On Sunday, Antonio was frankly surprised when Stephanie invited him and Frank to join her at Lorenzo's place. He would have expected the two of them to want to spend the rest of the weekend together, but apparently they had discovered an obscure reality show on Netflix that was so good that it called for another takeout day on Lorenzo's couch. That was how he found himself sprawled across his friends with one leg draped over Lorenzo's and his head in Frank's lap, nearly choking on his pizza whenever Stephanie crowed about which of the employees on Fish Tank Kings must be screwing each other.

The thought that this might be their last weekend together was hard to bat away. Stephanie would be at Lorenzo's all the time, surely. And if the two of them had wanted the Salieri boys' company today, that wouldn't change once Stephanie was only in town on the weekends... would it? He really didn't want to go back to those long, lonely weekends he used to spend stretched out on his empty bed watching television and eating Kraft mac and cheese straight out of the pot. Of course, he would still have Frank, and he and Lorenzo had been friends since they were kids. It was Stephanie who had galvanized them into a group, though. She was always blowing up the group chat with plans and gossip. How much was going to change once she was based in Philadelphia? Who would find weird shows like Fish Tank Kings and bring the group together to marathon them?

On the screen, Francis the Fish Geek was staring nervously at some rich woman who was complaining about having to change the filter on her tank even though she only had a betta. "Enzo," Antonio asked, tapping his foot against Lorenzo's, "you had a fish tank in high school, didn't you?"

"Sure did."

Stephanie shifted at his other side. "Really?"

"I wanted a dog but Dad said there were already too many dirty feet running around on his floors, so I wound up with the goldfish instead. No feet."

"You loved that goldfish," Antonio said. "What was its name again?"

"Do you mean Nancy Drew or Nancette Drew? They each died after like a year."

"So paternal," Antonio teased.

"You named your fish after Nancy Drew?"

"Wait, Francis the Fish Geek said goldfish are supposed to live like twenty years," Frank pointed out, combing his fingers absentmindedly through Antonio's hair.

"Maybe not when the person responsible for keeping them alive is a high schooler who's still obsessed with Nancy Drew," said Antonio.

Lorenzo unwound one arm from Stephanie's waist and swatted at Antonio. "You always try to embarrass me in front of Steph. I don't know why I hang out with you."

Antonio balled up his napkin and lobbed it at him. "Because you'd be lost without me."

"True," Lorenzo ceded.

Frank held up the remote. "Want me to pause the episode so you two can finish flirting?"

"If you do, you and I won't have anything to watch but them," Stephanie pointed out. "Maybe just put on the subtitles so we'll know what's going on if they start making out."

"I'm not flirting," Antonio grumbled, lifting his foot off Lorenzo's. The last thing he needed was for things to get awkward between him and his best friend again. The incident at the food cart hadn't crossed his mind in months.

"I'm not threatened, don't worry," joked Stephanie, reaching across Lorenzo to pat Antonio's arm. "You know, I did have someone ask me if you two were a couple, though."

Antonio sat up so quickly that his forehead narrowly missed cracking into Frank's chin. "What?"

"Yeah, at rehearsal last week. I don't remember what brought it up."

On one side of the couch, Lorenzo was shaking his head and pretending to be offended while Stephanie giggled at him. On the other, Frank was fiddling with the remote, switching the language back and forth on Fish Tank Kings. Antonio sat motionless between them, his thoughts racing.

It had to have been Mozart. It was the same question, a week earlier than he had asked Antonio himself. Friday night, Antonio could have brushed it off as a random question that had struck the singer and he had needed to have answered right there, but this? He had asked Stephanie a week ago, and, unsatisfied with her response, had come to Antonio with it at the bar. In fact, he had waited until Frank was in the bathroom before he approached him at all. But what would have even given him the idea?

Constance. It had to have something to do with Constance. She was the only person Antonio had ever told about what had happened between him and Lorenzo last year. And now that Constance was with Mozart, she was the obvious link between Mozart and Antonio's personal life. But what did it matter? The incident at the food cart had been ages ago! What if he wasn't asking on behalf of Constance, though? What if Mozart had some kind of weird kink and images of Antonio and Lorenzo together were- were arousing to him? Or maybe it was professional curiosity. Maybe he wasn't sure about working with Lorenzo after Stephanie left if he thought Lorenzo and Antonio were together. Maybe he just didn't want their paths to cross any more than they had to.

