Jim sat cross-legged on the floor of the poolhouse studio, guitar balanced on his knee as he sorted through handwritten sheets of music. The mid-afternoon sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, casting stripes across the worn hardwood. For the first time in nearly a year, he felt the familiar pre-performance jitters—a cocktail of anxiety and anticipation that had once been as natural as breathing.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, “set list.”
He’d been overthinking this coffee shop gig as if it were Madison Square Garden instead of his friend’s aunt’s café with a maximum capacity of forty people. But it wasn’t the size of the venue making his hands clammy—it was the prospect of playing these particular songs, especially with Rory in the audience.
If she came. He hadn’t actually ask
