My phone buzzed with a text just as I was done. I picked it up and opened the message.

Trev: We’re all here. Nice place. Can’t wait to hear you sing. xxx

My heart stuttered and I rubbed at my chest, scolding the organ for its foolish optimism. He’s your friend, Reya. Just your friend. I sipped on my tequila sour, my favourite drink to have before a show, and started trying to psyche myself up.

I wore a long black dress with short lace sleeves. Using my requisite gold sharpie, I scribbled my stage name over my left forearm in swirling, elegant letters. Queenie.

It was what my next-door neighbour, Mrs. Finnegan, used to call me growing up. She said my name meant ‘Queen’, but because I was still little she’d called me Queenie. She had no idea I’d eventually grow to be a smidge over five-foot-nine. I smiled fondly, remembering her and how I used to sneak into her house for tea and scones, unbeknownst to both my parents.

She was the only one who believed me in the end, and she died not too many months afterward. Then there was no one left. No one who didn’t think I’d lied.

I stared at my reflection, the low bulb overhead catching the highlights in my brown hair. They matched the gold in my eyes that you could only see when the sun shone through them. Lifting my glass, I downed the rest of the tart liquid and stood. It was almost time for me to go on stage.

I waited off to the side while a woman introduced me in French, although I only had a vague idea what she was saying.

My keyboard and microphone were set up just to the left of the makeshift stage, but I’d given the sound guy a backing track for my first song. It was one I often opened with, a cover of “Blue Bayou” by Linda Ronstadt. I’d stand by the mic at the front of the stage as I sang directly to the audience. I used to perform it in English, but one day I fell down the rabbit hole of the Internet and discovered a Spanish version on YouTube. It was perfect. Almost better than the original. There was something about the lyrics in Spanish that just sounded so much more meaningful to me.

Cheers sounded and I walked out, spotting Trev and the gang at a large table in the centre of the club. The place was surprisingly packed, but I couldn’t tell if people were here to see me or if they were just regulars who’d be here anyway. Either way, it felt good to play to a full house.

I spoke into the microphone. “Thank you. My name is Queenie and this song is called ‘Lago Azul’.”

The track started and I closed my eyes, just like I always did. The music was low, the bass slow and sultry. I moved my hips, bent close to the mic and began to sing. When I reached the chorus I sang louder and tapped my left foot on the second and fourth beat, causing the metal tassels on my ankles to jingle in time to the music.

I was almost to the end of the song when I opened my eyes and found Trev staring at me. I wasn’t sure how he was the first person my attention landed on, but then again, his gaze always had a certain siren’s song of its own, luring me in.

When the song ended, I bowed deeply and retreated to my keyboard. My comfort zone. It worked as a barrier against the ferocity of Trev’s stare.

He wanted me.

He always wanted me . . . when I sang. Maybe it was because I was absorbed in a persona. I wasn’t Reya: insecure, worrisome, weak. I was Queenie: confident, bold, strong.

Was that why I wasn’t enough for him? Why he didn’t try to keep us?

I played a bunch of songs, chatting with the audience intermittently. Before I knew it, I had just a few minutes left of my set and I couldn’t decide whether to play the song Trev asked of me on our first night here. Our hushed conversation in the dark room, each of us in our separate beds, thinking we were protected by the linens, even though our emotions were spilling out all over the sheets. I tinkered with the keys, hesitating and shooting a glance in his direction before I finally played the opening notes and sang.

One day I’ll be that girl in the club who dances like no one’s watching

Dances like no one’s watching

Dances like no one’s watching

Because she’s high, high, high

On life’s supply

Of paper weights and paper clips and paper paper

That once was a tree

Because we’re all just something yearning to be something else

One day I’ll be that girl in the club who dances like no one’s watching

Dances like no one’s watching

Dances like no one’s watching

Because she’s happy, happy, happy

But really sad, sad, sad

Because she’s drowning under life’s supply

Of paper weights and paper clips and paper paper

So go open up

Go dance like her

*whispers*

Just don’t make eye contact

Don’t make eye contact

Don’t make eye contact

I opened my eyes only when I whispered the very last line. I knew he’d be looking. He always was. It was the one thing in our relationship I could count on. His constant attention while I sang.

I thanked the audience for their appreciation, stood and hustled off the stage, my heart in my throat. Not considering the moments we’d shared up until now, that had been way too close. My skin was clammy. It prickled with awareness and apprehension and want.

I needed a drink.

I worked my way through the club, arriving at the bar and ordering another tequila sour. I slipped some Euros to the bartender when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Isaac, the boy from earlier in the day. I’d forgotten I invited him to come and wondered if he was old enough to be in here. He looked eighteen . . . almost.

“Hey Isaac! Thanks for coming,” I exclaimed.

“Reya, you were incredible up there,” he said just as Trev appeared over his shoulder. He didn’t look happy that I had company, which was ridiculous because Isaac was just a kid. Sure, he was tall, but it was pretty obvious how young he was.

“Reya,” said Trev, his voice low and questioning.

“Trev, come here. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Isaac’s eyes bugged out of their sockets when he heard the name, his entire body stilling. It was sort of adorable. Trev came to my side, sliding his arm around my waist possessively, which was completely unnecessary. He eyed Isaac with suspicion.

“This is Isaac,” I explained. “We met earlier today during filming. He’s a big fan of yours,” I went on, putting emphasis on the word ‘fan’ so he’d know to be polite. “I invited him along tonight so he could meet you.” When I finished speaking, Trev’s posture loosened as he realised this wasn’t some guy who’d just approached me at the bar.