Page 7 of Catastrophically Yours

FIVE

STAGE FRIGHT

Drew kept adjusting her guitar strap as they walked toward the café district. Luna felt heavier on her back tonight, weighed down by what she wanted this evening to be.

"The Blue Moon's been around since the seventies," she said, glancing at Piper. "Started as just a coffee shop, but the owner's daughter was a folk singer, and she convinced him to put in the little stage. It's not much to look at, but?—"

"Drew." Piper's voice held that gentle amusement Drew had grown used to. "You don't have to sell me on it. I want to see where you perform."

That should have made her feel better, but Drew's stomach kept doing flips. The chipped green door came into view, covered in faded posters and show announcements, and Drew wondered what Piper would think of her world.

Stepping into the Blue Moon felt like coming home—mismatched furniture, string lights hanging from exposed beams, the smell of coffee and old wood. Everything golden and warm and exactly the same as always.

"Drew!" Marcus waved from his corner table. The seventy-something jazz pianist had paint under his fingernails and silver hair that stuck up at odd angles. "Thought you might be taking the night off after last week's standing ovation."

"Never," Drew called back, her shoulders finally relaxing. "Marcus, this is my friend Piper. Piper, Marcus has been playing here longer than I've been alive."

Piper nodded politely as Marcus tipped an imaginary hat. "Any friend of our girl Drew's is welcome. Though I have to warn you, once you hear her sing, everywhere else will sound flat."

Marcus's eyes crinkled with curiosity as he looked between them. "So Piper, are you the one helping Drew with her housing situation? She mentioned she was staying with someone while apartment hunting."

Drew felt heat rise in her cheeks. "It's just temporary," she said quickly, glancing at Piper. "Until I find something permanent."

"Smart to have a good friend during a housing crisis," Marcus said warmly. "This city's rental market is brutal. How's the search going?"

"I've got a few applications in," Drew replied, though the words felt hollow. She'd barely looked at apartment listings in over a week. "Still waiting to hear back."

Piper's expression was unreadable, but something flickered across her face—was it relief or disappointment that Drew was still looking?

Drew's face warmed. She'd forgotten how the regulars were—protective as family and twice as embarrassing. As they moved through the café, she watched Piper take in the crowd: college students with laptops, construction workers sharing a pitcher, an elderly woman reading tarot cards.

"What can I get you folks?" Jen appeared with her bright smile and ink-stained apron. "Drew, you're up sixth tonight. Feeling anything in particular?"

"The usual set, I think." Drew watched Piper study the handwritten menu. "Piper, what sounds good?"

"Coffee. Black." Piper looked up. "Unless you recommend something else?"

"Their lavender honey latte is incredible. Not too sweet, and Jen makes her own honey blend."

"I'll try that."

Something about Piper taking her recommendation sent warmth through Drew's chest. She watched Piper pull out her wallet and step aside while the espresso machine hissed.

"She's pretty," Jen murmured. "And she looks at you like you're the only person in the room."

"We're just—it's complicated." Drew grabbed her water bottle. "She's letting me stay at her place temporarily."

Jen's knowing smile said she wasn't buying it, but she handed over Piper's latte without comment.

They found a corner table near the stage. Drew started her ritual—checking tuning pegs, organizing chord sheets, adjusting her capo. Piper sat with perfect posture despite the wobbly table leg, hands wrapped around her mug as she watched the room.

"How long have you been performing here?" Piper asked.

"About three years. I was terrified the first time—my voice cracked, and I forgot half the words to my own song." Drew laughed. "But everyone was so encouraging. Marcus bought me a drink and told me the only way to get better was to keep showing up."

"And you have. Kept showing up."

Something in Piper's tone made Drew look up. Piper was watching her with an expression that seemed almost... proud?

"It's the only place I feel like myself," Drew said. "Like, completely myself. No compromising or second-guessing. Just me and the music."

Piper nodded slowly. "Everyone needs a place like that."

"What's yours?"

The question caught Piper off guard. She sipped her latte, thinking. "I'm not sure I have one anymore."

Before Drew could respond, the current performer finished to enthusiastic applause. Jen stepped up to the microphone.

"Next up, we have one of our favorite regulars. Please welcome Drew Callen!"

Drew's pulse hammered as she made her way to the stage. She'd performed this set dozens of times, but tonight felt different. Tonight, Piper's green eyes followed her movement, making everything feel more important and more fragile.

She settled onto the wooden stool and adjusted the mic. Luna felt familiar in her hands, but when she found Piper's face in the dim lighting, her mind went blank.

"Hi everyone," she managed. "I'm going to start with something I wrote last year."

The first chord rang out clear, but her fingers felt disconnected. Muscle memory carried her through while she fought to find her groove. The words came automatically, but her voice lacked its usual warmth.

"Found myself walking down these empty streets again

Looking for something I can't name

Every door I've opened leads to wondering when

I'll stop running from the blame..."

Halfway through the second verse, the café door chimed. Drew caught a tall figure with shoulder-length dark hair in her peripheral vision, and her fingers stumbled over the chord transition.

Chris.

