Chapter 2
Seven years ago—Ellery
Legendary Jo’s Dive in North Hollywood, a tiny, ancient bar that violated a thousand health codes, stayed open thanks to the loyalty of its clientele.
The open mic was packed with UCLA students on a Thursday night, the ones who knew how to arrange their schedules properly so they didn’t have Friday classes.
Ellery had never had that luxury, but she sat there anyway, at one of the few coveted tables, Jasper at her side.
She’d sleep after her early morning Irish history class.
The lineup that night was fairly typical: posers whose parents/family/friends were in the industry, drunken juniors pretending it was karaoke or a bad poetry slam, and the genuinely, enviably talented.
Ellery didn’t know where she fit in the lineup, but she had to try. Again and again and again, she had to try. When you wanted something as badly as she did, you didn’t give up, not for anything.
Her phone beeped with a text message from her mom. How’s it going?
“Your mom again?” Her roommate Sarai sipped her diet cola. “She calls a lot.”
Ellery flushed and shoved the phone back into the pocket of her jeans.
Sarai was a little jealous since her own mom had moved to Brazil once she was in college.
Ellery loved that her mom checked in frequently.
Los Angeles was about as far from Milwaukee as a girl could go, but her family had never been anything but supportive.
Even on the nights when Ellery was sure she could not do it any longer, her mom and dad were there for her.
Pesky little sister, not so much, but she didn’t have lofty expectations. They wanted her to pursue her dream.
And maybe also didn’t mind her being out of the way. It could be difficult to stand out in a family where everyone excelled.
Sarai looked impossibly bored. Her roommate had come to these things with her religiously the previous year, but over the summer she had clearly developed other tastes. Ellery followed the path of her gaze to a group of senior guys, pumping up one of their own before he took his turn onstage.
Coldplay. That guy was definitely going to sing Coldplay.
“What are you going to sing?” Sarai asked, her gaze on a particularly primeval version of senior, his arm muscles so engorged, they stretched the edges of his T-shirt sleeves. Ellery sipped her club soda and lime. The man needed someone to buy him shirts in his own size.
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll know when I get up there.”
“You’ll be great. You always are.” Sarai stood up, still not looking at her. “I’m, um, going to go to the bathroom.”
“Sure.” Not that Ellery bought it. Sarai wasn’t going anywhere near the bathroom. Ellery had seen the hunk of senior give her roommate the eye nod. If she wasn’t making out in the back alley in the next twenty minutes, Ellery would be shocked.
Good for her. Everyone should enjoy themselves. No one else seemed to be like her—not that into dating, focused on her music. She didn’t care. Music made her who she was. Music soothed her, raised her up, made her come alive. How else was she going to share her songs with everyone?
Once she managed to write one, that was.
The girl on stage, singing a revamped “You Oughta Know,” finally finished and stepped down to middling applause. Jeez, the crowd was particularly brutal tonight.
Ellery’s stomach twisted. She should stick to a classic cover.
Her new songs weren’t going to cut it. She picked up the cocktail napkin beside Sarai’s abandoned seven-and-seven and dug through her purse for a pen.
If she was going to have to sit here listening to mediocre music while waiting for her turn, she might as well write.
“Next to the stage, Dante Baker!” The bartender/emcee stood beside the microphone on the small stage and led the applause.
Ellery didn’t bother to look up at first. Caught in the spin of you, she wrote, unsure where to go next. She wasn’t a writer, not naturally, but everything came with practice. Well, practice and inspiration. Her heroes were all female singer-songwriters, so that’s what she had to become.
And then the guitar strummed and a low voice echoed through the club. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll be quick.” The voice proffered no offense, held no rage. It could soothe or encourage. A tingle trilled up Ellery’s spine, but she ignored it. She had to write more than one line.
Then he started singing.
Now as he had her attention, Ellery couldn’t look away.
Dante looked young, but he was mesmerizing, with a shock of dark hair and hazel eyes so light they glimmered like topaz in the shitty stage lights.
He wore a simple Henley top and jeans with the cuffs rolled up, revealing sockless ankles and well-loved tan boating shoes.
Like someone comfortable in his own skin who also didn’t want to draw too much attention.
When he sang, though, Ellery’s whole world narrowed to the stage.
The song hit her, an edgy, atmospheric mashup of “Ho Hey” and “Hey There, Delilah” that brought tears of longing to her eyes. Holy shit, why couldn’t she write songs like that?
