Page 2 of Two Hit Wonder

"He's still the best agent in the business," Cam protested. "And he said he'd consider it. If we could prove we're serious. If we could actually make music again." She leaned forward, and for once in her chaotic life, she looked almost earnest. "Come on, Iona. Don't you miss it? Even a little bit?"

Did she miss it?

Iona thought about her flat, the small spare room that she'd converted into a pottery studio where she made wobbly vases that nobody bought. The kiln she'd saved up for that now mainly served as an expensive shelf. She thought about the watercolor phase before that, and the jewelry-making phase before that, and the brief, disastrous attempt at a lifestyle blog that Mo still teased her about.

She thought about her guitar gathering dust in the corner of her bedroom, the strings probably corroded by now. The last time she'd picked it up had been…when? Mo's tenth birthday, maybe? She'd played "Happy Birthday" and her fingers had felt clumsy and wrong on the frets, like they belonged to someone else.

Two marriages. Two divorces. No career to speak of, unless you counted being a mother, which Iona absolutely did, but which didn't exactly pay the bills. Shepherd sent child support, generous and reliable as always, because Shepherd was a good man who'd looked at Iona and somehow known, even before she did, that she wasn't in love with him. Not the way he deserved.

And then Calinda, well, Calinda had been a rebound, and they'd both known it, even as they'd walked down the aisle. That marriage had lasted barely a year before they'd sat across from each other at their kitchen table and admitted, with something like relief, that this wasn't working. Calinda was long gone. Mo was still upset about that too. Mostly because Calinda had been a fashion editor at a magazine and therefore dressed like the supermodel she probably could have been and frequently gave Mo clothes.

Iona thought about the brief, brilliant years when she'd felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be, doing exactly what she was supposed to do. When she'd had a purpose. A place. A sound that was hers.

Before it all fell apart. They’d been barely nineteen when it had all imploded. And they had been more than just the three of them sitting around the table. Which was a whole other problem. "There were four of us," she said quietly. "In the band. There were four of us."

The name hung unspoken in the air between them. Cam's smile faltered. Ellie looked down at her water glass and didn't meet anyone's eyes.

"We don't need her," Cam said, but some of the brightness had gone out of her voice. "We can find another singer. I know a guy who knows—"

"Cam."

"Alright, I know a woman, actually, who used to be in this tribute band, and she's got a great voice, really distinctive…"

"Cam." Ellie reached across the table and put her hand over Cam's restless fingers. "We all know it wouldn't be the same."

It wouldn't. Iona knew that with a certainty that ached. Maeve had been the heart of them. The voice. The one who'd written songs that made you feel like she was reading your diary and somehow didn't hate you for what she found there. The one who'd looked at Iona across a crowded stage and made her believe, just for a moment, that anything was possible.

The one who'd kissed her just once, fifteen years ago, backstage at some dive bar in Camden, tasting of vodka and sugared flowers. And then disappeared without a word.

"I haven't spoken to her since, um, since." Iona stopped. The sentence had too many possible endings, all of them painful.

Since the night the band imploded. Since Maeve's drinking had spiraled so far out of control that management had quietly suggested she "take some time." Since they'd all stood in that dressing room and watched her shake apart, watched her pick up a bottle with hands that couldn't stay steady, watched her become someone none of them recognized.

Since… the thing that Iona wouldn′t put into words even in her mind.

Since Iona had stood in a doorway and thought, desperately, say something, ask her to stay, tell her how you feel.

And hadn't.

Because what would have been the point? Maeve had been drowning, and Iona hadn't known how to swim.

"Neither has anyone," Ellie said. "She's basically a hermit now. Lives in Scotland, I think. Writes songs for other people."

"So we do it without her." Cam's jaw was set, stubborn. "The three of us. We can make it work."

Could they? Iona wasn't sure. But looking at Cam's determined face, at the quiet hope in Ellie's eyes…

Ellie, who'd dropped her fork twice during the conversation, whose hands seemed to fumble with her water glass before she caught it. "Just tired," she'd said when Iona noticed, waving it off. "The kids are running me ragged."

Something was going on there. Iona couldn't put her finger on what, but she knew Ellie well enough to know when she was deflecting. Mind you, Mo was exhausting enough, having three boys like Ellie did must be like being steamrolled every day.

Cam's phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, and that secret smile flickered across her face once more.

"Hot date tonight?" Iona asked, grateful for the distraction.

"What? No. Maybe. It's… it's a work thing."

"You don't have a job. You’re broke, remember?"