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Jet got to her feet, zigzagged her way through, all eyes on Billy.

‘Can I have another?’ Jet placed the empty bottle down on the bar, standing right next to Nell, hair like bronze, graying at the temples. She was drinking a glass of white wine, the glass sweating, ghostly fingerprints left behind. ‘Hi,’ Jet said. ‘I’m Jet.’

Nell glanced at her, eyes that matched her hair, softening as they landed on Jet. ‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said, straightening up. ‘I know who you are. Lou’s told me about … He’s good, isn’t he?’ Nell pointed her glass toward Billy.

‘The best,’ Jet answered without a pause. ‘What has Lou told you?’

Nell hesitated, breathing in the wine. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry about your situation. It’s truly awful, what happened. Are you feeling OK? If there’s anything I can do before –’

‘– I feel fine,’ Jet lied. ‘No different. Turns out dying feels a lot like living.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Nell stared into her glass, wincing as the crowd joined in with the chorus.

Jet waited for the sound to die down, then asked: ‘Is it true? That my dad is planning to sell Mason Construction to you?’

Nell choked on her wine. ‘He told you?’

‘Someone else did.’

Nell’s chin dipped up, a question in her eyes.

‘Andrew Smith,’ Jet answered. ‘So it’s actually true?’

Nell nodded. ‘He shouldn’t have done that.’

‘Probably a lot of things Andrew Smith shouldn’t have done.’

‘I pay him to do jobs around the house sometimes,’ Nell said.

‘One of the first people I met in town, in here actually.’ She looked around, but Andrew wasn’t here.

‘I worry he’s lonely. We chat sometimes.

I didn’t think he … He shouldn’t have told you that.

Your dad doesn’t want anyone to know yet. ’

‘Are you going to buy it?’ Jet asked. ‘The company.’

Nell ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

‘It makes sense to. I own a home construction business, based in Hartland and Hartford, where we lived before Lou got this job. Now we live in Woodstock, it makes sense to expand here. We’re not total out-of-towners, like people think.

Lou actually lived here for six months, in his thirties. ’

‘Thank you,’ Jet said to the guy behind the bar, handing her an open beer.

‘I’ll get this.’ Nell jumped in, reaching toward the card machine before Jet had a chance.

‘Thanks.’ Jet took a sip. ‘It would also make sense for my dad to leave the company to Luke when he retires. He’s worked there more than ten years. It’s what we all thought would happen.’

Nell went back to staring at her wine. ‘Your dad doesn’t want to do that. He has two children. Doesn’t think it would be fair on you, to give the company to Luke.’

‘Well, lucky for Luke, I guess that’s not going to be a problem anymore. Dad’s only gonna have one kid left by the end of the week.’ Jet took another sip. ‘Excuse me – someone’s trying to steal my table.’

Jet made her way back, eyeballing the man who was reaching for her chair until he backed off.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ Billy said, his breath tickling the mic. ‘OK, next I’m gonna play one of my own songs.’ The crowd oohed. ‘I know, I know. I wrote this song a while back, so you might have heard it already. This one’s called “For Her”.’

Billy’s fingers skipped across the strings, picking out the chords, eyes down on his feet.

‘If you asked my heart how long, it could only say it’s been a while,’ he sang.

‘And I’d ask you instead: how could you not love that dangerous little smile?

She laughs like an old man dying, and I gotta keep it together, I’m really trying.

Loved her since the start, since day one, but day one won’t ever be one day ’cause … ’

He strummed harder, the guitar picking up for the chorus, Billy’s voice too, gravelly beneath the notes. He sang:

She might not ever love me back,

Wrong place or time or maybe neither.

But she looks at me with those earthy eyes,

And I’m not sure I can breathe ugh.

Don’t think it’s in the cards or stars,

Not on the same page or track.

But, hell, I’m gonna play it,

Because I wrote this little song … for her.

Billy swallowed, stepped back from the microphone. He looked nervous, Jet could tell, eyes still on the ground.

‘Whoooo,’ Jet called between her cupped hands, clapping them together. ‘Come on, Billy!’

The crowd joined in.

Billy’s smile came back, and so did his eyes, surveying the bar, having fun with it now.

‘She’s my cup of tea, my bit of me, why yes, I’ve watched British Love Island on TV, why do you ask?’

Jet laughed.

