AN: This is part one of a planned two-part story. I'm sad about the show's cancellation—it inspired the title. I hope part two will follow soon.

Today was one of those days. Astrid had good days; she had bad ones; and she had ones like today when she would be too busy to appreciate the former, or wallow in the latter. She was taking advantage of the lull between the morning coffee lines, and the invariable lunch rush, to clean, organize, and restock the counter, as she'd done so many times of late.

There were so many reasons why one would want to take a gap year. Astrid was sure that being witness to a plot eradicate humankind didn't make the top hundred. She was equally sure that it was one that she would never tell another human, lest she find herself dosed with antipsychotic meds, and locked up for her own good. The reason would be hers alone to know, but the result spoke for itself. She was finding herself again. Each day, a little at a time, she was finding her way, finding her footing in the world once more—in the world that continued on in spite of all that happened.

She had long since established that Stephen would always be a part of her life. He was her dearest friend … her trusted confidante … he was family really. But now, she saw little of him. It was not that his friendship meant any less to her. It was that the Tomorrow People—his people—needed him more than ever. He had assumed the mantle of leadership. He was their chosen one, and it seemed odd to her when she was around him to watch the way the newly assembled Tomorrow People held him in such elevated status. His responsibility to them was great. And for Astrid, being around them, Stephen, Russell, and especially Cara, was a bitter reminder. Drifting apart was more of an evolution, than a rift. Sometimes it made her sad; other times, she was grateful for the distance.

Astrid was rebuilding her life one piece at a time. Working in the café had been the foundation. She loved working with her father, and now that she knew the daily rhythm of the work, she liked being able to free her father to do other things. It felt good to give him an opportunity pursue other interests, or focus on other aspects of the business, or even to take a few days away, as he was doing now. She loved being useful again. She went into the kitchen and returned with a tray of the day's sandwich special, carefully slotting it into the counter.

While she was happy to help in the café, it was music that gave her the most joy; it was music that served as a balm to the raw places in her heart. She had given herself over to it with her whole self. She was taking voice lessons twice a week; she resumed studying piano. She even attended an actors' workshop to sharpen her performance skills. It was only when she was singing and practicing music that she could completely turn the page on the script that ran through her mind.

In truth, she owed much to Philippe, her voice coach. Over the course of the months that she'd been working with him, he'd become a major influence in her life. Her father said, "fifty percent of your sentences begin with 'Philippe says …'" And it was true. Philippe was more than a voice coach; he was her life coach.

When he decided his calling was to "train the next generation of singers," he had changed his name from Philip to Philippe, because "people love the exotic," he told her. He was an old soul, but he was, in point of fact, only a thirty-something, figuring out how to capitalize on his music degree, now that his own dreams of stardom were diminishing. He told her all of this over coffee at their "interview" before he agreed to take her on as a student. He had his own vibe—funky and hip, but clearly cultivated to be so. And Astrid allowed his vibe to wash over her and carry her along at a time when she desperately needed something to ground her.

All pretentions aside, Philippe turned out to be a wonderful coach. "You can't just sing what you like, Astrid," he told her early on in her lessons. "You'll never grow artistically if you do." He'd select the songs and they'd work on them together—Philippe on piano, Astrid singing. The Beatles songbook, Gershwin, jazz standards, classic rock ballads … he made her try them all. "The key is not to try to sound like someone else," he told her. "Let's face it, you'll never be Lady Day. The thing is, to make it your own … to pour yourself into the music … to infuse the music with your heart and soul." It was these kinds of grandiose pronouncements that endeared him to Astrid.

Philippe felt that Astrid gravitated naturally to songs of great poignancy and sadness, and pushed her to balance things out with a few up-tempo numbers. After a few months of working together, Astrid had a few songs in her repertoire that Philippe declared to be "better than acceptable, almost good." She took it in stride, because she knew it was his way of challenging her to be better.

