Rory Shane was missing and Julian wasn’t as sorry as he knew he should be. The only thing that bothered Julian was that the longer he went without telling his wife, the worse it would be for him when she found out. Julian sat on the edge of the hotel bed with the TV turned to CNN, the sound muted so Charlotte couldn’t hear it.

The television announcer updated an earlier report. Rory had been driving from San Francisco up to Seattle for his show at the Winterfest. He’d last been seen at a diner outside of Ukiah, California, four days earlier. This time of year there was a lot of snow up in those parts, Julian knew. He pictured Rory, with his bleached-out spiky haircut and his ratty jeans, stuck in a snow bank with no cellphone service. Stubborn Rory, always refusing to fly if he could drive. Rory would piss himself with worry. Freeze his ass off until some park ranger found him.

Julian’s wife, Charlotte, was in the shower. He could hear her singing, doing some warm-up vocal exercises for her show that night. She was booked to play three nights at Cabaret Voltaire in Edinburgh before they took the train back down to London for her last UK show. It had been a long two and a half weeks. Charlotte had played her first two shows in Belfast and Dublin. They’d moved on to Cardiff and Newcastle. They took the train up to Glasgow. Julian had imagined it would be relaxing break for them. Their two kids, Amy and Nathaniel, were staying with Julian’s parents while Julian and Charlotte were away.

The tour had been anything but relaxing. Charlotte’s manager had booked her two interviews a day. No media outlet too small, Julian thought. He didn’t want to be mean but it was a little ridiculous.

Charlotte’s new album was mostly covers, the kind of stuff she had started out playing when she’d first hit the music scene back in the late nineties. Folksy covers of forgotten British rock songs, some New England sea chanties. She only had two of her own songs on the record. They were, admittedly, lovely and showcased Charlotte’s sweet voice with its surprisingly rough edge, its slight rasp. He wished she’d recorded some more of her new songs. On this tour she played her guitar more committedly than she’d done in years.

Charlotte had visited all the university radio stations and campus papers in Glasgow and Edinburgh. She’d been interviewed in Time Out Glasgow and Mojo and Q. She had a two page spread in the Scotsman’s Sunday music section.

Charlotte’s one in-store appearance had exceeded their expectations. She performed at a café/record store/performance space in Glasgow, owned by some of the members of Belle and Sebastian. When Julian and Charlotte arrived, there were at least sixty people waiting outside, and two-dozen more people crowded in as Charlotte tuned her guitar and went through her mic check.

Julian heard the sound of the shower door sliding open. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. Charlotte came into the room, a towel wrapped around her torso.

“You should have told me it was almost time to get going,” she said, pulling underwear and clothes out of the dresser. “I won’t have time to do my makeup.”

“Sorry,” Julian said. “You’ll have time after the sound check, though. Don’t worry about it.”

She shot him a look. “Fine. Next time, though, come and get me on time.”

Julian watched Charlotte dress. She always wore the same outfits on stage. Dark blue jeans and a thick, studded belt. She alternated between one of a handful of old band T-shirts and her two favorite sweatshirts. She had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and she hadn’t lost the weight she’d gained when she was pregnant with Nathaniel. It didn’t matter. Julian still saw the electrifying, mischievous girl he’d first met fifteen years ago. Julian and Rory’s old band had played a Clash tribute show at The Bottom of the Hill with a handful of other musicians. Charlotte, the new bubbly young folkie, brought the house down with her acoustic cover of “Death or Glory.” After the show Julian walked back up the hill towards home. Charlotte stood alone at the bus stop. It was almost three in the morning and he didn’t like thinking about her waiting by herself for a bus that might never come. Julian got her a cab and gave her a twenty to cover it, and his phone number.

Now she shoved her makeup bag and her water bottle into her backpack. Julian got up off the bed and retrieved her guitar case from the closet. “You have extra strings in here, right?” he asked her, whacking the side of the case.

Charlotte nodded. “Yeah. Can you call for the car? I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Julian hesitated. “You sure? I don’t mind waiting.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I just want to pee and fix my hair real quick,” she said. “You go downstairs.”

Julian slowly stepped out into the corridor and shut the door most of the way but he stood there, peeking in through the crack. He waited for her to walk across the room to the minibar under the TV. He’d worried about it since they’d checked in. He couldn’t ask the hotel to remove it, though. Charlotte would notice and she’d accuse him of not trusting her. Julian had already checked the tiny fridge four times since their arrival at the hotel. So far, it looked untouched.