She couldn’t look away, not now, not when the song heightened every single one of her emotions, threading its way under her skin and deep into her heart.
The performance ended too quickly, and she was on her feet once the initial shock wore off, though her body still tingled like she had been kissed thoroughly and properly. She wasn’t the only one cheering. The entire bar whooped and hollered like they had just seen a miracle.
Dante Baker nodded shyly, a dark curl falling across his eyes. “Thank you. Have a great night, everyone.”
Ellery’s heart pounded, the sounds he had created still wending their way through her body.
Dante passed by her table, and without thinking, she grabbed the sleeve of his dark blue Henley. “You are incredible.” Her breath heaved too quickly. Had she said what she meant or had it all come out in a huge garbled heap? “I could have listened to you for hours. How do you do that?”
“How do I do what?” His face crinkled. Out of the spotlight, his eyes were a warm, green-brown hazel.
“Make music that speaks to me.” Ellery bit her lip. She wasn’t usually so effusive, but wasn’t there some saying about two kindred souls meeting? “Look, my friend is probably swallowing some varsity alphahole’s tongue right about now. Do you want to sit and have a drink?”
He hesitated for only a second, glancing between her and the empty chair at her table.
“It’s a good deal,” she said. She wasn’t used to asking twice, but he was special. And if he wasn’t old enough to drink, the place had soda. “The bar is packed tonight. You’re probably not going to find another open seat.”
His gaze fixed on her, and it was like she could feel the swell of a gospel choir inside her belly. “Okay. Sure, that sounds great. I’m Dante.” He held out his hand and she took it, wrapping her warm fingers around his.
“Ellery.”
* * *
Dante
Dante had never laughed so loudly or talked for so long that time seemed to stand still around them. Who was he kidding? He had never met anyone like Ellery.
“So where are you from?” He sipped the cold IPA in front of him. He was used to getting carded by this point. Although the testosterone helped him be his best self, he still looked a lot younger than his twenty-two years.
“Milwaukee.”
His eyes widened. “You’re a Badger? No way.”
“What? I can’t be from Wisconsin?” She held her arms out to the sides of her five-foot-nothing frame.
He laughed, primarily at the screen-printed message on her T-shirt: If you don’t know who Annie Lennox is, Go Away. “I didn’t mean that. You seem like a Los Angeles native.”
“Well, it’s my third year here at UCLA so I’m practically an Angeleno. What about you?”
“Seattle.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Nice. Like coffee, do you?”
“Oh, I love stereotypes. Flat whites are far superior to cappuccinos.” He clinked the bottom of his beer bottle against her glass of seltzer. “You don’t drink?”
She shook her head, her dark brown curls swaying around her face.
She had the most beautiful mouth he had ever seen, expressive and wide.
It almost didn’t suit her petite frame, but there was an edgy drive to her that made it all work.
“Not before I perform. And I’m not a big drinker anyway.
” She twirled the straw in her glass. “My sister says it’s because I’m a control freak. ”
“Are you?” He didn’t get that impression, not from her. She was the type of person who projected control either because she cared more about whatever she was creating in her brain or she didn’t give a fuck what people thought. Or maybe she cared too much, too deeply, so hid it away.
Anyway, she was intriguing. He wasn’t usually intrigued by people, particularly not cis women who wouldn’t talk to him after they found out he was trans.
“I don’t know. I am when it comes to music.
” She picked up her guitar from beside her.
It was a gorgeous instrument, well-loved and cared for, the musical equivalent of a beloved childhood stuffed animal.
“But then I also love when something spontaneous happens and it’s like all the notes just come to you. ”
“Like it rains inspiration?”
“Exactly.” She held his gaze then, her dark brown eyes warm and soft and sparking. He could see a thousand constellations in those eyes.
“Are you and your family close?”
“Yes. Especially my parents.”
“They must miss you, being so far away.” His were probably glad he was out of town.
“I think so. Though they keep talking about moving to Florida once my sister goes off to college. It’s always been my mom’s dream to live near the beach.
” She paused and turned to the stage, where two reasonably talented women were singing ABBA and dancing with the enthusiasm born of rum.
“What about you? Are you close with your family?”
Dante swallowed. “Yeah. Sure. Parents, a brother, the usual. They live up in Seattle.”