Our Kevin clapped me on the shoulder as I went one way and he went the other. I came around the back of the stage to the stairs that led up to the backstage kitchenette, and stopped short.
Ziggy was sitting on the steps, his hands hanging between his knees and his lower lip hidden in his teeth. He blinked heavily-lined eyes at me and stared. I stared back. Bart and Chris, who had been behind me at some point, were as disappeared as mafia informers.
“Hey,” he finally said.
“Hey.” My hands migrated to my pockets and I rocked on my heels slightly as they dug in. I didn’t have anything to say about last night and I fished for something else. “You’re late.”
He thinned his lips and nodded contritely, eyes down. “I fucked up.” There was, as usual, no way to tell whether he referred to what was spoken or what was un-.
And I was getting good at that game. “Nobody’s perfect,” I said as I climbed past him and left him on the stairs.