Charlotte went back into the bathroom and closed the door. Julian hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath but he let it out now, and took the elevator downstairs.

He asked the concierge to call the car service. He sat down on one of the comfy sofas under the skylight in the middle of the lobby.

They were staying at the Caledonian Hotel, probably the nicest hotel they’d ever been to together, including when they were on their honeymoon. Charlotte’s new label was picking up the tab. Julian felt out of place among the lush potted plants and the leather and cigars vibe of the cozy bar to the left of the wide concierge desk.

It would feel so good to settle in to one of the wingback chairs he spied through the bar entryway, to sip a pricy Scottish single malt. But he didn’t like to drink around Charlotte.

Fans always bought her shots and pints at the clubs. Julian remembered them doing the same for him back in the day. So far she’d turned them down- thank god - using a budding cold as an excuse.

“Mr. Wells, your car is outside,” said the concierge, coming around the front of his desk.

“Thanks,” said Julian. “And it’s Mr. Foster, actually. Wells is my wife’s name.”

“Mr. Foster, of course, my apologies,” said the concierge. He retreated to his desk. Julian looked towards the bank of elevators to see if Charlotte was on her way.

She emerged from the stairwell instead, odd, since they were staying on the eighth floor. She smiled at Julian and said, “How do I look?” She’d clipped her long hair back with a barrette in the shape of a guitar. It made her look younger than her thirty-five years. A stack of silver bangles slid up and down her arm. They fell together in a soft, metallic cascade.

“Beautiful,” Julian said. The car idled at the curb. Julian loaded Charlotte’s bag and the guitar into the trunk then joined his wife in the backseat.

“Cabaret Voltaire, please,” Julian said. He sat back and Charlotte threaded her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Oh, fine,” she said. “You know. I’m always a little nervous before a show. Can’t help it.”

Julian thought he smelled something flowery on her breath. Gin? Had she opened the mini bar?

“Is that a new perfume?” he asked her.

Charlotte nodded. “You’re sweet to notice.” She dug a small bottle out of her purse and spritzed the side of his jacket. “It’s nice, right?”

Julian inhaled the spicy, wintry smell. Juniper. He felt relieved, hot with shame at the same time.

“Yeah,” he said. “I like it. Where did you get it?”

Rory had come over for lunch one afternoon last month, to wish Charlotte good luck on the tour. Julian remembered the small gift bag Rory handed to Charlotte, the stickers he’d brought for the kids. Had the perfume been Rory’s gift? Julian had left the two of them alone in the kitchen for a few minutes to check on the kids, who were being unusually quiet upstairs in their room. When he returned to the kitchen they were still in their seats at the table but leaned over their sandwich plates towards each other, whispering. Upon seeing Julian, Charlotte slouched back in her chair and asked how the kids were. What had they been talking about? Arranging their next secret meeting? He tried pretending he hadn’t seen anything, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Your mom gave it to me before we left,” she said, reaching up to fix her hair where he’d just kissed her. “a ‘good luck on your tour’ present. Nice of her.”

“Very nice of her,” Julian said. You worry too much, you dumb fuck. Get a grip. The car crossed the George IV Bridge. The multi-colored, tiered buildings of Victoria Street looked fragile and ghostly in the glow of the streetlights. The club was on a busy street with bars and curry houses and an outpost of Costa Coffee.

They had been here before, almost five years ago on Julian’s band’s last tour.

They’d played one night at Cabaret Voltaire with Charlotte as their opening act. The whole time they were on stage Julian had fantasies of stabbing Rory with one of Charlie’s drumsticks. Rory who had told Julian a few days into the tour that he was dissolving the band to go solo. Rory who wished him luck by saying, “Now you and Char won’t have to get a nanny for Amy, cause you can be a stay-at-home dad. Play to your strengths, Jul.”

Rory Shane and his fucking cocky smile. Julian wondered if he had been found yet. Rory would love that, publicity whore that he was. Julian pictured Rory flanked by his rescuers on the way to the nearest hospital, thrusting his frostbitten hands in the air in victory. He’d grant bedside interviews to the primetime news shows, slowly sit up to play a few chords on his guitar, despite the bandages that made his fingers look fat and mummified. When she heard the news, Charlotte would cancel the rest of the tour and fly home to be with Rory. Julian gripped Charlotte’s knee tightly, until she pulled away, said, “We’re here.”

