AFTER SCHOOL I WALK to The Night Owl. Most Fridays the girls come with me. Everything's on the house for us – the Night Owl, along with the restaurant upstairs, is owned and managed by my parents.

Ever since they met and fell in love at chef school in Seattle (pretty romantic I guess), they dreamed about starting a business together.

The only complication was that my dad wanted a haute cuisine restaurant and my mom wanted a cozy little coffeehouse.

So when my gran offered to put money down on a building, they decided on a compromise. Fine dining restaurant upstairs, coffeehouse downstairs.

When they first moved in eleven years ago, the building had been abandoned for ages. I was only five years old, so I don't remember much – but whenever I look at it now I can still see the blanket of moss and ivy growing all over the facade so thickly you could barely see the walls.

Today a small group of tourists in flannels and hiking gear are standing outside the shop peering in through the windows, probably trying to decide whether or not to go in.

From the looks of it they've just been for a long walk and want a bite on the way back.

I might as well pay my way and rustle up some business.

I walk up to them smiling, fighting back my shyness.

"You should go in," I tell them. "They have the best pecan nut pie in Portland."

A middle-aged woman with dark close-cropped hair turns to me and smiles.

"You think it's ok?" She asks. "We're gonna tramp mud all over the place. "

I look down at her muddy hiking boots. The rest of the group looks just as bedraggled.

"That's ok, there's a separate entrance for the courtyard," I tell them, pointing to a wrought iron gate around the side of the building. "I'll send someone out to take your order."

"You work here?" she asks as the group heads towards the courtyard.

"Not exactly," I answer.

Before walking through the door I stop on the step and look up at the sign above the doorway.

An old slab of wood hanging on iron chains. Two owls painted in bright green and brown sit side by side on a branch, their eyes huge and looped with crazy Celtic patterns. Swirling purple letters spell out "The Night Owl" against a dark blue backdrop, sprinkled with small golden stars. Even smaller letters in gold below say "Open 12 to 12". And below that, my gran's initials, so tiny you wouldn't notice them unless you looked really close.

The bell tinkles as I go through the door. Jade smiles at me from behind the counter.

"I'll be with you in a sec Ashling," he says as he switches on the coffee grinder.

I watch him take down two mugs shaped like owls hanging from hooks above the counter.

Jade's a trained barista and he makes a cup of coffee faster than anyone.

I can see what it is that Jamie likes about him. Besides being handsome in an unkempt, tortured artist kind of way (a vague resemblance to Kurt Cobain with sandy blonde hair tied behind his head and sharp features), he's also a genuinely nice guy.

He dropped out of art school before he got his barista qualification and started working for my parents, but he still paints in his free time.

Today there's a smudge of bright blue paint on his left shoulder, just below a tattoo of a lotus flower encircled by two brilliant orange Koi fish. Most other people would assume the streak of blue is part of the design but I've had plenty of practice staring at Jade's beautifully toned arms, and he's usually got paint smudged somewhere on his person.

I watch quietly as he adds the finishing touches onto a pair of foamy cappuccinos. The new waitress comes over to pick up the order, shooting me a sideways glance as she places the mugs on a tray.

She has a totally impractical hipster haircut – shaved at the back and on the sides, with a long wavy fringe – that requires her to tuck back her hair every few minutes. To be honest I don't know how long she's going to last.

She's pretty efficient and hasn't dropped an order or spilled coffee all over a customer (not yet, anyway), but she has a weird attitude.

Especially towards me.

I could be a real cow and say something to my parents about her, but I'm not just about to get someone fired just because they don't like me.

"Table four," Jade tells her.

For the first time since she started, I actually see her smile. It's really just the hint of a smile but it's there. A bit of color comes to her cheeks and she flutters her eyelashes as Jade places two honey and oat cookies on either side of the coffee mugs.

"A group just arrived in the courtyard," I tell her, smiling as warmly as I can. "I told them you'd go take their order."

The smile immediately slips from her face, and she casts down her eyes, nodding before walking away.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Ashling," he says. "Where are your friends? They're not gonna watch you play tonight?"

For the past year, every Friday at five I sit on the stage – a raised wooden platform at the back of the shop – with my guitar and play a set for the after-work crowd.

