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As the song comes to an end, I take an elaborate bow, flourishing my hand toward Quint like how he fake bowed to me in biology class that morning.

And yet, Quint’s whooping cheer is the loudest in the bar. “Killed it, Pru!”

Heat climbs up my neck, burning across my cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like a rush, a glow, from his unwanted, unsolicited, totally unnecessary approval.

As I step away from the microphone, I can’t keep from glancing at him. I’m still energized from the song, a smile stretched across my lips. He meets my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I think, okay, maybe he’s halfway decent. Maybe we could be friends, even. As long as we never have to work together again.

To my surprise, Quint lifts his glass, as if toasting me. Which is when I realize I’m staring.

The moment ends. The weird connection snaps. I pry my attention away from him as I head back to the booth.

Ari claps enthusiastically. “You were so good!” she says, with, I can’t help but notice, a hearty sense of disbelief. “The whole place was mesmerized!”

Her words remind me of the look Quint was giving me during the song and I flush deeper. “I actually enjoyed that more than I thought I would.”

She raises her hand for a high five. I’m still a few feet away, passing by the booth where the hecklers had been sitting, though they’ve since left.

I move to accept the high five.

I’ve forgotten about the spilled drink.

My heel slips forward. I gasp, throwing my weight to try to regain balance. Too late. My arms flail out to the sides. My feet kick out from underneath me.

I go down hard.

SIX

Prince is playing over the speakers, but no one is singing. The back of my head feels like it was just hit with a two-by-four. The pounding inside my skull is in perfect rhythm with the drumbeat of “Raspberry Beret.”

It takes three separate tries to pry my eyes open, only to have them accosted by neon tequila advertisements and a TV on the wall showing one of those weird karaoke videos from the eighties that don’t have anything to do with the song. I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut again. Ari is saying something about calling an ambulance. Carlos is talking, too, sounding confident and calm, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.

“It’s all right, Pru,” says another voice, a deeper voice. One that sounds an awful lot like… Quint?

But Quint’s never called mePrubefore.

A hand slides under the back of my head. Fingers in my hair. My eyes squint open again and the light is less intense this time.

Quint Erickson is kneeling beside me, watching my face with an expression that is weirdly intense, especially with those dark eyebrows stooped over his gaze. It’s so different from his usual goofy grin that it startles a painful laugh from me.

He blinks. “Prudence? Are you okay?”

The pounding in my head gets worse. I stop laughing. “Fine. I’m fine. Just… this song…”

He glances up at the monitor, as if he’d forgotten there was music playing at all.

“Doesn’t make sense,” I continue. “I’ve never found a raspberry beret at a secondhand store. Have you?” I grit my teeth at another onslaught of head-throbbing. I should probably stop talking.

Quint’s frown has deepened. “You might have a concussion.”

“No.” I groan. “Maybe. Ow.”

He helps me sit up.

Ari is on my other side. Trish Roxby is nearby, too, biting her thumbnail, along with a waitress who is holding a glass of water that I think is probably meant for me. Even Quint’s friend, Morgan, has finally put down her cell phone and is looking at me like she halfway cares.

“I’m fine,” I say. The words don’t slur. At least, I don’t think they do. It gives me confidence, and I repeat them, more emphatically: “I’mfine.”

Ari holds two fingers in front of my face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”