FLYNN'S POV
Harrison showed up at my house at six with a garment bag and no patience.
"I'm not going," I said.
He walked past me into the hallway and hung the garment bag on the coat hook like he lived here. "You've been in this house for three weekends. You answered my last two calls on the first ring, which means you were sitting here waiting for the phone to do something. You're coming."
"I don't want to stand in a room full of people and perform."
"You've been performing your whole career. It's just two hours of expensive wine. Then I'll drive you home myself." He looked at me. "Flynn. Get dressed."
I got dressed.
The Portland Art Museum gala was exactly what it always was. Soft lighting across the permanent collection, donor crowd in black tie, caterers moving through with prac
