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Too bad that isn’t Jude, I think. Then I would have just made two people’s nights.

Onstage, the sweet old lady finishes her song, and I clap with as much enthusiasm as I can—but my heart isn’t in it. The theater might be overflowing with good vibes, good music, and more generosity than I could have imagined, but my heart is still broken.

I start to turn away.

“Next up,” Trish says into the microphone, “one of the rescue center’s most beloved and longtime volunteers. Please welcome to the stage… Quint Erickson!”

I spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance.

Surely she didn’t just say…

And there he is, walking up onto the stage. He smiles nervously at Trish as he takes the microphone from her. He looks positively terrified.

He clears his throat, nodding gratefully at the applause that’s followed him to the platform. “Sorry,” he says, giving an awkward wave to the audience. “You all don’t deserve the torture I’m about to put you through, but… it’s for a good cause, right? So… here goes.”

There’s some mild laughter. Some encouraging whoops.

The music begins.

My stomach drops.

“Dear Prudence… won’t you come out to play?”

I hear a few gasps and feel people searching me out and, when they find me, pointing and whispering.

Quint, too, is scanning the room. But once he finds me, his eyes stay locked on mine.

My mouth goes dry as I listen, and a small part of me thinks I should be mortified by the attention, but I’m not.

I’m awestruck.

I’m delirious.

I’m… a little worried that this might not mean what I want it to mean.

“The sun is up, the sky is blue. It’s beautiful, and so are you, dear Prudence…”

My heart is beating so hard it might pound right out of my chest.

His singing voice is… not great, I’ll admit. But the way he’s looking at me, and the way he’s blushing, and how he goofs up on the second verse and has to check the lyrics on the monitor and how he looks so flustered and so scared, how he still somehow manages to find me in the crowd again…

I. Am. Mesmerized.

The song ends, and I dare to breathe. It might be the first breath I’ve taken since he went up there.

Quint clears his throat and puts the mic on the stand. He backs up like he can’t get away from it fast enough.

The theater fills with applause, as it has after every song. Quint waves nonchalantly, an aw-shucks-but-please-stop wave, charming as ever, and steps off the stage.

I’m moving before I realize it, making my way through the tables.

His lips quirk when he sees me. He looks painfully insecure, but also hopeful. “I tried your trick,” he says, once we’re close enough. “I thought, it’s onlyfour minutes of your life, Quint. You can get through this. But is it just me, or is that song, like, two hours long?”

“Songs always seem longer when you’re up there. I call it the karaoke time-warp.”

“Now you tell me.” His lashes dip briefly. His voice lowers. “So. How’d I do?”

I don’t know what to say. I can barely think, much less form coherent words.