That wouldn't explain him winking at Antonio Friday night, though. That wouldn't explain him casually approaching him and asking if he was dating the guy who had spent the whole evening making out with Stephanie in front of everybody.

Stephanie's voice cut through his thoughts: "Frank, put it back in English! Jose was definitely hitting on Francis. Back up!"

Antonio startled back to the present, clearing his throat and collecting the balled-up napkin he had thrown at Lorenzo. He went ahead and took everyone's empty plates into the kitchen while he was at it. He tried to direct all his focus on the sink, on the sponge, on the dish soap, but it was almost like he could feel Wolfgang Mozart's glitter-lined eyes on him right there in Lorenzo's apartment. Maybe this was what it felt like to go crazy.

Once the dishes were in the drying rack, he returned to the living room to find that his friends had paused Netflix and were chatting about Stephanie's role in the Philadelphia office. Antonio resumed his seat in the middle of the couch, relieved at the change in topic. He picked a few stray cat hairs off his sweater as he listened to Stephanie describing her new job. Considering how many dark colors Antonio wore, it would have made a lot more sense to have a black cat than a gold one. He hadn't had much choice in the matter, he reflected.

"You hearing this, kid?" Frank asked suddenly.

Antonio straightened up, wide-eyed. "Some of it. What?"

"They knocked her up an entire tax bracket with that raise, gave her a corner office in Philadelphia, and then she basically sits there twiddling her thumbs all day."

"Catching Pokémon," said Stephanie. "Texting Lorenzo. I do get to set up meetings with all the suckers who are doing my old job, though. Then I sit there and look critical while they present their current projects to me. It's a blast."

"What's real estate like in Philadelphia?" Antonio asked. "It's got to be better than it is here."

"She's got a huge place!" Lorenzo enthused. "She's renting, obviously, but it's two stories with street access! The building even has a parking garage in case she wants to buy a car."

"I'd have to get my license first."

"I hope we can see it sometime! It sounds amazing," said Frank.

A significant look passed between Lorenzo and Stephanie. Something about the sudden silence made Antonio clench his jaw, waiting. When Lorenzo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and then shook his head at Stephanie, his stomach dropped. "What is it?"

"I asked Lorenzo to move in with me," Stephanie announced.

The words settled over Antonio like a chill.

"Not until after the Kia stuff is wrapped!" Lorenzo said quickly. "We don't want to pass Frank and his band off to another manager right after they lose Steph."

Antonio looked around the little Queens apartment where he had passed so many weekends, not only during these recent months but before he had found Frank, before Lorenzo had started dating Stephanie. "You're taking him with you?"

"Hey, we'll all see each other on the weekends! We can alternate cities, or we can hang out at your place or Frank's. We'll be here all the time!"

"That's great!" Frank was saying. "I mean, we'll miss you at lunch, obviously, but..." he trailed off. "Antonio, are you okay? It won't be that different."

"Sure," hissed Antonio, "yeah, great!" He sprang to his feet, the flush of indignation rising in his chest. "Sure, because fuck me, right? Fuck the job I got you, fuck all your friends and your family and everyone back in Jersey!"

"Antonio-"

"I'll go. You probably need to pack." Antonio grabbed his coat and scarf, jammed his feet into his shoes, and stormed out of the apartment.

He was in the lobby before Frank caught up to him, and then literally caught him in his arms when Antonio refused to stop. He tried to twist free, but Frank wouldn't let go of his shoulders. "Antonio! Dude, come on!" his brother was saying, holding him firmly in place.

"Get off," snarled Antonio. "What, they sent you to calm me down, did they? They're up there rolling their eyes right now. Well, let them! They don't care! Let me go!"

"Just stand still!" Frank shouted.

Antonio froze; he had never heard his brother raise his voice before. Frank's dimple disappeared and reappeared as he ground his teeth, slowing his breathing to normal. His grip on Antonio's shoulders was starting to hurt. "Frank-?"

"Just shut up."

Antonio's heart sank. This was it. Stephanie was going to take Lorenzo to the Philadelphia office and Frank was finally going to tell Antonio that he was a handful, that he was too much work, that he wasn't worth all this. Then it was back to his empty apartment, back to the hollow, prerecorded laughter of studio audiences and his sputtering radiator all weekend. Back to lunches purchased at the food cart and eaten alone at his desk. That was probably more suited to someone like Antonio, anyway. It was really a credit to Frank that he had been able to go this long before he lost his temper with him.

