He had immediately gotten an erection, which was, at sixteen, not an uncommon thing. He had in fact masturbated while thinking of Claire more than once, though he never would have admitted it to her or anyone else. She was his closest friend, close enough to be his sister. He shouldn’t feel this way about her, but he did. His dick was a shaft of glowing steel; her head on his shoulder and her hand on his leg were bright, burning spots, his heartbeat was an amplified bass line. Surely she could feel it? Should he kiss her? He wanted to kiss her. But either she would become angry, which he didn’t want, or she would laugh, which he couldn’t bear. He sat through one, two, three agonizing moments. Was he brave enough? He was sixteen, but he had the wisdom, somehow, to know that another moment like this wasn’t likely to come along anytime soon: the dark bus, him a star.

He lifted her head. He kissed her—it remained the singular kiss of his life.

Romantic nonsense? This was the question Matthew had asked himself over and over again since October, when he had learned he would be seeing Claire again. Was it all just romantic nonsense, a fixation from his youth? Would she even be recognizable to him as the same person when he saw her? Would she still have any of the qualities that he treasured and had kept in his heart all these years? Had she aged? Had she changed? This was the kind of nervousness he supposed people felt when they attended high school reunions—which he never did, for obvious reasons.

Jesus, the anticipation was killing him!

His pervasive thought, of course, was that he needed a drink—and he did keep alcohol on the plane for emergencies such as this one. But he had had it all removed specifically for this flight because he knew himself. He knew he would want a drink, but he didn’t want to have been drinking when he saw Claire. He had nearly derailed two days earlier. He had gone out with Archie Cole, the drummer from Sugar Shack, who was so young and clueless he didn’t realize Max was an alcoholic. They got completely hammered on gin and tequila, and Archie picked a fight with a complete bozo at one of the clubs, and Max, in an attempt to help Archie out, got socked in the eye and ended up in the slammer. It was typical idiot stuff; he had to stop!

The plane landed, but they were delayed on the runway.

Matthew whipped out his cell phone and sent her a text message. Just landed. I’m nervous.

A second later, his phone beeped. The message from Claire said, Don’t be nervous. I’m here alone.

There was a special part of the airport for private planes. Matthew sat, searching out the window, fidgeting. Let me off! Where was she? She was there somewhere.

Finally they opened the hatch and let the stairs down, and the pilot said, “Welcome to Nantucket Island.” And Terry and Alfonso, who had been asleep, woke up and descended before him. Sometimes when Max West’s plane landed, the press or a private citizen got wind of it, and there was a crowd of fans, waiting, screaming, and waving signs, and it never failed to make Matthew feel like one of the Beatles. But this time, tonight, when he descended, there was only one person waiting. She had gotten security clearance, because she was standing there at the bottom of the stairs, alone as promised. Matthew looked at her, and his mind went blank. She smiled at him—grinned, really, like a seventeen-year-old girl—and wrung her hands.

What did he think? He couldn’t think. He was gazing upon something beautiful that he had lost, but that now, amazingly, was found. Claire. She was herself, the red hair, the thin white wrists, the green eyes. She reached out for him, and he hugged her and his eyes filled with tears. They did not speak. He lifted her up off the ground. She was as light as a feather. It was miraculous, as miraculous as if she’d been dead all these years but had somehow been brought back to life. His Claire.

In the car, she talked and he gawked. He sat in the front seat of her SUV, which smelled like rug shampoo. Terry and Alfonso were in the back; Alfonso was smoking, finally, gratefully, after Claire had assured him it was okay, and he was careful to blow the smoke out the window. Matthew held Claire’s hand—he couldn’t help himself, because his primary emotion was fear that she would vanish. He had last seen her, Jesus, twelve years earlier, at a concert at Boston Garden. She had come backstage with Jason, who was, at that time, her fiancé. Matthew had been married to Stacey then, though he was drinking heavily and their marriage was on the rocks. Stacey had been jealous of Claire, and their meeting backstage was chaotic and awkward. Matthew had been drunk or high; he had paid too much attention to Jason—trying to impress or intimidate him—and not enough attention to Claire, though Stacey accused him otherwise. Then Claire disappeared into the crowd, and Matthew was too high to feel the loss of her. He felt it months later, his first time at Hazelden.

He would not lose her again! She was whole and perfect, an artifact unearthed. She did not know it as she chimed along about the gala, but he had no intention of letting her go.

She dropped Terry and Alfonso off at their hotel, and then they were alone. She thanked him, yet again, for coming to play, and he said, “I would do anything for you, Claire Danner, and you know it.”

At a stop sign, she reached across the car and touched his face. “What happened here?”

He had a dark purple crescent beneath his eye, and some yellowing on his swollen upper cheek, where he’d taken that punch.

“I was out of line,” he said. “Got what I deserved.”

“You were drinking?” Claire asked.

“Drinking and stupid,” Matthew said. What he needed was someone to keep him on the straight and narrow. Someone like Claire! “It won’t happen while I’m here. I promise.”