My playing at the Night Owl was actually Jade's idea. He thought we should have live music on Fridays to give the place some atmosphere.

Usually on Fridays after school, my friends and I will get a table near the back and spend the afternoon drinking chai lattes, sometimes getting some homework done (almost never) while Jamie flirts with Jade at the counter. They stick around for my performance, and then we go to my house and watch Netflix.

Not tonight though. Right about now they're probably getting ready for the concert. Doing their hair, putting on nail polish, probably under the disapproving gaze of Grace's mom.

"They're going to the Fable concert tonight," I say. "Anyway, how are things going here?"

"Same as usual. All the regulars," he says.

I scan the room.

"Where's Mrs. Leyton?"

"Oh, yeah," he smiles. "She came in early today. With a guy."

Mrs. Leyton is an elderly widow who comes into the shop every single day at three thirty for afternoon tea, and usually sticks around until five. She hasn't missed it in years, as far as I know.

We always see her sitting at her table by the window, her makeup and hair immaculate, a brilliantly colored scarf wrapped around her neck, with her order of Earl Grey Tea and the cake of the day. She sits all alone and writes.

I think she's writing her memoirs, but Jamie says it's saucy Mills and Boon porn. It's really odd for her to not be here at this time, and it’s even weirder for her to bring someone else to the coffee shop.

"Did you recognize him? I mean, the guy she was with?" I ask, suddenly curious about this mystery man.

"Never seen him before," Jade answers. "They were holding hands across the table and everything. It was actually pretty romantic."

There's an awkward silence as I try to think of something to say. For some reason talking about this sort of stuff with a guy makes me feel nervous.

The thing is, I've never actually had a boyfriend, let alone kissed a boy. It might have happened with Evan, if things hadn't gone the way they had. As it is, I have zero experience.

I feel like even just talking about love, dating, whatever, will give that away, so I avoid it. I wish I didn't always over-think everything.

"I guess I'll be taking the back room keys," I say, turning my face to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks.

One of the many problems with being as pale as I am – anytime I blush, the whole world knows it.

"Sure," Jade says, reaching under the counter and passing them to me. "See you at five."

*****

Upstairs it's chaos as usual. Biblio only officially opens at six for dinner, but the preparations start in the early afternoon. There's inventory to take, plates to wash, stock to prepare, gelato to freeze.

Every time I walk into Biblio's entrance I love to imagine the first impression diners get of it.

It's massive – a double vaulted ceiling with chandeliers illuminating tapestries and old paintings. Oak bookshelves crowded with books bought in second hand stores line most of the walls.

The cleaner is changing the roses and candles on each table, while a waiter stacks menus on the bookshelf at the entrance. The menus are inside old book covers to keep with the library theme.

I consider going into the kitchen to say hi to mom and dad, but I know they have their hands full.

So I spend the rest of the afternoon in the back room working on my school assignments.

Even though I have a couple of solid hours uninterrupted, I still only manage to finish half what I'd hoped to get done. That's probably because every few minutes I look out the window, watching birds in the mulberry tree fighting over the fat purple fruit.

Beyond the mulberry tree, Forest Park stretches out, filled with oaks and maples lush with new summer foliage. And beyond that, the snow-capped peak of Mt Hood. I reckon it might be one of the most beautiful views in Portland.

And it's totally wasted in a restaurant back room used for storing paperwork.

I work this way until the room is infused with buttery late afternoon sunlight.

At five I pick up my guitar and head downstairs.

The shop's started to fill up.

During the week The Night Owl goes full hipster. Ironic facial hair and sailor tattoos every way you look, and loud conversations about Nietzsche and almond milk versus oat milk. I guess they like all the owls and the twelve to twelve thing – we stand out from the crowd because we're open strictly midday to midnight.

Tonight though it's a bit quieter. Men in identical grey business suits take up one table near the stage, passing around a phone and laughing at something on the screen. They're talking very loudly. It doesn't sound like English.

Near the front counter a bunch of girls around my own age are clustered around a giant mocha bowl. I don't recognize them, so they probably don't go to school with me. They're all whispering and giggling, glancing over at the counter, where Jade is whipping up espressos. All of them, except for one. A girl with curly black hair sits quietly amongst her friends, staring down sadly at her phone. She's wearing a T-shirt with "Felix Lockhart Forever" printed on it, above a group shot of the whole band. She must have missed out on Fable tickets. She looks like she's about to burst into tears. I know the feeling.