About this time, Philippe had encouraged her to take the next step. He had introduced her to Elle, an aspiring guitarist, and suggested they team up and do some open mic nights. "Nothing elaborate, just two or three songs," he told her. At first, Astrid had been reticent about it. She was used to piano accompaniment, and it was most appropriate for so many of the songs she knew. But Philippe had pushed back, "you're not ready for Carnegie Hall yet, missy. And there are no baby grand pianos at open mic night. We'll find something that will work with guitar… you'll be fabulous! You'll see."

So with Elle accompanying her on guitar, Astrid had done a series of open mic nights, and looked forward to the one she had scheduled that night. Her parents were always there at first. A couple of times, she'd invited Stephen. He even showed up once, and brought Cara with him. And Philippe was in attendance when he had time, though he had "other rising stars to support too." Now, they approached it more professionally, and didn't pack the venue with friends and family. They just showed up and took it as it came. Sometimes good, other times not so much.

Her father allowed her to leave a small stack of postcards on the counter announcing the open mic night, at a club across town where she would be performing that evening. Across the corner of each one, she'd hand-written, "featuring Astrid Finch." Astrid nervously tidied them, before heading to the kitchen to retrieve the daily salad special. When she returned, she bent low on one knee and carefully slotted the tray into the glass case.

"Can I get some service please?"

She knew at once. Though her mind denied it, her body could not. It was like a jolt went through her. "John?" She stood up, and found her legs shaky.

"Lucky guess? Or have we met?"

It was him all right, but different … changed. He was clean-shaven, and his hair had been neatly cut and styled. She had never seen him in a suit before, but he wore one now—a sleek, dark gray number, with a blue shirt and coordinated gray tie. For an instant she thought how the blue shirt accented his eyes. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. The rest was superficial, but his eyes were blank and looked right through her.

"It's me, Astrid." She smiled, and felt her brow furrow of its own accord. Her face was expectant, and full of hope. But it was just as Stephen had warned her it would be if ever she should meet him—the John she knew was gone.

"Well, Astrid, I'd like a large coffee to go … please," he added.

She wanted to touch him, to caress his cheek … she wanted to make him remember her, in whatever way she could. Instead, she went to pour the coffee, grateful for a moment away from those eyes, to gather herself. She willed the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes to stay put. She mechanically filled a large paper cup, covered it with a lid, and slipped a corrugated cardboard holder around it.

How many times had she imagined this very scenario? And now here he was, and her composure failed her. She had imagined running from behind the counter, drawing him into a passionate kiss. And when at last he opened his eyes, he would say, "Astrid." But he would say it with conviction and with full knowledge of who she was, with full memory of what they shared. But that was a romantic fantasy, and their lives were anything but. So instead, she put the coffee on the counter in front of him, and started in a tremulous voice, "John?"

He put a five-dollar bill on the counter in front of her. She eyed it for a moment. Then took it up and turned to the cash register. When she turned back with his change, he was gone. "Coward," she said aloud, throwing his change into the tip jar with emphasis.

She felt haunted for the rest of the day—both by memories of John, and by her own inaction. She was totally off her game. She got orders wrong, spilled drinks, and could only imagine how far off the till would be at the end of the day. When things settled down, she got Tony, their chef, to cover the counter while she took a break. She went to the small room at the back of the café that served as storage, and break room, all rolled into one. She sat on a low bench, buried her face in her hands, and cried.

When she had spent the tears and frustration, she took out her phone and called Philippe.

"I can't perform tonight," she said holding back a fresh torrent of tears.

"Astrid, honey, are you sick?" his asked, concerned.

"No," she responded. "It's just the day I've had …" she sniffed back tears. "I can't," her voice was plaintive, pitiful.

"Tell me."

She sighed, and began, "There's this guy …"

"A guy? Really?"

"Not a guy, the guy. Only I never had the chance to tell him … well, it's complicated."

"It always is," he said flatly. He sighed deeply. "Meanwhile," he said, "you're on the list for tonight. You need to be there."

"Philippe, it's open mic, not exactly a command performance for the president."

"Astrid, you're training to be a professional singer—a professional singer. You can't just be a no-show because you've had a bad day, or because you ran into some guy who broke your heart …"

"It wasn't like that," she started.

He cut her off, "Well however it was is irrelevant. You said you'd be there. And what about Elle? She's counting on you too."

