I’ve come to wonder whether my nickname might be more literal than I could have possibly imagined. What other explanation can there be for a diary in which some words disappear and some are left, seemingly for the purpose of offering advice? Is it possible that fairies are at work here? Surely not—this is New York, not the wilds of Britain, and yet no other solution presents itself.... I’ve not yet felt it necessary to use the diary’s key, but today, I think I must. I wonder if it will be any use. I need some time to consider this mystery—perhaps an afternoon in the library might shed some light on the matter. I look forward to discovering a plausible explanation. My only regret is that my proposed experiment must unavoidably be put on hold.


This could have been me a century ago! I glanced at the clock. I would have loved to keep reading, but several minutes had already passed, and I didn’t want to miss any of the band’s SXSW performance. I was going to have to come back to this later. Talk about your riveting reading—I was hooked!

I joined the parade on Sixth Street, thronging along with festival music-lovers in search of a great band and a couple of adult beverages. Maggie Mae’s was already crowded, and I hollered for my rum and Coke, rather surprised to be heard over the din, paid my tab, and spent the next ten minutes worming my way through clusters of people, looking for any kind of breathing room.

When Gabe and Beck finally did show, holding hands and tipping their heads together, I lifted my free hand in a wave, feeling quite delighted with the world.

Gabe dropped Beck with me and beelined for the bar to order their drinks.

Beck leaned in and said loudly, “Gabe never suspected a thing.” She tried for the smoldering gaze of a femme fatale but came off more Cyndi Lauper.

Then Gabe was back, toting a couple of Guinnesses, as a voice sliced through the dull roar, stretching out to reach every corner of the bar. “Ladies and gentlemen, Maggie Mae’s is proud to host South by Southwest Showcase Artist Loch’d In!”

Standing on tiptoes, I’d only caught the barest glimpse of the band when a tall, sturdy cowboy of a man in a black Maggie Mae’s T-shirt, Levi’s, and boots showed up at my elbow, tipping his head down to speak into my ear.

“Nic James? There’s a table reserved for you and your guests at the front.”

Surprise flustered me, had my eyes darting toward Gabe and Beck, both of whom were staring curiously back.

“Hello again, Austin!” Sean’s voice piped through the speaker system had me whipping my head around to see him, center stage, guitar in hand. “Welcome to South by Southwest!” The only hint that Sean even noticed the Texas-sized helping of cheers and applause was the hint of a smile as the drummer synced them up with the one-two-three clicking of sticks. Opening with a pounding-loud drum solo and a sizzling guitar riff, the music held me in its thrall. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the song—or even the fifth—but hearing it here, amid the noise and the lights, live and in person, with memories of last night zipping and twirling through my mind, I was lost. I didn’t even realize the cowboy had lingered, waiting patiently for me to get it together.

“This way,” he prompted, gesturing toward the stage. Beckoning Gabe and Beck with wide, “do you believe this?” eyes, I turned and let him lead the way.

As we wound our way closer to the stage, the music was building to an impossible crescendo, and my pulse was struggling to keep pace. When the words finally came, overlaying the music, I wasn’t prepared, and nearly stumbled into someone’s lap. As distracted as I was, it was lucky I didn’t settle in.

The same voice that had serenaded me with backup from a mariachi trio was now singing his own wildly seductive lyrics at a professional venue. And people loved him. Seeing him like this, immersed in the music and the crowd, it was impossible to look away. In scuffed jeans and an emerald green polo, he looked like a celebrity. And then I realized—here he was a celebrity.

I was vaguely aware of Beck tugging on my sleeve, urging me to sit, so I sat, still staring, mesmerized by Sean’s fingers skimming, impossibly quick, over the guitar strings. He made it seem effortless, and it was obvious that his focus was reserved for the crowds. He wasn’t grudging with his dimples either.

An unfamiliar little curl of jealousy was quickly and thoughtfully tamped down. Evidently I needed to get used to the idea that when Sean was performing, he belonged to the crowd.

Certainly I never thought I’d find a man who’d reserve all his smiles for me, but maybe I thought they’d be given out more sparingly, or with less obvious sex appeal. I realized I was being unreasonable, feeling slightly dizzy and overwhelmed, like a little girl at a carnival watching the rides spin in the dark with a tummy full of funnel cake.