The car stopped in front of Cabaret Voltaire. Julian jumped out and got Charlotte’s stuff out of the trunk. A girl sat on a stool by the door, reading a thick paperback. She didn’t look up as she said, “We’re not open yet, come back at eight.”

“Actually, I’m playing tonight,” Charlotte said, smiling at the girl. The girl closed her book and looked up.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, you’re Charlotte Wells aren’t you?” she said. “Please, go on down.”

“Thanks,” said Charlotte. Julian followed her down a flight of stairs and into the club. It hadn’t changed. The bar was over to the right, set back from the curtained-off stage area. Julian and Charlotte stepped through the curtains and into the club. The tables and chairs had been pushed off the dance floor so that they almost framed the room. On stage a few men set up equipment. One of the men saw Julian and Charlotte. He shielded his eyes from the lights and waved.

“Are you Charlotte?” the man asked. His Glaswegian accent was thick and lilting. “We’re Mudslinger, we’re opening for you for the next few nights?” He hopped off the stage and went over to where Charlotte and Julian were standing. “It’s a real honor to meet you.”

He held out his hand for Charlotte to shake. “I’m John, that’s William, and Andrew’s fussing with his drums.” He turned to Julian. “Mr. Wells, it’s great to meet you, too. I loved Huir de Compras before you split.”

“Julian Foster,” Julian corrected him. “And thanks.” Julian hoped John wouldn’t say anything about Rory. Julian assumed that the news clip had been specific to the American CNN satellite feed, that it hadn’t hit the international news yet.

“A pleasure,” John said. He looked back at the stage. “We’re going to get some food. See you in a bit.”

The guys left. Charlotte met with the woman doing sound and the boy doing lights. While they worked on her sound check Julian wandered out of the room and sat on a stool at the bar, which hadn’t yet opened for the night.

Charlotte had stopped drinking when she became pregnant with Amy. Until then, she’d always needed a few drinks to loosen up before a show. Julian didn’t think there was anything wrong with this – they all drank at shows, sometimes venues paid them in food or booze instead of cash and no one cared.

But after a routine check-up early in her pregnancy, Charlotte’s doctor sent them upstairs to see a counselor. Charlotte had been flagged based on her answer on a questionnaire about her average alcohol intake. How many drinks did it take before she felt the effects of alcohol? Charlotte had answered truthfully, had written down four. Apparently answering three was grounds for an automatic referral.

Julian got rid of all their booze when they got home that night. Charlotte told Julian he was overreacting. If you can’t live without a drink for seven more months, don’t you think that’s a problem? Julian said.

Oh, please, Charlotte said, I’m sure both our moms had a glass of wine or a cocktail when they were pregnant with us and we’re fine. Julian worried, though, picturing their child floating in a sea of vodka. He insisted she at least try going to AA. It was Julian who found the list of meetings most likely to appeal to his wife, a few for young people and even one for new parents. He drove her to the first few meetings and waited outside the church, the community center, while she was inside. He hadn’t wanted to pry but when she got back to the car he would ask how it went. Fine, she’d always say, and they’d drive home in silence. After a while she told him she didn’t need him chaperoning her to the meetings. You don’t trust me, do you? She asked. And he didn’t, but he couldn’t tell her. She went to the meetings regularly throughout her pregnancy – or at least that’s what she told him – and when Amy was born healthy he had no real reason anymore to doubt her.

It was less than a year later, during that final UK tour, that Rory had sprung on the band his bullshit about going solo. The band barely held it together for the rest of the tour. And then it was over.

Charlotte still got local gigs every now and then and sometimes Julian would take Amy to her shows. They’d stand in front of the stage, Julian balancing Amy on his hip, the little girl wearing a huge pair of noise-cancelling headphones, smiling and waving at her mom while Charlotte played.

And then Charlotte headed off on tour with Rory and his new backing band.

“Think of the money,” she told Julian. “Rory just sold out the Fillmore the other night and the Bowery Ballroom, too. Can you imagine what that means for me? How many people will hear me for the first time? This could be huge.”

Since he’d gone solo, Rory’s career had blown up. He was a sellout, but not the way Charlotte meant. Julian hated hearing Rory’s overproduced, auto-tuned voice on the radio. It was antiseptic and stale compared to the yowling, brain-crushing dissonance of Huir de Compras.