"Dammit," Frank muttered, releasing Antonio's arms at last. He raked both hands through his hair, exhaling in a long, slow hiss.

Antonio fiddled with one of the buttons on his coat. "I'll go. I'm sorry."

"Would you just stand still for a minute? Can't you stick around and talk to us instead of stomping out in a huff for once in your life?" snapped Frank.

Antonio swallowed, his throat closing as tears rose in his eyes. He stayed where he was, his gaze fastened on his brother.

After a long moment, Frank finally turned back to Antonio, cupping the back of his neck with one hand. "Do you have any idea how much it kills me when you do this?"

"What?"

"Dammit, Antonio," he sighed, shaking him by the shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm not-"

"Don't! I don't want to hear it."

Antonio waited, hardly daring to breathe even though his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. Frank's gaze was on the floor again; after a moment he realized he was blinking back tears of his own. Was he trying to figure out how to tell Antonio that he had had enough? He was probably remembering how easy and drama-free his life had been before he was constantly having to clean up his little brother's messes.

Frank lifted his head at last, brow furrowed. Antonio braced himself for whatever he was about to hear.

"You don't trust us, Antonio. You push us away over and over again."

"Lorenzo's the one who-"

"Shh! Antonio, it's not Lorenzo. This is my fault," Frank said.

Frank's fault? Antonio stopped fidgeting with his buttons. "What? What are you talking about?"

"If I had found you sooner. If I hadn't let them split us up."

"No," Antonio said, covering Frank's hand with his own. "Come on, you were just a kid. We were kids."

"So let me be your family now," Frank said firmly. "Trust me to be your brother. Trust Stephanie and Lorenzo to love you, too. When I tell you that you mean everything to me, I need you to believe it."

Antonio peeled Frank's hand away from his neck and clasped it in both of his. He couldn't find his voice to respond.

"Lorenzo and Stephanie love you," Frank repeated. "And anyway, Lorenzo just said he's staying here until the commercial wraps. The four of us will have plenty of time to figure out how to adjust to their new situation."

"Antonio? Are you okay?"

He started, discovering to his chagrin that Lorenzo was standing on the landing. How much had he heard?

Frank squeezed his hand. "Come finish Fish Tank Kings, at least. The group isn't right without you."

Antonio heaved a long sigh, nodded, and allowed Frank to drag him back upstairs by one hand. The only thing more uncomfortable than spending the weekend alone with his television was apologizing to his friends for being a jackass. On the other hand, it was something he was getting used to by now.

The office seemed strange throughout the course of the following week, and Antonio couldn't help but feel that it was because Stephanie was finally working out of Philly. Even Joe seemed subdued as he wandered between the kitchen and the customer service department with his coffee in one hand and his Blackberry in the other, scrolling through emails with his thumb and instead of chatting with the new hires. Lorenzo kept drifting into Antonio's office at random points in the day, perching quietly on the spare chair while he messed with his phone, then wandering out several minutes later. On Wednesday, he nervously admitted to Antonio that he had forgotten to check Pokémon Go all day and had broken both his Pokéstop and catch streaks, which would put his seven-day bonuses out of sync with Stephanie's. On Thursday he told him that he had started leaving the television on all night to mask the silence of being alone in his apartment. Antonio resisted the urge to invite him over, remembering what had happened the last time Lorenzo had spent the night at his place.

For the first time in a long time, Antonio found himself navigating to the depths of his My Documents folder and looking through the pictures he had saved of him and Constance. Maybe it was the grim silence that had fallen over the office without Stephanie, or maybe it was the lost look in Lorenzo's eyes that he recognized so deeply; either way, he could feel her absence again like a constant twinge.

During lunch on Monday, it had taken only a few minutes of strained conversation and awkward looks in his direction for Antonio to lift the ban on discussing Mozart or the commercial in his presence. Since then, he sat in near-silence for an hour each day while Lorenzo and Frank hashed out the details of the commercial they were working on, finishing his food before his friends had even begun eating and fiddling around with his phone until it was time to go back to the office. If this was what had happened to their group without Stephanie, what would it be like when the commercial was finished and it was just the Salieri boys at lunch each day?

