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Dylan says. “I hope you’ll be my mentor.”  I look around and notice that a dozen others are listening to our conversation and nodding.
    “Save the flattery for the client, Dylan,” I say, although I can’t resist smiling. I should mingle with my people more often. It doesn’t even faze me that they have me completely surrounded.
    Dylan hands me a third shooter and tries his luck again. “So, how about the karaoke, Ellis? It would make you seem more accessible to the team.”
    This kid is gifted; he’ll make partner in record time. “I’ll think about it.”
    “We could do a duet. I’m in a band, you know.”
    “Still thinking.... Don’t rush me.”
    “Oh, come on. It’s one song. Do it for the team.”
    The crowd starts chanting “El- lis , El- lis ,” and before I can grab hold of something, they push me back up the stairs and onstage. The whole maneuver was so carefully orchestrated I never really stood a chance. I’ve got my work cut out for me with this team.
    I expect some current pop tune I don’t recognize to appear on the karaoke screen, but instead, the machine strikes up my all-time favorite duet, Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around , by Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks. My Dad used to follow my mom singing this song when I was just a kid, and she’d shove him away, grumbling, “Oh, Keith, drag your heart out to the garage and start cleaning it.”
    It’s not an easy song, but knowing that Stevie was nearly unintelligible helps as I tentatively sing the first verse. Dylan joins in for the chorus, with a deep, strong voice that’s much nicer than Tom Petty’s.
    Staring up at him, I see a row of healed-over piercings in his ear and the blue lines of a tattoo peaking over his preppy collar. Turns out he isn’t standard issue NTA material at all. Rather, he’s a rocker who’s strayed far off the path of cool.
    Tossing Dylan a smile, I sing the second verse with more confidence.
 
It's hard to think about what you've wanted
It's hard to think about what you've lost
This doesn't have to be the big get even
This doesn't have to be anything at all
     
    It’s like a million possibilities of what might have been flash before my eyes, especially when Dylan chimes in with:
     
I know you really want to tell me good-bye
I know you really want to be your own girl
     
    Then we throw an arm around each other, down another shooter, and share the mike for the chorus:
     
Baby you could never look me in the eye
Yeah you buckle with the weight of the words
Stop draggin' my...
Stop draggin' my...
Stop draggin' my heart around.
     
    Some of the other consultants have gathered behind us to sing backup, and for a moment my worries fall away.
    But before the last notes fade, the “weight of the words” hits me. Noah’s face pops into my head and my eyes start to fill. I grab my jacket and bolt down the stairs.
    Outside the hotel, I’m struggling with my coat when Dylan catches up to me. I’ve already wiped away the tears by the time he asks, “Are you okay, Ellis?”
    He seems sweet and vulnerable. I want to tell him to run—run away from NTA while he still has his soul.
    “Sure,” I say. “Just had a rough day, that’s all.”
    I think about all that’s happened in 24 hours, and my eyes fill again. Dylan pats my arm uncertainly, and when the tears spill over, he leans down and gives me a hug. My arms hang loosely by my side but I rest my forehead against his shoulder, noticing he smells vaguely of cedar, like Noah. Finally, I put both hands on Dylan’s chest, and push myself away. In the same instant, he leans down and kisses me. His lips are sticky from the shooters. There’s no mistaking him for Noah now, and I give him a quick shove that breaks the seal.
    “Don’t be sad,” he says, slurring slightly. “You’re an amazing singer.”
    “Goodnight, Dylan,” I say, opening the hotel door to shove him inside.
    That’s when I see a flash of red, as Baxter and his cranberry tie disappear into an