Julian hadn’t wanted Charlotte to go. She knew how uncomfortable he felt about her continued friendship with Rory. Julian couldn’t deny that this was a big opportunity for Charlotte but he still worried. He pictured Rory and Charlotte singing their duet as an encore, and then after the show, wired from the adrenaline, hurrying back to the bunk in the back of the van they’d start sharing the first night of the tour.

Charlotte had been eager to get going, kissing Julian and then Amy before she climbed into her cab to the airport.

She called when she could, sent postcards from the road. Julian bookmarked her online tour diary and read each entry over and over again, looking for signs that anything was happening between Charlotte and Rory. He’d enlarge the photos from each show and search his wife’s blurred face, trying to interpret her smiles.

She returned from the tour three months later, exhausted, telling Julian over and over again how glad she was to be home. When they went out for a family dinner to celebrate her return she ordered a bottle of wine.

“Drinking again?” he asked.

“To celebrate being back,” Charlotte said. “Come on, Julian, lighten up.”

He tried, he really did. But he couldn’t ignore the beer cans in the recycling bin or the way Charlotte always had a glass of wine in her hand when Julian came home from work. When he tried to talk to her about it, she just laughed.

“Oh come on. You like a drink with dinner to relax. Newsflash, so do I. And you know, Julian, I’m working all day, too. Only I’m doing it at home with no breaks.”

When she got pregnant with Nathaniel, Charlotte assured Julian she had stopped drinking again. But Nathaniel had been premature and he’d been slow to sit up, late to walk and talk. Julian called the health insurance company’s nurse hotline obsessively, trying to figure out wrong with his son. It didn’t matter how much reassurance everyone gave him that the boy was fine. Julian wondered if Nathaniel might have fetal alcohol syndrome. He was a wild kid with a short attention span. Julian checked out books about FAS from the library and pored over the photos of the affected children. He thought his son looked like some of the disabled kids, the thin upper lip and flattish cheekbones, but he couldn’t be sure and Nathaniel’s doctor had never said anything.

The woman working on Charlotte’s sound turned on the speakers in the bar area. Charlotte began playing her new song, “Fall of a Hero,” and the sound of her voice over the thrumming of her guitar drew Julian back into the club. He sat at one of the tables in front of the stage and watched his wife play. He never got tired of hearing her sing. She smiled down at Julian and winked at him without missing a note.

Julian had never been as good a guitarist as she was. He could play well, was technically unflawed, but it had been work for him. Charlotte made it look effortless, as though she didn’t even have to think about it. She finished her song, thumped her guitar with her knuckles. She leaned into the mic. “How was that?” she asked the sound woman.

“Just fine from here,” the woman called from the back of the room.

“Perfect,” Julian said. His cellphone buzzed. Charlotte’s manager Evan had sent him a text. Everything OK? Have u heard about RS?

Julian texted Evan back. OK here. Yes about R, not telling C until after set. Nervousness prickled his arms for a moment: had Evan sent the same message to Charlotte? He wouldn’t, would he? And risk Charlotte’s set? Julian startled as the phone buzzed again. OK. Talk later, Julian read, and turned off his phone.

Charlotte left her guitar on the guitar stand at the back of the stage.

“Let’s go get something to eat, too,” she said to Julian. They ended up at the fish and chip shop across the street from the club.

Charlotte drowned her fish in malt vinegar and brown sauce. “You’re quiet tonight,” she said. “You all right?”

“Fine, just tired,” Julian said. He kept glancing up at the TV suspended above the fryer. It was tuned to a soccer match, but he expected to see Rory’s photo flash across the screen at any moment.

“Weird to be at Cabaret Voltaire again, isn’t it?” Charlotte asked.

“Yeah,” Julian said. “But this time it’s your name up on the marquee… how does it feel?” He didn’t need to replay their last time at the venue, he did it all the time already.

“It feels good, especially because you’re here with me,” Charlotte said. Julian smiled at her, but he wondered if she really meant it.

Back at the club a line of people waited for the doors to open. Charlotte and Julian slipped inside and downstairs.

An hour later, Mudslinger walked onto the stage to play their set. Julian stood by the curtain with a beer. Charlotte was getting ready backstage. He knew she wouldn’t see him but still, he gulped his beer down and got rid of the glass as quickly as he could. She always told him she didn’t mind if he had a drink when they were out. But to Julian it seemed like a kind of betrayal.