To be fair, he had been gloomy himself ever since Stephanie and Lorenzo had announced that they were moving in together. He wasn't jealous, not exactly - or maybe he was, a little bit. Maybe it had been hard to realize that he wasn't the most important force in his best friend's life. If Lorenzo was willing to leave behind his job, his apartment, and his friends to move to another state just to be near Stephanie, it felt like Antonio wasn't even a factor. He didn't matter at all.

But what would it have taken to change Lorenzo's mind and keep him here? Could it be done without compromising his relationship with Stephanie? Antonio began to listen more and more to Frank and Lorenzo's conversations about the progress of the commercial. Just as it had been with Stephanie, the main stumbling block to their success seemed to be Wolfgang Mozart. He was flighty and moody, showing up late most days with his attention trained on his phone, or arriving with a guitar case strapped to his back and sitting in an empty office composing while the rest of the team waited in the studio. He never seemed fully awake before the afternoon. If anything was going to drag out the remainder of this commercial shoot and keep Lorenzo nearby, it was Mozart.

To everyone's delight but Rosenberg in accounting, on Friday Kia sent word that they wanted a second commercial with the Divine Libertines for their new minivan, the Figaro. When Lorenzo dropped by Antonio's office to let him know, Antonio attributed his stifled grin to the name of the car. He waited until Lorenzo had left before he dropped into his chair and let it spread into a full-blown smirk. A second commercial? Lorenzo would be in New York a lot longer than he had thought.

Since it was a Friday, Lorenzo left at three to catch an early train to Philadelphia for the weekend, and at five Antonio found himself making his way to the PATH train alone. This was the first time in months that he was facing a weekend with no plans. He was toying with the idea of getting a leash for Catstance and taking her to a park just to have a reason to leave the apartment when a limousine pulled up alongside him in the empty alleyway.

Antonio tightened his grip on his briefcase and veered further away from the road. Did human traffickers drive limousines? It seemed unlikely given how easily recognizable such a car would be, but it would also be a good vehicle to pack full of kidnapped victims.

The back window rolled down, and a familiar voice cut through the icy evening: "Buonasera, Signor Salieri!"

Antonio froze where he stood, nearly losing his grip on his briefcase.

Wolfgang Mozart was hanging out the back window of the limousine, grinning widely at him. Calling his name in that fake Italian accent. Mocking him.

There was no one else in the narrow street, not that Antonio thought he was calling someone else "Signor Salieri" anyway. He pressed his lips into a firm line and faced the singer, unsure how he was meant to respond.

To his utter bafflement, Mozart reached down and opened the back door of the limousine, gesturing for Antonio to get in.

He didn't move. Was the lead singer of the Divine Libertines about to kidnap him? Was this some sort of revenge for Antonio's behavior at their rehearsal the other week?

"Come on, get in!" Mozart said, gesturing again. He pushed the door open wider.

Antonio took a step back, shaking his head. "What do you want?" he finally asked.

"I need your help. It's about Constance."

"Constance?" Antonio repeated. Had she put him up to all this? Maybe it was some kind of prank.

Mozart scooted to the far side of the limo, patting the empty space next to him. "Come on! We're going to go tell her what really happened."

Despite himself, Antonio edged toward the curb. "What do you mean, 'what really happened'?"

"Just get in!"

Maybe the situation had overwhelmed his better judgement, or maybe he recognized earnestness in Mozart's expression. Either way, Antonio cast another glance around the empty alley and, heaving a final sigh, climbed into Wolfgang Mozart's limousine. He hadn't made any plans for the weekend anyway. Might as well get kidnapped by a rock star.

The dark, padded interior of the limo felt like a hearse. He and Mozart were on a bench seat at the back end of the car, facing a long L-shaped seat that ran up one side and curved behind the partition that separated them from the driver. Opposite the long seat was a minibar stocked with empty glasses and a tiny television screen. Every time the car hit a bump, the glasses clinked together ominously. Was this the same car they had taken from Madison Square Garden the night Antonio had found Frank? The night Constance had left him for Mozart? Did all limos look the same, or did Mozart own a personal limo that his driver had to park somewhere every night?

The moment they pulled out into traffic, Mozart scooted closer to him and clapped his hands onto Antonio's shoulders, forcing him to face him. He studied Antonio in the dim light of the limousine, searching his face like he was trying to memorize it. Antonio sat rigidly, wondering what on earth he had just gotten himself into.