Deliberately I let my eyes fall closed and pretended, just for a minute, that I was the girl I’d been a week ago, with a life relatively free of complications. I could feel the bass vibrating into me as the guitar notes hung in the air and the last lyrics skimmed the surface of my consciousness. And then the song ended on a long lonely note, a promise hanging in the air, echoing in Sean’s voice. My eyes fluttered open and came into focus, homing in on the Complication himself.

The band played a couple more songs, wowing the crowd and ratcheting up my qualm-o-meter, before breaking for a quick intermission. They’d demonstrated they could shift seamlessly from edgy rock to British band punk to haunting melody, and it was all brilliant. I had no doubts that this band—Sean’s band—was going to make it big. The rest of the world was going to know their names. Sean’s voice would be forever imprinted on the minds of many. He’d never belong only to me.

“Fill us in on the ‘lost Wednesday.’ ” Gabe’s voice broke through my subconscious as I pondered my dubious sharing skills.

“Um, okay,” I agreed, blinking the room back into focus. “I’m now the proud owner of a Weird shirt.” I smiled, oozing forced optimism. “Sean bought it for me, and I wore it yesterday. I’m official!”

Gabe cut his eyes around at me in disbelief. “Lucy! You’ve got some ’splaining to do!”

A laugh bubbled out of Beck as I answered. “What?”

“You’ve never worked up the gumption to buy your own Weird shirt, but suddenly you’re letting some guy—a virtual stranger—do the deed?”

I glanced at Beck, whose lips remained sealed despite the unexpected euphemism.

“Yesterday tipped the scales.”

“But you were already wearing it yesterday.”

Damn. I’d hoped that little detail would slip by him.

“True.” Stalling ... stalling ... “But my whole week has really been kinda out of the ordinary. I figured I’d earned it.”

“Good enough,” Beck pronounced cheerily, leaning in on her elbows. “So Sean’s the lead singer slash man on guitar, right?” Her eyes were dancing, her lower lip was tucked between her teeth, and she was glowing a radiant, otherworldly pink.

I nodded, returning her smile. “That’s him.” Then I darted in with a question of my own. Letting my eyes flick back and forth between them, I said, “Looks like you guys are getting along pretty good.”

Gabe shot Beck a glance of irritable affection and answered first. “We are,” he said, “but Beck wants me to keep my membership active on We Just Clicked and quiz her with the same questions I fire at potential matches. Naturally it’s irrelevant that I have no interest in any of these potential matches.”

Beck slid her index finger through the condensation rings on the table and countered with careful nonchalance. “I’m just curious to see whether he would have picked me out of a lineup,” she clarified, faced with Gabe’s and my blank stares. “And so far, I’d say it’s going pretty well ... ?” She made this into a question and lifted her eyebrow, waiting for Gabe to weigh in.

“It’s hard to say since you won’t ‘lock in’ your answer,” Gabe said with a wry twist of his lips.

“I’d think that would impress you, Mr. EPIRB. I want to weigh my options, choose wisely. The question isn’t quite as cut and dried as Olga seems to think.”

Faced with my avidly curious stare, Gabe elaborated while Beck sat quietly, her lips pursed and waiting. No doubt for my condemnation of Olga.

“Olivia’s question,” Gabe informed me, “was, ‘If you had to be an animal, which would you be?’ ”

Evidently unable to stand it any longer, Beck leaned in to interject, “She also asked, ‘Which flavor of ice cream would you be?’ An animal I get, but ice cream? What’s the underlying question there—‘Would you choose to be whirled with nuts, fruits, or some other ill-conceived mix-in before being frozen and eventually consumed? ’ ”

Grudging smile from Gabe, twitching lips from me. “She probably meant to ask my favorite flavor, not which one I’d be. And what’s wrong with a dolphin?” Gabe was clearly smitten, not giving a flying fig about the questions so long as Beck kept answering them.

“I don’t particularly care for that high-pitched squealing way they communicate. Imagine listening to that all day.”

Gabe and I shared a look, neither of us really believing we were having this conversation in a Sixth Street establishment during a SXSW showcase intermission. But Beck’s voice was ringing out through the din with you-better-believe-it attitude.

I couldn’t help it, I had to ask, “What sort of creatures are on your short list?”

“The naked mole rat is currently a front-runner,” she informed us. Faced with our no-doubt matching expressions of horrified curiosity, Beck added, “What? Hairless and buck teeth doesn’t appeal to you? Fine. I’m joking. But you know, they live in colonies—one queen and bunches of little worker mole rats doing sexual favors. Doesn’t sound too shabby.”