“You think?” Winona giggled, rubbing her nose up against my chin. I blushed harder than I ever had before in my whole life. It wasn’t helped by the fact Dr Raj and Myra were with us backstage too, counting up the windfall of cash that had fallen on the grounds of O’Brien’s Irish Superstore.

  There had been an encore, then another encore, then another one after that. O’Brien’s Irish Superstore had never seen such joyous applause and laughter emanate from its shops, and Irish Navajo’s songs about working frisky menial jobs and sprouting up banners for the upcoming Navajo Nation secession from the rest of America too.

  I was smiling. I hadn’t felt this happy in a long time. Even if that startling revelation was coalescing around in my head, I didn’t feel like I was ruminating on it. Winona, thankfully, was none the wiser about it either.

  “Yes, I think,” I smiled back.

  “You should know!” she bellowed out. “This is the best gig we’ve ever had, Nathan!”

  I wasn’t sure if her snuggling up against me in that usual platonic way we did was a hindrance or a help. I could only play along. I started nibbling at her ear, something that we did too, as friends. Then it struck me we did a whole lot together that was usually only reserved in the outside world for couples.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “When’s your next concert?” Myra asked, hospitable as always. If it weren’t for the fact Winona was worn out from all that singing, she and Myra would be fighting for the last few scraps of French naan bread on the makeshift table.

  “Not a concert,” Winona explained, “music video.”

  “You’re filming one?” Dr Raj asked, pushing some French naan into the maple container. “Where?”

  Winona shook her head. “Not any one place,” she explained, “on the road.”

  This was another Americana thing that seemed to go over Dr Raj and Myra’s heads. I took in a deep breath, then started rambling on.

  “We’re going on a road trip,” I explained. “We’ll film the music video along the way.”

  “Just the pair of you?” Myra asked.

  I paused. “No, not just us. There’s also—”

  “Us, tagging along,” a voice cut in. I turned, and I saw Benjamin Cohen and Felicity Brigham in the doorway. My heart sank. I wasn’t sure why. Felicity was there, but I just wasn’t in the mood for her if that speccy-eyed filmmaker was standing alongside her.

  “Great,” Winona grumbled underneath her breath. This time, however, that part of Americana didn’t go unnoticed by Dr Raj and Myra. They quietly excused themselves, not wanting to be at the centre of adolescent drama that a couple of college students should’ve outgrown by now.

  I at least tried forcing a faint smile. “Welcome to Irish Navajo’s backstage area,” I said. I was going to ride the high of our concert performance for as long as possible to get through this hell.