The boys weren’t bad but their music was a little too Americana-influenced for Julian’s taste. He didn’t like listening to it at home and he wasn’t going to listen to it in Scotland. He went upstairs and sat on the chest-high wall outside the club. Had they found Rory yet? He dug out his phone and punched Rory’s name into a search engine.

Musician Rory Shane Missing [UPDATE! FOUND!], read the first entry that popped up. Rory had been found, now Julian didn’t have to worry about keeping it from Charlotte. If she said anything he would plead ignorance. He read the rest of the article.

Rory’s car had been found on a remote logging road in Yreka, where it had run out of gas. Rory was not in the car. Search teams followed a series of footprints deep into the woods where they found him face down in a snowdrift. The report mentioned that he had left a trail of clothes in his wake. It was a sign, they said, that he might have been suffering from hypothermia and exposure-related delusions. They estimated that he had been dead twelve hours.

Julian’s hands grew clammy as he read the tiny words on the screen. The phone slipped out of his hands and fell to the pavement. Charlotte would be shattered, and despite Julian and Rory’s history, she would expect him to feel the same way. As he leaned down to pick up his phone Julian felt calm for the first time since learning Rory was missing. He knew it was an evil feeling – even at a basic human level he should feel more guilt. But it was hard. Rory wouldn’t be able to steal her away from him anymore. Charlotte would need him, really, really need him. At the funeral she’d ask him to stand beside her as she played Rory’s favorite song. Julian would be the one she clung to as they left the cemetery.

He knew it was fucked up but Julian felt free for the first time in years.

He went back inside. This time he sat at the bar and treated himself to a Lagavulin, neat. The boys were playing their last song. Julian savored the scotch. It stung his nostrils and flooded his upper chest with warmth. He ordered another. Loud applause and foot stomping in the next room. The boys emerged into the bar area a few minutes later. John clapped Julian on the back. “What did you think?” he asked.

Julian said, “You guys were great,” hoping John wouldn’t ask what his favorite song was.

“Thanks, man,” John said. “See you for Charlotte’s set.”

Julian drank his scotch in three gulps. He popped a piece of gum into his mouth and went to join Charlotte where she sat backstage on the couch, tuning her guitar.

“Where did you go?” she asked him. She sounded normal, which meant she still didn’t know about Rory.

“I needed some fresh air,” he said. He looked at her. Pretending that everything was normal while Rory was missing was one thing. Knowing that Rory was dead and keeping it a secret was worse. Tell her about Rory now, he told himself. He tried to come up with the words. Charlotte, I have to tell you something important. It’s about Rory. He couldn’t do it. He worried he wouldn’t sound genuinely upset. He’d smile by accident and Charlotte would know that he wasn’t sorry enough. He didn’t want her to blow her set. Maybe that was just an excuse.

“I went upstairs for a few minutes,” he admitted. “You know I can’t stand that twangy stuff.”

She grinned. “Yeah, I know.” She stood up. “Okay,” she said. “I’m on.”

Julian hugged her and gave her a kiss, then watched her stride out onto the stage. Julian stood in front of the stage, a little off to the left – in a spot where she could see him if she looked for him in the audience.

Charlotte stepped up to the microphone. “Hey, how’s everyone tonight?” she asked.

He almost expected someone to call out to Charlotte, to tell her about Rory. Instead the crowd whooped and clapped. Julian whistled loudly and clapped his hands so hard they stung.

“Thank you all for coming,” Charlotte said. She launched in to her version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Fire.” She played three of her most popular covers and then sang “Fall of a Hero.” The audience couldn’t get enough, it seemed. They whistled and held up their phones, the white-blue screens lighting up the room.

Everything’s okay, Julian told himself. She’s killing it up there. Bad choice of words. Chill the fuck out.

Charlotte leaned in to the mic. “Thanks, everyone,” she said. She uncapped her water bottle and took a couple of sips. In the lull between songs, Julian caught a low murmur in the crowd. One girl handed her phone to her friend standing beside her. A trio of flannel-clad boys whispered to each other. Julian looked up at Charlotte. She was oblivious to whatever was going on in the audience. They knew about Rory. And soon Charlotte would know, too. The room was stuffy and hot but still, he felt a chill at his back.

“This next song is an oldie,” Charlotte said. “I wrote this with a friend of mine on our first tour through the Midwest.” Shit. How could he have forgotten? She played “Trains” every night. It was the first song she and Rory had ever written together. If anyone in the club didn’t know what had happened to Rory, they were about to find out. Julian felt helpless. Oh Charlotte. I am so sorry. But he couldn’t stop her. If he intervened she would know that he’d been keeping the news from her.