There was something uncanny about seeing Mozart offstage. He didn't seem to be wearing any makeup, revealing just a normal guy with the same features and mannerisms as a glam rock star. He even had a significant amount of stubble covering his chin. If he hadn't been the lead singer of the Divine Libertines, if it wasn't for his tousled hair and the limo, he could have just been someone selling popcorn at a movie theater or picking up a kid from school.

Antonio suddenly realized that he had been staring at Mozart as intently as Mozart was staring at him. He started to pull away, but Mozart released his shoulders and clapped his hands on either side of Antonio's face, holding him still. "You do look like Frank," he observed, tilting Antonio's head down. "But you're a little cuter." He grinned, letting one thumb trace the line of Antonio's lower lip. "Yeah, I see why Constance likes you."

At that, Antonio ripped himself free of Mozart's grip and slid back on the bench seat until his back was flush against the door. He hadn't expected Mozart to touch his mouth like that, and he certainly hadn't expected it to feel so sensual. He pulled his briefcase into his lap, a barrier between the two of them and a shield to prevent Mozart from noticing that- well, that it had been a long time. He'd never even gotten around to having sex with Constance before she left him for Mozart, and the last time before that had been the ill-advised weekend with Lorenzo.

"A little uptight, though!" Mozart observed, grinning again. He moved back as well, holding up both hands in a mock gesture of peace. "That explains a lot."

"Why are you stalking me?" blurted Antonio. His pulse was pounding in his ears as the blood flow in his body slowly returned to normal. He could still feel the warmth of Mozart's thumb on his lip.

"Stalking you? I'm not, am I?"

"Why do you care whether or not I dated Lorenzo? And how did you know I'd be taking that shortcut?"

"Look," Mozart said, holding up his hands again, "Tony? Antonio? Which is it?"

"Antonio," he gritted.

That earned another one of his airy grins. "Antonio," Mozart repeated. He put on that fake Italian accent again, "Antonio Salieri!"

Antonio rolled his eyes. For a moment, he considered putting on a German accent and making fun of the name 'Wolfgang', but he wasn't terribly good at accents and definitely didn't want to encourage him.

"Why did your parents name you Antonio when your brother's just Frank?"

"His name's Francesco," Antonio said, crossing his arms and bracing himself for more jokes.

"Francesco Salieri? Oh my god!" giggled Mozart. "Francesco and Antonio!"

"Yes, it's hilarious. Want to tell me how you knew where to find me if you're not stalking me?"

Mozart shrugged. "I followed you. I was waiting for your 'amico' Lorenzo, but he didn't come out of the building. You did, and I thought it would be a good time to straighten things out with Constance."

"Straighten what out with Constance? And why do you keep asking people if I'm dating Lorenzo?"

Mozart slid his phone out of his pocket and began scrolling up through a text conversation. After a moment, he turned the phone around and held it an inch away from Antonio's nose.

He squinted, taking the phone from Mozart and holding it at a reasonable distance. It was a screenshot of a facebook post, a picture Stephanie must have posted of the group during that first weekend on Lorenzo's couch. Frank was sitting in his regular spot on the left, remote in hand, just like he had been last weekend. Lorenzo was on the other side of the couch, smiling that lazy smile of his, and Antonio was right in the middle. Well, he wasn't precisely in the middle: he was leaning on Lorenzo pretty heavily with a somewhat dopey grin on his face. Lorenzo, meanwhile, had his cheek pressed against the top of Antonio's head and his arm around his shoulders. Since Stephanie had taken the picture, she was nowhere to be seen. "Oh," Antonio muttered. If anyone didn't know them, it would definitely look like they were a couple. He started to pass the phone back to Mozart, but a thought struck him: "Why were you stalking Stephanie's facebook page before she even started work on the commercial?"

"I wasn't," Mozart said, sliding his phone out of Antonio's grip. "But you'd ditched your girlfriend without a word two days before this picture was posted and deleted your own page. So sue her for trying to figure out what had happened to you."

Understanding sunk into the pit of Antonio's stomach like a chill. "Constance thought I left her for Lorenzo," he murmured. "She thought I was the one who left her."

"But you didn't!" Mozart exclaimed, throwing out his arms dramatically. His voice was far louder than Antonio would have expected; the words had practically come out as a shout.

He shot a glance toward the partition at the front of the limo, wondering if Mozart's driver could hear all of this. They had probably borne witness to much stranger conversations.