‘No, stop asking, we’re just friends, stay on task, I’ve got a verse to sing. She’s a queen but I’m no king, I’m just royally fucked, and I’m sorry for swearing.’

Everyone laughed, and Jet’s cheeks glowed harder. That was her friend up there.

‘Got you a beer.’

Billy took the seat opposite, resting his guitar case against the arm.

‘Thanks.’

‘So,’ Jet said.

‘So?’ Billy asked, gripping the bottle, eyebrows up, forcing little folds onto his forehead.

‘You’re not terrible.’ She smiled, could only feel it on one side.

Billy laughed. ‘I told you I wasn’t terrible.’ He took a sip, mouth creased at the corners, almost dribbling his beer, catching it with his sleeve. ‘I’d never lie to you. Wh-why are you prodding your face like that?’

‘I can’t feel my cheek,’ Jet said, driving her finger into it, nail first. ‘Can you feel your cheek?’

Billy leaned across the table, fingers outstretched.

‘No, not my cheek, yours. Can you feel anything when you prod it?’

Billy picked up Jet’s bottle of beer instead. ‘How many of these have you had?’

‘You’re good, Billy,’ Jet said. ‘Better than good. Fucking good.’

‘Stop.’ He pulled his shirt up, hooking it over his nose, covering his face.

Jet reached over and yanked it down, her fingerprints remaining, creases in the fabric.

‘Why have you been hiding that?’

‘I didn’t hide it,’ Billy said. ‘I’ve invited you like fifty times. You’re always busy.’

‘Always busy,’ she murmured, a puff of air that was both a sigh and a laugh, it couldn’t decide, and neither could Jet. ‘But, Billy, you could do this, you know. Write songs, play them, get paid to do it.’

‘Nah,’ he said, the sound echoing in his beer bottle.

‘No, you could, I’m serious,’ Jet said, seriously. ‘You just have to be discovered, and then it can all really begin.’

‘What can begin?’

‘Life, Billy.’ She slapped the table. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on this. You’ve never thought about purs-pur-p – doing this? Doing it properly?’

Billy shrugged. ‘I don’t think I want that. I just write songs because I like to do it, that’s all. Makes me happy.’

Was he joking?

‘But,’ she said, ‘what’s the point in doing it, if it’s not to achieve something big?’

‘Maybe there is no point.’

Jet felt a flash of annoyance warm up her neck, sitting straighter with it. ‘But there has to be a point. Otherwise you’re just wasting your time.’

Billy shrugged. ‘Is it a waste of time if I love every minute?’

Jet chewed her lip, studied his face. ‘Yes, Billy. You’ve literally just described a waste of time.’

He laughed into his beer.

‘It’s not funny,’ Jet exhaled into hers. ‘You’re lucky you found the thing you’re good at. I never did find mine. And I looked a lot. ’

‘What are you talking about, Jet? You got into UPenn, one of the best law schools in the world.’

‘… And dropped out after two semesters.’

‘Then you worked at that fancy bank in Boston.’

‘… And quit because the hours were too long, and I never had time to drink enough water, so I kept pissing blood, which is not good for you, apparently.’ She held out her bottle to Billy’s on the table, cheers -ed it.

Billy’s smile turned down at the corners. ‘I think you’re too hard on yourself.’

Jet shook her head. ‘Not hard enough. Yeah, I haven’t actually finished anything I’ve started …

ever.’ She rubbed her eye with her sleeve – Billy’s sleeve – came back with a grin, used it as a shield.

‘Actually, that’s not true. When I was ten, I did come first in the regional spelling bee, beat all the teenagers. ’

Billy’s eyes flickered. ‘Wasn’t that the same day that –’

‘– Emily drowned, yeah. Forgot you were there that day.’

‘I didn’t forget.’ Billy abandoned his beer, chewed his thumb instead. Could he still hear her mom’s screams too, if he searched his memories far enough?

Jet cleared her throat. ‘You know, I was never allowed to have my hair long after that day. Mom forced me to cut it short, even though I hated it. Guess it kind of stuck with me.’ Jet fiddled with the ends of her hair, skimming her shoulders.

‘I remember,’ Billy said. ‘No one was allowed to go in your pool unless there were two adults there, constantly watching. And no swimming under the surface ever, especially anywhere near the drain.’

Jet sniffed. Looked into Billy’s watery eyes. She could just tell him. She’d never told anyone before – not Luke, not Sophia, not JJ – and if she didn’t now, it would probably die with her.

