these gigs before? You’re supposed to bring a date. I could be that date for you.”
“Ha,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. She wanted to tell him the truth: that she worked for Rolling Stone, that her boyfriend was the main act. But she kept her lips sealed, taking a firm step to the left. “No thanks.”
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The first band came onto the stage, looking youngish, yet spritely, beginning to play their guitars in a deep, rough way, with the lead singer blaring into the microphone. Charlotte became caught in the music, writing a list inside her head of what to talk about in the article. Certainly, the atmosphere was right, rogue, with just the right energy. They were youthful, yet wise in their lyrics. She shivered, already writing half the piece in her mind.
When the first act finished, she found she’d finished her beer. Peering into it, she sensed someone beside her. As she glanced up, she realized the guy from before—who she’d completely forgotten—had purchased her a second beer. She grasped it unconsciously, frowning. “What?” she asked.
“I ordered you a new beer so I could talk to you,” the guy said. “I’m TJ. You lived in Brooklyn long?”
“I actually don’t live in Brooklyn,” Charlotte said.
“Queens, then,” TJ responded.
Charlotte shook her head, her nostrils flaring. “No.”
The lights dimmed again. Charlotte glanced toward the stage in surprise, knowing that it was Quentin’s turn. Shivering, she eased away from the guy beside her, hoping he’d get the hint. “Come on,” she breathed. “Just leave me alone.”
Quentin appeared at the center of the stage, then, without his band. He stood holding a single acoustic guitar, staring down at the crowd, his jawline set and his eyes focused.