"That's why we're going to tell her the truth."

"You're- you're taking me to see Constance? Now?" Antonio asked. He cast a nervous glance around the car, half-searching for a mirror and half-wondering if he could survive opening one of the doors and barrel-rolling out into traffic. Why hadn't he taken Stephanie up on her offer to trim his hair on Sunday? How long had it been since he had last run a lint-roller over these trousers? Hadn't he gained weight since the last time he saw Constance? Would she be able to tell?

Mozart was studying him again, an inappropriately fond look dancing in his eyes. It made him feel self-conscious, suddenly, and a little irritated.

"Well why the hell do you want Constance to forgive me, anyway?" he snapped. "If you're dating her now, isn't it better for you that I stay out of the picture?"

That patronizing affection melted into an expression of honest confusion. Mozart shook his head, staring at Antonio like he had just suggested they drive the limo through a playground full of children. "Because she's unhappy," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And if getting you back is what's best for her, then I'm going to make it happen."

Great. Now Wolfgang Mozart thought he was a jackass too. Antonio turned away, pretending to be fascinated by something on the other side of the tinted window. They were in midtown, only a couple of blocks from the Webers' karaoke bar. It felt like he hadn't been here in years, yet he was assailed by fresh memories of the evening he had rushed here after work, worried that he would look too Wall Street for the Divine Libertines concert that night. If only he had known that no amount of eyeliner would have kept Constance's attention when Wolfgang Mozart was prancing around the stage flirting with her.

Except, he reminded himself, from Constance's perspective, it was Antonio who had walked out on her that night. They had planned for a three-day weekend, just the two of them and an enormous box of condoms, and Antonio had left her at the karaoke bar without even wishing her a good night. He looked guiltily down at his briefcase, which her mother had later discovered on her bed. For all this time, Antonio had told himself that if Constance wanted to reach out to him despite her mother's warnings, she could have done so. Yet it had never occurred to him that he could have done the same. He had never doubted for a moment that without him, Constance was finally free to move on to someone better suited to her. Her relationship with Mozart had seemed inevitable.

The course of his thoughts must have been apparent, for suddenly Mozart moved his briefcase onto the floor and scooted closer to Antonio - a little too close, as per usual. He put a hand on his thigh in a gesture that he might have intended as reassuring, and may have even been so if his hand had been resting just few inches nearer to Antonio's knee. He rolled his eyes heavenward, willing himself to think of something appalling. Constance's mother, maybe, or Rosenberg from accounting. Constance's mother with Rosenberg from accounting? That German-themed bar where the servers wore dusty plastic flower crowns while they were refilling drinks.

It was no use. He huffed and pushed Mozart's hand away, quickly crossing his legs. For someone who hadn't even shaved that morning, Mozart sure was wearing a lot of cologne. Antonio wished the smell was cheap or cloying, but it was actually unusual and rather nice. Of course it was. "Would you get off me?" Antonio snapped.

"You're mad, I get it," said Mozart, sliding away at last. "Don't worry. You can wait here until you're ready. I'll tell her what's going on and we'll get the whole thing straightened out." With that, Mozart picked up his phone and tapped a contact saved to his speed dial.

Antonio looked out the window again, glowering at the dusky city. Even if Mozart managed to convince Constance that Antonio hadn't left her for Lorenzo, he wasn't going to break up with her for Antonio's sake. This was all a weak attempt at getting her some closure so the two of them could be even happier together. His memories of the two of them making out in the hallway by the elevators resurfaced in his thoughts. The way Mozart had been grinding his hips against her, and the breathy gasp from Constance...

No, no, that was making things worse. What the hell was wrong with him?

He saw Constance waiting in front of the karaoke bar when the limousine turned onto the street. Her mass of golden hair reflected the harsh neon sign of the bar, casting an ethereal glow over her figure. Did Mozart even notice? Antonio sneaked a glance at the singer, who was sitting up on his knees in the seat and pressing his forehead against the window like an excited dog, one hand already on the door handle. He looked over his shoulder at Antonio and said, "Whenever you're ready! Don't worry," before tumbling out into the street the moment the limo rolled to a stop at the curb. "Constance!" he called.

Antonio shrunk away from the open car door, his heart pounding in his ears. When he had gotten dressed this morning, he hadn't expected to be seeing Constance again that day. He hadn't ever expected to see her again. Was this really happening?