‘You know, I …’ She stopped herself, false start. Pushed herself to try again. ‘My mom, she blames me for Emily’s death. Said it was my fault.’

Billy blinked. ‘What are you talking about? You weren’t even there.’

‘Exactly,’ Jet said. ‘It was my fault both my parents were out that afternoon, watching me at the competition. If I hadn’t reached the final, Mom and Dad would have been at home, and Emily wouldn’t have died.

’ Jet dropped her chin, hiding it behind Billy’s collar.

‘I overheard Mom saying it to Dad, right after the funeral. That it was my fault Emily died.’

Billy shuffled, his shoes pressing against hers. ‘That’s crazy.’

‘She blames your dad too,’ Jet sniffed. ‘It always has to be someone’s fault.’

‘My dad?’

‘Yeah. Apparently they passed him on the way to the competition, and my mom asked your dad if he could check in on Luke and Emily in a couple of hours. Emily was sixteen, Luke was thirteen, and man did they fight all the time. I guess she was worried about them killing each other while they were out. And I guess your dad never did go check.’

Billy shook his head. ‘Emily’s death was a freak accident; it wasn’t anyone’s fault her hair got stuck in the –’

‘– I know,’ Jet interrupted him. ‘But my mom doesn’t know that. I think she’s punished me for it ever since.’

Jet tapped her foot, nudging against Billy’s.

Something else she’d never told anyone: ‘Those were all Emily’s plans, you know.

She was the one who wanted to go to Dartmouth, then UPenn for law school.

I tried, but …’ Had she really tried, though?

Survived Dartmouth – never felt at home there, never made any lasting friends to fill the hole Sophia left – just buckled down, eyes on her shiny future.

And then it was there, Jet had it, just as shiny as she’d imagined, and she’d given up law school as soon as she found any reason to, like she’d been waiting for a way out.

Why was that? ‘You remember what Emily was like, don’t you?

So cool, so sure, so smart, she didn’t even have to try.

Effortless. I wanted to be just like her.

She won that same spelling bee, you know, when she was ten too.

Being Emily, it just came so easy to her.

But it wasn’t easy for me. Guess I never really filled those shoes, huh? ’

Billy pressed his toes against hers, a half-smile. ‘You’ve only got little feet.’

Jet snorted, kicked him away.

‘I know your mom is hard on you,’ he said, dropping the smile. ‘But she does it because she cares.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, she didn’t up and leave when you were eighteen, sent two birthday cards then forgot the rest, no phone call ever, no explanation, no idea where she is.’ Billy ran his hands through his hair, finger tracks breaking up the curls. ‘That’s a mom who doesn’t care, Jet.’

Jet caught his eye, a warm creep of guilt stirring in her gut.

‘I’m sorry about your mom, Billy.’

‘And I’m sorry about yours. Moms, huh?’

‘Moms.’

They clinked beer bottles.

‘Right, let’s stop being depressing,’ Jet said. ‘Acting like somebody died over here.’

‘You’re doing that on purpose now, Jet.’

‘Let’s go back to talking about you becoming a famous singer.’

‘Let’s not.’

‘Is that a Tile tracker on your guitar case?’ She pointed.

‘Yeah.’ Billy traced it with his fingers. ‘It’s my baby.’

‘Oh please,’ she snorted again.

‘Don’t Oh please me, you’re the same way with your truck.’

‘That truck is my baby,’ she said. ‘You’re never allowed to drive it.’

‘And you’re not allowed to play my guitar,’ he said.

‘Fine.’

‘Finer.’

‘Sooooo.’ Jet leaned across the table to prod Billy in the arm. ‘That song you wrote, it’s about a girl you like, huh?’ She leaned even closer, whispered: ‘Who is she?’

Billy tipped back in his chair. ‘No one. It’s not about anybody, I made it up.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Jet said. ‘You can tell me. I’ve known you forever. Who could be a better wingwoman? Let me help – it’s my dying wish. Does she work at the bar?’

Billy fiddled his fingers, stared down at them too hard, acting strange and un-Billy-like. Which was all the yes Jet needed.

‘She does, doesn’t she?’ she hissed. ‘Is it Allison? It’s Allison, isn’t it? You wrote the song about her?’

‘No,’ he coughed. ‘It’s not. The song isn’t about anybody. It’s just a song.’