I shook my head. “Start talking.”

“It’s summer vacation and I wanted a change of scenery,” he said, fingers playing with his cellophane wrapper.

“Please. You are so bad at avoiding the subject. Just talk.”

“Ugh, you know me so well.”

“Well, duh. We’ve been friends for forever.”

He shifted in his seat, his body hunching over the small round table between us. “Here’s the thing,” he said slowly. “I’m transferring to Pomona. I’ll be in L.A. with you.” His eyes were on me, awaiting my reaction.

“You did what?” I had a quick twinge of anxiety. “You didn’t do this because of me, right?”

Abruptly, he leaned back in his chair and took a gulp of his drink, creating a larger space between us. “Nah. I can’t deal with another Chicago winter. I’m a Texas boy. All that snow . . . I couldn’t ever get warm. I don’t want to go back to Houston, so, I thought, why not try L.A.? It’s supposed be the same season all year long.”

“That’s good. Probably good, anyway. That you’re doing it for yourself. I mean, we’re always traveling. We’re going to be on tour for months, probably.” I was babbling, miming the motion of a bus traveling down a wavy road with my free hand. Alex caught it and held it still on the table.

“The thing is,” he said again, “I feel like you’ve been needing someone, right? Someone who knows the real you, not just this glossy girl who is beautiful and sings real nice—”

I faced the open stall of the busy concourse. The crowd, which had been moving evenly in the space behind Alex and the café stall, suddenly changed composition. I felt myself stiffening, hands curling into fists, heart on overdrive.

And then I saw him. A man, stopped in the middle of the flock, making people change direction to avoid walking into him. Before I could consider anything else, he was rushing toward our shop. But this was not Jerry.

“Alex.”

There was fright in my voice, but Alex didn’t react like I expected he would. He continued, “It’s just, I think—”

“Alex!” I said it more urgently. He turned to look, and the man was upon us, grinning widely.

“There you are!” he hollered as he bridged the last few steps to make it to our table. “I’ve been looking for you, darling!”

Alex stood up to intercept him. “Whoa there, I think you have the wrong person.” He was blocking the guy with his wide body, but the man stepped around him, swatting away Alex’s outstretched arms.

“Cassidy,” the man said, reaching out toward my face.

I was too frightened to scream.

The man flopped to the ground, collapsing a couple of chairs. The noise reverberated in the wide space, catching the attention of a few passersby. Alex had tackled him from behind, trapping the man’s arms in a bear hug. “Cass, get security!” he hollered as the man tried to wriggle free. I found myself on my feet, backing away from the table, the man, Alex, but I’d lost my voice.

The man continued to yell. “You—get off of me! She’s my wife! My soul mate from a past life! We belong together!”

Another man rushed forward—polyester, blue, a working security guard. Another officer arrived and the three of them wrestled the man into submission. When a hand touched my shoulder, I gasped in surprise, but it was the cashier who had rung up our food. “You all right?” she said, and I surprised myself by falling onto her bright orange shirt and sobbing uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around me, patting my back. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she repeated. I could only register that her chest was soft and her hug was reassuring.

“Has this ever happened before?” she said, and I shook my head no, getting my tears all over her shirt collar, but in my head I thought, There was Jerry, once. Jerry was scary. But he wasn’t as scary as this.

The woman transferred me to a new hugger, one I knew. Alex clutched me familiarly, protectively. “He’s cuffed and gone, Cass. Holy shit!” He was shaking just as much as me. “I’m going to find a way to get a hold of one of your friends. You have to talk to the police about this.”

When he loosened his grip, I hugged him back harder, desperate. “Alex, don’t leave me!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not leaving. I’m just making a call,” he said calmingly, gently removing my hands from his shoulders. By the time we were through talking to the police about what had happened, Ian’s deadline of one o’clock was far gone. He would be blowing a gasket.

I walked into the hotel lobby with Alex on one side and a cop on the other, hugging my arms to my chest, and saw Ian. He stalked toward us, eyes blazing. “Where the hell have you been—” he began, but Alex cut him off.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” Alex screamed. “Do you not realize the danger these girls are in? Some psycho tried to grab Cassidy out in the middle of a crowded building! Why aren’t they given any protection?”

Ian faltered. “What?” He noticed the cop, then. “What happened?”

Alex sputtered out the story, and the officer chimed in to say, “We do recommend that you provide some security detail for your client. Unfortunately, being in the public eye can and will draw some dangerous people.”

Ian thanked the officer, who left with a curt nod. He then switched back to teddy bear mode, his voice velvety soft. “Cass.” I found myself tearing up again. I sniffled.

He sighed and turned to Alex. “You better come with us for now.”

We had a group meeting in our hotel room, where Alex offered to be an extra pair of eyes and hands while Ian got approval from upper management to hire a security detail. Ian acquiesced gruffly, but warned, “I can’t pay you for volunteering.”

“Him?” Rose said. “He doesn’t look very intimidating.”

Alex drew himself up to his full five feet, eleven inches and puffed out his wide chest. “I know how to handle myself.”

“Don’t get too cocky, guy,” Ian continued, pointing a finger. “You’ll be riding on the other bus with the roadies. No special bunking privileges.” I was shocked with embarrassment by this remark. Ian checked his watch. “Remember, photo shoot tomorrow, then concert in Jersey. Get packed. Get moving. We’re already running late.”

THERE YOU ARE. There you are.

Despite my exhaustion, it had taken me hours to fall asleep that night. I kept replaying the incident with the man in the bowels of the Rockefeller buildings. I couldn’t remember much about him except his gravelly voice—“There you are!” he’d shouted, and then my silence—the fact that I couldn’t even scream, god! That was unnerving. When I closed my eyes, I could see his outstretched hand reaching for my face. By the time we arrived at a photo studio in downtown Manhattan, I still hadn’t slept more than a handful of hours. I was dragging and didn’t even care that my outfit was a dusty blue, a shade that flattered no one.

Ian paced behind the photographer and his assistant during the shoot, talking low on his phone. After it wrapped, he hustled us to the doors, talking a mile a minute. Apparently, Peter had been making new connections and pinging his contacts to try to get ahead of the Sunrise Show fiasco. He’d hired a publicist, Justine, who would be joining us in New Jersey and walking us through any other issues that might arise from the incident. Luckily, while the show did air live on the East Coast, it was tape-delayed for all other time zones, so the network opted to run unused footage of a different angle for all subsequent broadcasts.