He stood in the doorway—worn denim shirt instead of his usual leather jacket, some of his polished confidence replaced by something more uncertain. As his eyes found hers, Drew's voice wavered on the bridge.

"But maybe home isn't a place you find

Maybe it's something you decide..."

Chris moved through the crowd carefully, not commanding attention like he used to, finding a spot near the bar where he could listen without disrupting the performance.

Drew finished without major disasters, but she knew it had fallen flat. The applause felt polite, and she hurried off stage with Luna clutched against her chest.

"That was beautiful," Chris said, appearing beside their table before Drew had processed his presence. Up close, he looked good but tired, lacking some of the magnetic presence that used to turn heads. "You've really found your voice since we last played together."

He extended his hand toward Piper with genuine courtesy. "I'm Chris. Drew and I used to write songs together."

Piper shook his hand efficiently, but Drew noticed how her eyes tracked everything. "Piper. Nice to meet you."

"Chris is..." Drew fumbled with her guitar case. "We used to perform together."

"Among other things." Chris's smile carried history but lacked his old calculation. He settled into an empty chair, but this time he waited for Drew's nod before sitting. "How've you been, Drew? You look... settled."

The last word felt more like observation than test. Drew focused on securing Luna in her case.

"I'm doing well. What brings you to town?"

"Had some meetings with a music collective here.

" Chris's fingers drummed against the table—still the same restless energy, but softer somehow.

"Heard you were playing and thought..." He ran a hand through his hair.

"I owe you an apology, Drew. For how things ended between us.

For making you feel like your music wasn't enough on its own. "

The unexpected honesty caught Drew off guard. This wasn't the Chris who'd dismissed her songwriting or rearranged her melodies without asking.

"That's..." Drew searched for words. "Thank you. That means something."

"I've been in therapy," Chris continued, his voice quieter now. "Learning about partnership versus control. About how my need to lead everything probably killed the best creative relationship I ever had."

The vulnerability was disarming. Drew glanced at Piper, who was listening with the careful attention she gave to complex problems.

"Your music tonight," Chris said, "it has this confidence I always knew was there but couldn't figure out how to help you find. Turns out maybe you just needed space to discover it yourself."

A comfortable silence settled between them. The old resentment Drew had carried was dissolving, replaced by something like closure.

"There's actually something else," Chris continued, pulling out his phone with careful hesitation. "I've been working on something, but it needs..." He scrolled to a voice memo. "Would you mind listening? Just to see if it sparks anything?"

Despite herself, Drew found herself leaning in as he played a rough melody—beautiful and haunting, but incomplete in ways she could immediately identify. Her musician's brain began filling in harmonies, hearing where her voice would naturally fit.

"It's lovely," she said carefully. "Very you, but more... open somehow."

"I was hoping you might think so." Chris put the phone away. "I know I have no right to ask this, but if you ever wanted to try writing together again—as actual collaborators this time, not whatever dysfunctional thing we had before—I'd be interested."

He stood, gathering his jacket. "I'm not asking for an answer tonight. Just... think about it? I've learned some things about myself since we broke up. About how to be a better partner, musically and otherwise."

Chris paused at their table, looking between Drew and Piper with something that might have been respect. "And Piper? Take care of her. She's special, even if it took me too long to realize it."

The cool evening air felt like relief after the café's intensity.

Drew walked slowly toward Piper's apartment, her mind churning.

Chris's appearance had stirred up feelings she'd thought were settled—not romantic exactly, but the intoxicating memory of musical partnership, of finding someone whose creative instincts matched her own.

But as she climbed the stairs to the apartment she now thought of as home, Drew realized that what she'd had with Chris wasn't really partnership—it was dependence. She'd been the harmony to his melody, always supporting, never leading.

With Piper, even in their few musical moments together, she felt like an equal. A partner, not an accompanist.

"I'm sorry about that," Drew finally said as they turned onto Piper's street. "And sorry about the performance. I was nervous, and then he showed up and threw me off."

"You don't have to apologize." Piper's response came measured and thoughtful. "How long were you together?"

"Two years. We broke up about eight months ago." Drew kicked a stone down the sidewalk. "He's incredibly talented. Driven. He sees the big picture."

"But?"

The simple question hung in the air. Drew considered deflecting the way she usually did when people asked about Chris. But something about Piper's patient attention made her want to try for truth.

"But he always made me feel like I wasn't enough on my own. Like I needed him to reach my potential." Drew paused at Piper's front steps. "And maybe I believed that for a while."

Piper studied her face in the porch light. "What do you believe now?"

The question hit deeper than expected. What did she believe? That she was enough alone? That her small life had value? That the security she'd found in Piper's spare room might be worth more than whatever Chris was offering?

"I'm working on figuring that out," she said finally.

Piper nodded, accepting the incomplete answer. As they climbed the stairs together, Drew caught herself stealing glances at Piper's profile, wondering what she thought of tonight's chaos.

When they reached the door and Piper handed her the keys without comment, something settled in Drew's chest. Whatever questions tonight had raised, whatever complications Chris might bring, she had this—the simple companionship of someone who didn't need her to be anything other than exactly who she was.

Even if she was still figuring out who that person might be.