“Trains” was an uncharacteristically quiet song for Charlotte, with mournful lyrics about a breakup on a long train ride.

Julian stepped up onto the edge of the stage.

“Stuck in a New Haven snowstorm/ You bought me a soda at the bodega/ I fell on my ass and you laughed,” she sang, but before she could sing the next verse someone in the audience began to wail and soon several people were hugging each other and crying at the foot of the stage. Charlotte stopped playing. She looked at Julian. “What’s going on?” she asked him.

He couldn’t keep lying to her. He beckoned for her to come over. Charlotte picked up her water bottle. “Sorry,” she told the audience. “Technical difficulties. Be right back,” she promised.

Julian hustled her backstage before anyone could say anything.

“What’s happened?” Charlotte asked, her voice cracking with worry.

Julian held her hand. He couldn’t remember any of the Oscar-worthy speeches he’d been writing in his mind.

“Rory’s dead,” he said, the words coming out faster than he’d expected.

Charlotte stood rooted in her spot. If her guitar hadn’t been slung over her chest, she’d have dropped it the way she dropped her water bottle, which bounced once and rolled away.

“But he’s playing at Winterfest tomorrow,” Charlotte said.

“No,” Julian said. “He isn’t.”

Charlotte’s legs began to shake. She grabbed onto Julian’s arm. He pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” he said.

She stopped shaking. “What do you mean, ‘like this’?” she asked. “You knew?”

“No, no,” Julian said, sick that he could keep lying to her so easily. “I meant, you know, finding out in the middle of your show. How terrible.”

“When did it happen?” Charlotte asked. She was crying now, her face red and blotchy. She was shaking again. Hiccupping.

“I’m not sure,” Julian said. “This morning, maybe?”

“What happened? Do you know?” Charlotte wiped her eyes and her nose with her sleeve. She hunted around on the floor for her water bottle. When she found it, she unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

“I don’t know anything else,” Julian said. He didn’t want to say more, worried that he’d slip up and incriminate himself. Julian saw the clock on the wall. They’d been backstage for eight minutes already. He could hear people talking, crying in the club.

“Look, do you want to finish your set? Or should I go talk to the manager? I don’t want to be a jerk but you’re booked here for two more nights and you don’t want to risk that.”

“The club will understand,” Charlotte said, sniffling. “I mean, it’s Rory, for god’s sake.” She drank some more water. She put the bottle down and ran her hands through her hair to comb it out. “But you’re right, I should go back out.” She reached for his hand. “Come with me, though?”

Julian nodded. “Whatever you need,” he said.

Charlotte tried to smile. “Thanks, Julian.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. She wiped her eyes again and walked back out onto the stage. “Hi,” she said, her voice still shaky. “Sorry, everyone. I just heard about Rory Shane, and I can’t believe it.”

Julian lingered at the edge of the stage. Charlotte motioned for him to join her.

“This is my husband, Julian,” she said, leaning into the mic. “Anyone listen to Huir de Compras? That’s his band. His and Rory’s. I used to open for them. Opened for them here, a few years ago.”

A few people scattered throughout the now-subdued audience clapped their hands.

“Do you want to hear another song?” she asked.

“Do “Unquiet Stare”!” called someone way in the back of the room.

“I’m not going to do any of Rory’s songs,” Charlotte said. “I don’t think I could take it.”

Charlotte tightened the strings on her guitar and launched into a song.

Julian recognized it before she’d even begun singing. It was her new song, “My Heaven.”

The upbeat, uncomplicated opening notes reminded him of the first time Charlotte had played the song for their family. She had skipped through the kitchen and front hallway playing on her favorite old guitar, while Julian and Amy followed behind her, dancing and swinging Nathaniel through the air by his arms.

Julian was surprised she would still sing it after hearing about Rory. He’d expected her to sing another of the songs she and Rory had written together, or even Rory’s most recent single, “Monument.” Rory hated “My Heaven,” had told Charlotte it was too sentimental. Of course it was sentimental, Julian thought. She’d written it about him, and about the kids.

Julian listened to Charlotte sing. Her voice was hoarse and several times it almost cracked completely. The audience was silent.