Ugh, she hated it but she knew he was right, "I'll be there." She resigned herself to doing the right thing.

At the end of the day, Astrid closed the café, and went home to shower, change her clothes, and put on stage-appropriate make-up. She unbraided her hair and shook loose her curls. She pulled outfit after outfit out of her closet, then rejected one after another. Until at last, she decided to dress to her mood, and went with a classic black dress, with high-heeled black boots. She broke up the black with a sparkly necklace of jewel-tone beads that she borrowed from her mother's jewelry collection. On the way out the door, she grabbed her jean jacket and bright red bag that held her essentials. Then she headed back to the subway to meet Elle at the club.

In spite of the day she'd had Astrid found herself looking forward both to seeing the other acts, and to performing herself. She arrived early enough to check in with the manager, find out when she and Elle were scheduled to perform, and then get a table near the stage. The place was a club/café/dinner theater depending on the day or week or month, or so it seemed to Astrid. It was a constantly changing venue, but it was the kind of funky place that hosted open mic nights, and the folks who ran it were generous and genuinely nice. They loved supporting up and coming performers of all varieties.

A short time later, Elle joined her after stashing her guitar on a corner of the stage. Together they watched the two acts that preceded them. The first was a duo that was channeling their inner Black Keys. They performed two covers and two original works. And even though they struck Astrid as a bit derivative, she admired them for putting themselves and their music out there. A spoken-word performer followed them. She was tiny, but took command of the stage. Astrid thought her final piece—a manifesto about women's empowerment—went on a little too long, but she joined others in giving her sincere applause.

Then, it was their turn. No matter how many times she performed, Astrid always felt a wave of nerves before she took the stage. When she told Philippe, he responded in typical Philippe fashion, "Nerves are good, nerves are healthy, nerves are normal, but when it's time to sing, you let your voice vanquish your nerves." She intended to do just that—and not just her nerves—she intended to let her voice exorcise the sadness that haunted her that day.

While Elle took out her guitar, adjusted the strap, and tuned up, Astrid went through the mental exercises Philippe had taught her. In her childhood fantasy of being a singer, Astrid always imagined herself in a concert hall, with full command of the audience, everyone paying rapt attention. But reality was totally different. In reality, you started at venues like this where some people were there for the music, some to have a drink and hang out, and some who happened in without even knowing there'd be live music. Bottom line was the room was abuzz—people arriving, finding tables, people milling by the bar. The wait staff tried to fill orders between acts, but they too were moving around during the acts. It was completely different from her fantasy, but the reality of learning her craft was satisfying too. She had to learn to ignore the distractions and get into the music.

When Elle signaled she was ready, the manager hopped up on the stage and succinctly introduced them, "Ladies and gentlemen, Astrid Finch, with Elle Flannery on guitar."

They had planned four songs, bookended by Beatles classics. As the crowd settled, she launched into In my life, and soon found performance gear. Next she sang one of Philippe's personal favorites, Up on the roof. It had been covered countless times, but she found that Philippe was right when he said it was simple and just connected with audiences. After the more "serious" acts, Astrid and Elle had agreed their goal that evening was just to engage the audience, to entertain them, and to have some fun doing it … something Astrid desperately needed.

Next she took hold of the rock ballad I'll stand by you, really trying to follow Philippe's advice and make it her own. At the end of the song, the crowd responded. She looked out into the crowd, thanking them, scanning the faces as Philippe had taught her to do … and that was when she saw him. He was at a corner table at the far end of the room. Her chest tightened. She turned away from the audience to collect herself and settle this new set of nerves. Professional. Philippe's voice rang in her ears. More than that, she thought of her misgivings about not trying harder to reach him that morning. She'd been given a second chance, a chance to rewrite what happened. And this time she would dig deeper. She walked over to Elle and whispered, "I know we planned something else, but do you mind if we switch it up and I sing something a cappella?" If she was put out, Elle didn't show it. She just nodded and went to stand at the side of the stage.

Astrid turned back to face the audience. And as the crowd settled again, she took the mic in her hand, closed her eyes, and began …

I, I will be queen,

And you, you will be king …