We play.
One song turns into three. Three into six. I don’t think. I don’t calculate. I justplay. Sweat dripping. Head down. Music pouring out of me like it’s been waiting years for permission.
And then—mid-song—I look up.
My heart stops.
Across the crowded bar, under flickering lights, is a face I know better than my own reflection.
Erin.
She’s wearing a white sash. A plastic tiara. A bachelorette crown tilted slightly sideways in her hair.
For a split second, the years collapse.
She could have been my bride.
The song ends. Applause crashes around me. I set the bass down and walk straight toward her.
She laughs when she sees me—bright, familiar, unguarded—and throws her arms around my neck.
“Ethan,” she says. “Oh my god.”
“Erin,” I breathe, holding her tight.
She pulls back, eyes shining. “You live in Boston now?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
She nods. “Couple years. I’m getting married.”
“Yeah?” I smile. “Lucky guy.”
“A pediatric surgeon,” she says proudly. “He’s wonderful.”
“I’m happy for you,” I say—and I mean it.
She laughs. “Bachelorette party on a Tuesday, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “This is actually my third. Coworkers insisted.”
My brows lift. “Three?”
“We did Vegas for the real one,” she says, laughing. “I was a good girl.”
I grin. “You always were, Erin.”
I brush my thumb over her cheek without thinking. Old affection. Old tenderness.
She studies me, then smiles slowly. “How about you? Married yet?”
“No,” I say. “Still… figuring it out.”
She tilts her head. “You look amazing, by the way.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “Don’t tell anyone. My highlights cost me two-fifty a month.”
She bursts out laughing.