Charlotte turned around and smiled weakly at him. Her eyes were puffy. Julian nodded at her, trying to be encouraging. Would she last through the end of the tour? Julian imagined the next few days. Charlotte would be a wreck and all anyone would want to interview her about would be Rory, not her new record. Julian would redirect the questions, bring Charlotte all the tissues and cups of chamomile tea she needed. The interviewers would ask, how are you doing with all this, Mr. Wells? And he’d say, my only focus right now is Charlotte. He’d hold her while she cried. She’d apologize for being such a mess. It’s all right, he’d say. I’m here.

She finished her song. “Thank you,” she said. She walked off stage and Julian followed. The audience chanted, “Encore, encore,” but Charlotte was already putting her guitar away and shoving things into her purse.

“That was great,” Julian said. He gathered a few items fans had brought for her: flowers, demo CDs, cards and notes. She didn’t reply. He said, “I know that was really hard for you. But it was fantastic.”

Charlotte said, “Thanks.” She rubbed her eyes, even redder and more bloodshot than before. “I’m really tired, Julian. I want to go home.”

He wanted to go home too. Let the kids crawl into bed with them on Saturday morning.

It wasn’t home, but Julian could at least get Charlotte back to the hotel. He felt gallant, said, “I’ll get you a cab.” They went upstairs, Julian telling the club’s manager he’d be right back down to talk to him.

When a taxi stopped, Julian opened the door for Charlotte. “I’ll see you in a little bit, I’ve got to talk to the manager about the rest of the shows,” he said, leaning into the cab. “You’ll be okay getting back, won’t you?”

“Fine,” she said. “If you’re just going to be a minute I can wait for you.”

“Go on ahead,” Julian said. “You should relax a little.”

He waved goodbye to her as he shut the cab door. He watched the taxi drive off.

Downstairs in the almost empty club, Julian talked to the club manager. He didn’t want the rest of Charlotte’s shows at the club to get canceled.

“Tomorrow night will be better,” Julian promised the club manager. “You can understand why Charlotte was so distraught, this thing with Rory.”

The manager nodded. “Yeah, all right. Take care of her tonight, mate,” he said.

Julian zipped up his coat and left the club. He walked back to the hotel. Charlotte would be waiting for him. She’d want to talk about Rory. Julian would indulge her, listen to her put Rory up on a pedestal. Clever Rory. Ambitious Rory.

As he approached the hotel Julian tried to conjure positive memories of the old Rory. Working together at Amoeba Records. Rory’s admiration when Julian showed him the songs he’d been writing. That night at Bottom of the Hill, watching Charlotte on stage for the first time, grinning as she boldly sang, “He who fucks nuns will later join the church,” Julian whispering in Rory’s ear, “This girl is amazing.”

The room was dark when he got in. Charlotte was curled up in bed, her face buried in her pillow. When she heard him come in to the room she rolled onto her side and opened her eyes.

“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice thick with exhaustion.

“Fine, you’re all set,” Julian said. He took off his jacket and his shoes and climbed into the bed. He put his arm around Charlotte and she nestled against his side. Julian was both relieved and disappointed that they weren’t going to talk about Rory. He’d been prepared to mourn the old Rory, the Rory he’d once loved.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said. It took a while but Charlotte eventually drifted off. Julian needed a glass of water but he didn’t dare move in case he woke her. Her water bottle was on the nightstand. Julian reached for it and took a drink.

The bottle was half full, but not with water.

The whole tour, every goddamn minute of it, she’d had the fucking bottle with her! Julian fought the urge to spew his mouthful of vodka across the room. He slid away from Charlotte and stood up quietly and carried the bottle into the bathroom. He spat the vodka into the sink and then poured out the rest of the bottle. If Julian had been right about Charlotte’s drinking, what else had he been right about? Charlotte and Rory at the kitchen table. They had to be sleeping together. Why hadn’t he seen it?

Julian’s teeth chattered and his body shook with rage. He kicked the bathroom door shut. Who cared if it fucking woke Charlotte? He sat on the edge of the tub and tried not to cry but he couldn’t stop. He grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped his face, swiping at the snot coming out of his nose. Sniveling Julian, he thought. Stupid, blind Julian. His head hurt. Julian went back into the bedroom. He looked at his wife, her face red, heard her breath shaking even though she was fast asleep. For all he knew she might even be passed out.

The hell of it was that he was already thinking about forgiving her. For all of it. He crawled into bed beside Charlotte, feeling a gulf open up between them even as he buried his face between her shoulder blades.