I BLASTED THE music from whatever radio station my mom already had on, which was almost always Top 40. At least it had been since my dad left. She couldn't stand grunge, rock, or anything with an electric guitar anymore. Whenever a hint of it snuck out of the speakers, she would change the station. "Come on, Jo, we get enough of that at home," she'd tell me whenever I protested. When she had to poke her head in my room whenever I practiced, her smiles turned brittle at the sight of an instrument in my hands.

But she never turned me away from music. One time she even said, "You're better than him." She hadn't meant anything by it, but those words swept me up in a fantasy of being a better guitarist than the shitty man who fled both our lives, surpassing him in every way. My real name was Joan Anderson, but after that day, I knew my stage name could only be Jo Austin – a direct call out to the man who left a prodigy and would fucking know it.

That probably wasn't the reason my mom encouraged me, and more because she was a good mom – from the lessons she scraped up enough money to pay for in the early days when we were on our own, and now offering to buy me a new guitar for my eighteenth birthday. I ground my teeth when I considered where she'd get the money for it.

"It was nice of your mom to loan us her car," Claire said, her voice barely louder than Doja Cat.

I turned the radio down. "She'd have done whatever to get us out of the house."

"Have you met this one yet?" she asked. Claire knew my mom jumped from man to man the way I could jump chords in a song. She just didn't know why most of my mom's flings didn't last long. The only consistencies about the men were the wedding rings they wore, I never met any of them, and they sometimes paid the bills. Mom didn't know I knew that part, though.

"No," I said. "It's been a couple months anyway. His time is almost up."

"Maybe this one's different." Her thumb brushed the spine of her old book affectionately. A hopeless romantic through and through.

"The only thing different about him is probably his name." But even that wasn't a guarantee. My mom used nicknames for the guys who held her attention long enough, like Coffee King, Paper Boy, Stethoscope. After one fresh breakup, my mom started talking to another guy with the exact same name as the last. She'd called him The Dupe. "Save all your fated soulmate crap for your books."

"It can't hurt to have a little hope," she said with a small smile. "What's that quote? Art imitates life? There has to be someone out there for everyone."

I didn't know what quote she was talking about. "You need to get out more."

"I do," she said, clutching her book dramatically to her chest. "Every time I read about Sir Ashwell taking Lady Heathwood to his estate."

We both laughed. "Case in point," I said. "We're about to go to a party, and you're holding onto that book like a lifeline."

"I know," she admitted. "But you do the same thing with your music. It's an escape. It takes you away from all this and transports you somewhere else less complicated and more... hopeful, I guess."

Claire didn't have much - sometimes I forgot how much - that she deserved all the hope she could get. She deserved more of everything. "You should come with me next week," I blurted out.

"Next week?" Claire echoed. "What are you talking about? Where are you going?"

We stopped at a red light; the last intersection before we'd turn into the Callahans' neighborhood. I pulled out my phone, opening up the Instagram post I stared at every free second I got. "Read that," I told her.

Claire did so out loud: "Open auditions. Gallows Humor is looking for a new lead guitarist ASAP. Twenty-one plus only. Jo –"

"Keep reading," I said. The light turned green. I had to start driving again.

Claire frowned and turned back to the phone. "Auditions are being held at The Classic Bar? Address is... Jo –"

"It's in Nashville," I said. "Can you believe it? That's so close –"

"It's six hours away," Claire said. "Did you read this post right? It says twenty-one plus. Plus, Jo!"

"That's what the ID's for, Claire. I've been listening to their stuff. It's alt rock, guitar-focused, just what I've been looking for. I found out about them through that guy at the venue –"

"You mean the wannabe talent scout?" she deadpanned. "The reason you got kicked out of your band? You know that's not the first creep at an open mic night you've run into –"

"Yeah, but this guy was different." He'd still been a creep, leaning in a little too close during the entire conversation, giving off a weird (Claire's word for it, not mine), hopeful vibe when he guessed my age – "You gotta be, what, nineteen right?" – but that was all it'd been. A conversation. And I benefited from it. "He sent me that post, along with a couple others, which is better than a di –"

Claire gave a strangled grunt and flapped her hand at me. "Not the point. The point is that this is big for you, for sure, but... it's dangerous. We're not even eighteen yet. What if you get caught?"

"What if I don't?" We were at the Callahans' house now. I pulled over on the side of the street, amongst the other cars. "What if I actually get in? Senior year is almost over. I have to start doing things that really matter. I don't want to be in this stupid town while you're all the way in Stanford."

Claire gnawed on her lip. She knew I had a point.