As soon as she spotted Mozart, Constance's face lit up. "Wolfi!" she chirped, darting across the sidewalk and throwing herself into his outstretched arms. Antonio's heart sank; he remembered when that heartwarming expression had been reserved for him.

Mozart caught her and spun her around once like a romantic lead in a cheesy movie. Antonio rolled his eyes, sliding further into the darkness of the limo. His back was pressed against the far door again; he wondered if the driver would care if he just slipped out of the car and ran away before Mozart had a chance to try to drag him out before Constance.

"Don't you owe me a kiss?" she asked coquettishly, looking up at him through her lashes. Inside the limo, Antonio balled his hand into a fist, the air leaving his lungs in a shudder. This must have been what Mozart wanted. All that nonsense about reconciling the two of them, when really he just wanted Antonio to be forced to watch him kissing the woman he loved in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Sure," Mozart had said, "but I wanted to tell you something. I brought you something- someone!"

Constance was leaning into his arms, her expression dreamy. "What is it?" she asked. "A surprise?"

"Don't be angry," said Mozart. He turned toward the limo, gesturing fervently for Antonio to come forward.

"Why would I be angry?" Constance followed Mozart's gaze, craning her neck to try to see into the limousine. "Who is it?"

When Antonio was a boy, he and the other kids at the home were loaded onto a bus and dropped off at the community pool once a month during the summer. He had usually lingered somewhere in the middle, treading water and waiting for their chaperone to round them all up again, but one day he had decided to try jumping off the diving board. Even now, twenty years later, he could vividly remember the feeling he had had as he stood on that wobbly white plank, the twinkling surface of the water far below him, and completely lost control over his legs. No matter how much the other kids chanted for him to jump, Antonio had been helpless to obey.

This was the same feeling all over again. Antonio sat motionless in the back seat of Mozart's limo, petrified. Even if he had wanted to slide over to the open door, he couldn't make himself move. He simply sat there, staring through the tinted window at his ex-girlfriend and the lead singer of his favorite band.

"Give him a second," he heard Mozart say. "He's as surprised to be here as you will be to see him."

"'He'? Who is it, Wolfi? Tell me what you're up to."

Mozart cast another glance at the limo. "Well, remember the weekend we found each other again? You were pretty upset."

"Thanks for reminding me," she said grimly, her bright expression clouding over. "Wait- Wolfi, you didn't talk to Antonio, did you?"

Within the limousine, Antonio felt nauseous. She had practically spat his name like a curse. Constance hated him, and it didn't matter that it was based on a misleading photo she'd seen on Stephanie's facebook page. If by some miracle she decided to forgive him tonight, if for some reason she left Wolfgang Mozart behind and launched herself back into Antonio's arms, how long would it be until she regretted it? Mozart was a little strange, but he obviously cared about her. And look at him! He was a rock star who rode around in a limo and was mobbed by adoring fans every time he went out in public. Meanwhile, Antonio was... he looked down at his trousers, wincing at all the cat hair. Antonio was a marketing manager from Jersey with a rented studio apartment and abandonment issues.

On the ceiling near the center of the seat was a little box that appeared to be an intercom: could he use that to ask the driver to take him home right away before this whole confrontation got worse? Just being here was distressing enough, but if he stood before Constance and she turned that same cold stare on him again, he wasn't sure how he'd survive it.

"Oh my god!" a familiar voice shrieked. "I caught you red-handed, you pervert!"

Antonio recoiled, his anxieties immediately replaced by fear: Constance's mother had just come storming out of the karaoke bar. This time, however, Antonio wasn't the focus of her rage. She descended on Mozart and Constance, wraithlike under the same lighting that made her daughter look so angelic.

"Mom- ma'am!" Mozart stammered, caught off-guard. He dropped his grip on Constance's waist and leaped backwards. "No, you don't understand, I-"

"What, you weren't going to try anything? You were just here to say hi?"

"Actually-" Mozart began, gesturing vaguely toward the limo where Antonio was still hiding.

"Oh, Constance!" her mother interrupted. "After everything Allie has been through, how can you be so stupid? I thought you'd learned your lesson with that last asshole, and now I find you right out front of our home with Wolfgang? Wolfgang, of all people? The last thing we need are more paparazzi following our family around, commenting on my promiscuous daughters! Thank God your father didn't live to see this!"

