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“I kind of figured that one out, man,” Noah chortled. “Clicking and swashing sounds, muffled voices. Bet you’re at the bistro. A bit early, isn’t it?”

“Covering for Moira, remember? I’m sorry I forgot about rehearsal.”

“One day I’ll drag you to the dark side, kicking and screaming if I have to,” Noah promised.

Trying to convince Tristan to start a rock band was Noah’s thing. He would return to the topic as often as he could. Lately, more so. Apparently, he had been hanging out with a couple of talented musicians. Tristan had sworn off that life many years ago and Noah had had a front row seat to the whole depressing spectacle. He should have known better than to insist.

Who am I kidding? It’s Noah I’m talking about here. He’s worse than a dog with a bone.

Tristan had to say something. He chose the obvious. “Been there, done that, didn’t do much for me.”

“What the hell are you babbling about, Big T? You made a shitload of money with your lyrics and I’m not just talking about Izzie Anderson.” That name still stung Tristan’s chest as if his friend had pressed the tip of a hot iron to his flesh. Noah must have heard Tristan’s sharp intake of breath, still he kept talking. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. She moved on. You moved away to another country.”

“Not that simple.” Tristan forced a tight-lipped remark out of his constricted throat.

“Hey, it’s me you’re talking to. I was there. I know how bad it was. I’m just saying you shouldn’t dwell. It’s been ten fucking years.”

“I haven’t lived like a monk,” he said the words out loud as if they could convince his brain that empty one-night stands counted for anything.

Noah behaved the same way, so he never chastised Tristan.

“Nothing wrong with serial dating, but I wasn’t talking about your sex life. I meant getting back in the music biz.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. Noah was persistent, if anything else. “Give up, Baby Face. Not interested.”

Tristan couldn’t suppress a lopsided grin at his friend’s fake loud sigh.

Noah insisted, “You can’t stifle your natural talent forever. The band needs you. I need you.”

He chuckled, “What band? It’s just a handful of guys goofing around for the sake of it. Get over yourself. I’ve got real work to do here. You know, at our restaurant, while you play rock star.” Noah’s laughter was contagious, so Tristan joined him. “Talk later, bro.”

Ignoring Noah’s protests, Tristan hung up, and returned the cell to his back pocket. Whatever good effects bartending brought earlier; Noah’s call put a serious dent on them. Tristan didn’t sulk in past grief. He didn’t dwell in past wounds. It had taken him a painful, long time to get over the damage caused by one Izzie Anderson. He chose to keep her away from his mind. Those stupid recent tabloid headlines weren’t helping him achieve that. They brought back the insomnia, instead.

Shaking his head, he shoved the lurking memories to the darkest corner of his mind, together with Noah’s tempting suggestion. He didn’t seek fame and fortune. He had his days under the bright limelight, and they had ended in pitiful misery. He was better off away from the spotlight.

Fame changes people. It destroys them, if they let it.

Still, memories kept resurfacing as he refilled the bowls on the counter with peanuts. He glanced out of the panoramic windows overlooking the narrow strip of sand, the sight of the warm waves of the Atlantic Ocean washing the beach made his heart less gloomy. That view still worked its magic, after all those years.

Ten years ago, he hit rock bottom. Eager to get away from Los Angeles, Tristan thought a trip to a foreign country would make for a good change in scenery. Thanks to Noah, who had moved to Brazil to go to graduate school and try to rekindle his relationship with a Brazilian ex-girlfriend, Tristan decided to take a break in a quiet tropical setting. It was supposed to be only that, a quick break. He fell in love with the place and the people, though. When Noah suggested they opened a restaurant together, Tristan jumped at the chance, investing most of his savings. He invested the rest in the stock market. That didn’t turn out so great when the market crashed, and he was still struggling to recover from it.

As for staying and opening Chez Nous Bistro, he had no regrets whatsoever. Best decision ever.

Hidden away in the southernmost tip of Florianópolis island in Santa Catarina, Tristan found a small stretch of white sand framed by tropical forest for their restaurant. Matadeiro Beach, accessed only by water, or a narrow trail through the wilderness from the neighboring Armação Beach, was worth the effort. His wounded soul found healing in contact with the generous locals, mostly fishermen and their families, and the breathtaking views of emerald sea, blue sky, and white sand.

The fact that few people knew Izzie Anderson in his new neighborhood played a pivotal role in Tristan’s decision to stay. However, he rarely revisited that fact, preferring to simply enjoy his life in a place where people knew him as the tall American restauranteur, not the loser who once had loved and trusted a two-faced rock superstar.

* * *

Towards the end of his extra shift, Tristan had forgotten all about self-doubt, debt, and nightmares. He was having a blast when Raul, the night shift’s bartender, arrived. The tall man had an imposing figure with his wide shoulders and powerful arms. Raul’s smiling countenance, framed by sun bleached hair that curled softly over his forehead and ears, gave off a good vibe, though. Surfer vibe. Well, Raul was a local surf champion, so the impression was accurate.

“Did I miss the tweet where you fired me, boss?”

“Nah. Just having fun and messing up your stuff. Maybe having funbecauseI’m messing up your stuff?” Tristan finished washing the glasses and wiped his hands on a dishcloth. He draped it on Raul’s shoulder, tapping the other man’s back. “Bar is all yours. I’ll be in the office.”

Weaving his way through the tables in the main room, Tristan stopped at every other one to greet the early birds that gradually filled the restaurant.

“Lovely place you have here. Congratulations,” praised an elderly man Tristan had never seen before at Chez Nous. Judging by his accent, Tristan figured he was from Louisiana.

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