"I'm just saying," I unbuckled my seatbelt and shoved my door open, "it's great to hope for things. But if you want something, you have to work for it. Give it your all."

The Callahans lived closer to the rural part of town, meaning they had a ton of land at their disposal and no neighbors close enough to feel bothered to call the cops. It was the perfect place to throw a party, which brothers Trey and Dustin did every time their parents skipped off on another trip. Bodies crowded the living room and kitchen as Claire and I squeezed through the front door. I recognized a few people from school, and a couple others who'd already graduated like Trey and attended the same community college twenty minutes away. The faint smell of weed and cigarette smoke curled into the air. Everyone was laughing and talking, red Solo Cups in their hands, swaying to music pounding from the speakers.

The snap of a kickdrum thrummed underneath the floorboards and met me like a heat seeking missile. All the plush sofas and chairs in the living room were pushed aside to accommodate a drum set someone played halfheartedly, along with a couple guitars and a keyboard.

The Callahans were rich. As soon as Dustin's parents found out he was going through a music phase, they spared no expense encouraging it. After the first party I met him at, every other one I'd been to always had the instruments on display for anyone to use. It was how Dustin and I formed our band, which had been amazing. It was going to be even more amazing when I did it again, on a bigger scale, with Gallows Humor.

A couple people greeted us as I drug Claire through the living room. "I have to find Dustin," I told her over my shoulder. "Then we can go."

Claire lingered at the kitchen, having been to enough of these parties herself to know where things were. "We can stay for one drink."

"What?" I spluttered. "Who are you right now?"

She shrugged. "You've been telling me to loosen up for years now. I'm... finally taking your advice?"

Claire never even showed interest in drinking. Because of her dad, it repelled her most of the time. "What's going on?" I demanded. "You've been acting weird all day, and –"

"Jo!" Dustin shouted. He trumped down a set of stairs at the other end of the house, waving something in the air. It was small and rectangular. My ID. When he walked to us, I surged to grab it, but he pulled his arm back fast. "Whoa there."

"I paid for that," I snapped. "Give it to me."

"You're no fun," he grumbled, words slurring. He was already buzzed, a short trip away to drunk. "Come on. Play one song with us, and then you can have it."

I glared at him, but my traitorous eyes slid toward the guitars and the house full of people glancing in my direction. Anticipation danced in their eyes. Their energy rebounded off me.

"Go," Claire said from behind me. She somehow already had a Solo Cup in her hand. "Give it your all, remember?"

It was moments like that, where Claire said the exact right thing at the exact right time, that made me believe in the soulmates thing. Just a little. Even if they didn't exist, I was lucky I found something close to it in my best friend.

"Oh." Dustin suddenly said. My brows furrowed when his eyes landed on Claire. "Hey, Claire."

I glared. Then I turned toward the instruments, shoulder-checking Dustin on my way. I didn't stop until I leaned down and picked up the electric guitar there. As I tuned it, members of my old band took up their instruments. Dustin sauntered up to the microphone in front, giving me an insufferable wink before turning toward the crowd.

"We're gonna play our original song, Rambler," he told everyone. I stifled the urge to roll my eyes.

I started playing first, because if I was going to compose any song with a band who didn't take it as seriously as me, I would take the lead. I strummed the guitar, clutching the neck to pull out the right chords. They wavered in the air, vibrated against my palms, brought on a familiar heat rolling through my veins that burned everything else away.

Claire was right. I'd never been anywhere beyond the borders of South Carolina, but in a crowded room stuck in a pocket of music, I was more at home than any physical place.

I tore through my solo, channeling the same violence as the guitar in the Gallows Humor song I listened to earlier today. Everyone roared with excitement, but I barely heard them. I was ready to get through the song, get that ID, and start my new life.

During the solo, Dustin turned. His eyes met mine, and he held my focus as he set the fake ID on my amp. "Take it, if you think you'll be able to find anything better."

Find a better what? Band? Ex-boyfriend? I could've laughed in his face. He really thought one song at a house party would keep me here – that he could keep me here. He couldn't stand I was getting more attention than him and the rest of the band, too insecure to handle the thought of me moving onto bigger and better things. When he thought he could tell me no, that I couldn't follow my dreams or else I'd be kicked out of the band, I dumped them on the spot.

He sauntered off before the song ended, further solidifying my resolve that I made the best decision of my life. I shrugged off the guitar that wasn't mine and snatched up the ID. I read my new name as everyone cheered around me.

Josette Adams. Born February eighth, nineteen-ninety-nine. And it looked good. Damn good. Claire would lose it. I couldn't wait to show her.

I just... had to find her?