Until now Constance had been silent, rooted to the spot in apparent shock. At the mention of her late father, though, her eyes widened. "Mom, how dare you?"

"Go upstairs!" her mother demanded, pushing Constance toward the bar. "I'll deal with Wolfgang myself."

Constance spun out of her grip and stormed back over to Mozart's side, replying, "Never!"

"You're such a pain in the ass!" Mrs. Weber snarled. Then, to Antonio's horror, she raised a hand to slap Constance right there in front of the bar.

To his relief, Constance saw the blow coming and ducked. To his delight, Mozart did not.

There was a beat of silence after Mrs. Weber's open hand connected hard with Mozart's face. The three of them stared at each other, Mozart slowly covering his wounded cheek with his own hand. At the front of the limo, Mozart's driver finally opened his door and stepped out, ostensibly to provide some level of security to the star. Tall and thin with a shaggy haircut and eastern Asian ancestry, the driver was a lot less burly than Antonio would have expected from a bodyguard.

It was Mozart who finally broke the silence. "Uh- maybe it would be best if I just left," he muttered.

Constance's mother launched into action again, beckoning broadly until someone else emerged from inside the bar. A stout, sharply-dressed woman with features like a bulldog hurried across the sidewalk, blocking Mozart's access to the limousine. "Surely you aren't thinking of running, young man?"

"Running?" Mozart repeated. "No, of course not, but-"

"Because if you get this girl pregnant and disappear on her, my client is prepared to bring a lawsuit against you."

That surprised Mozart almost as much as it seemed to embarrass Constance. "A lawsuit? Who the hell are you?"

"Joanne von Thorwart," said the woman, producing a business card from her lapel and passing it to Mozart. "I'm the Webers' attorney."

Mrs. Weber threw an arm around the other woman. "And thank you for being here, Joanne!"

Mozart was looking back and forth between the two of them with as much confusion as Antonio had felt when he first got into his limo. "What's going on here?"

"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?" the attorney said, stepping forward.

Mozart just nodded, dumbfounded.

The attorney reached into her lapel and pulled out a bundle of papers. "You've been served," she intoned. "Here's your copy of the restraining order."

"A restraining order?" he echoed, staring blankly at the documents the woman was holding out to him and making no move to accept them.

"After today, if you come within a hundred feet of this establishment it will be considered a misdemeanor. You'll risk a minimum fine of $300 or jail time," the attorney went on.

"But- but you can't do this! I haven't done anything wrong! My father said-"

"Oh for heavens' sake, always going on about his father! That's his excuse for everything!" Mrs. Weber interrupted.

The attorney shook the bundle of papers at Mozart. "Is all of this clear?"

Mozart took a half-step back, casting a desperate stare around the street. His driver was leaning against the door of the limo, arms crossed over his chest. Antonio couldn't see his face from where he was sitting: was he nodding reassuringly at his employer or shooting threatening glares at Mrs. Weber? On the sidewalk, Constance was watching her mother with both hands clapped over her mouth, the tears in her eyes obvious even in the dim light. "What's clear," Mozart said weakly, "is that this was all a trap." He snatched the restraining order out of the attorney's hand. "Congratulations, Mrs. Weber. Now you've chased away two people who love your daughter."

"Wolfi!" Constance called, the word coming out as a sob.

Holding the restraining order against his chest, Mozart turned to face her, dropped into a solemn bow, and then trudged back over to the waiting limousine. He slammed the door a little harder than necessary, finally blocking out the chilly breeze.

Antonio eyed the door handle on his side again. If the Webers weren't standing just outside the car, he would have been tempted to slip out now so that Mozart could be alone with his thoughts.

The singer cast a look at Antonio, his expression unreadable, and shook his head in disbelief. He was still holding the restraining order over his heart.

"Are- uh, are you okay?"

Instead of answering, Mozart jabbed the intercom button on the ceiling between them. "Jean-Paul?" he barked.

From the front seat, the driver replied, "Where to, Wolfgang?"

Antonio cleared his throat, pulling his briefcase into the seat at his side again. "You can just drop me off at the PATH train."

"Nah, fuck that," Mozart said. "We need something to drink."

The limousine lurched forward, and Antonio resigned himself to his fate. Instead of spending Friday night at home with his cat, he was apparently being kidnapped by a heartbroken Wolfgang Mozart.