The rest of the patrons are a mishmash group of twenty-somethings, local artists, writers, a few tourists.

It's a good crowd.

I push away thoughts of missing the concert, and I mentally banish the butterflies I get every single time before I play. It's not exactly a bad feeling – just a fluttery anticipation.

The stage is softly lit, with red velvet curtains draped behind to form a backdrop. There's a single stool and a mic stand. Jade gives me the thumbs up as I walk onto the stage.

Mic check done, ready to go.

I sit down and begin to play.

I start off with one of gran's songs. It was the first song I learned to play on guitar, so it's the first song I play every Friday.

A hush goes through the tables after the first few chords.

My aim isn't to distract people from their conversations, but that's usually what happens. As I start singing, I look up from my guitar at the audience. I can see the usual expressions.

The group of school girls is now turned totally towards me, Jade forgotten. The businessmen have stopped their lively debate and are staring.

I know that I have a talent, and I'm proud of it. Gran made sure of that.

Having a beautiful voice isn't enough, she'd say. In order to be a star you also need that extra something. An extraordinary gift. You, my sweetheart, have it. Don't waste it. A gift like that needs to be shared.

When I play like this, and I see people's jaws drop, or their eyes go wide, I know I was right to listen to my gran.

I've had people ask me after my set if I was lip syncing, because they couldn't believe that the voice they were hearing was coming from a teenaged girl. One guy actually wanted to look at the back of the stage for speakers. True story.

Ever since I was little, I only really feel like myself when I'm singing. Everything slips away, as the music takes over and I'm pulled into the bubbling melody. Soft, safe, and distant, like being underwater, swaying on the currents.

Everything feels ok when I sing.

After my third song, I notice a guy sitting all alone at a table in the dark corner under the stairs.

I'm not exactly sure what it is about him that captures my attention, but once I've seen him I struggle to look away again.

Maybe it's the fact that he has his black hoodie pulled right up over his head, as if he's trying to hide in the shadows. Or the dark shades he's wearing, even though we're indoors and the light is pretty muted. Or maybe it's the intensity of his gaze.

Even with the sunglasses, I can feel his eyes burning into me.

It's the strangest feeling, not being able to see his face clearly, but knowing that he's staring straight at me. Into me, even. It reminds me of something half forgotten I can't place, and I feel my skin prickle with goose bumps.

Then it strikes.

For just a split second, there's a dull stabbing pain on the left side of my ribcage, right under my scars. The scars I got that day. I fumble for just a moment, but I find the right cords, and I continue singing, praying my voice doesn't waver. In a moment the pain is gone, dwindling into nothingness like an echo.

I scan the crowd to see if anyone noticed, but there's no reaction. They're just sitting there, spellbound, oblivious to my momentary freak-out.

Good.

I quickly look down at my guitar, and I don't look up for the rest of the set.

After several songs I'm done.

I'm glad that this time there's just some applause, and no one comes up to me to talk while I'm packing up. I'm feeling too freaked out about just happened on stage to deal with people right now – and knowing that I'm missing my favorite band doesn't help much either. The girls will already be in line at the Rose Plaza by now. They must be so excited.

I want to go home and cry.

Just thinking about it all makes me want to crawl into a hole, so I decide not to go upstairs and say hi to my parents.

From the steady stream of people going up the stairs, I can see that Biblio's even busier than usual. Usually I'd be happy to help out, but tonight the last thing I feel like is being roped into waitressing.

I know it's selfish, but I just don't feel up to putting on a fake smile all night.

*****

On the way out I stop to say goodbye to Jade.

Jade looks up from the latte he's making.

"What are your plans for the rest of the night?" He asks.

"Home. YouTube. Dinner," I answer. What I don't mention is that by YouTube I mean I'll be lounging around in my pjs crying over Fable music videos. And by dinner I mean pistachio ice cream. Probably a whole tub.

With mom and dad working in the kitchens until late every Friday, I basically have free reign.

"Sounds fun. That reminds me though..." he leans across the counter, tucking a loose strand of sandy blonde hair behind his ear. "Why didn't you go with your friends to the concert? I thought you loved Fable. Like, a die-hard super fan."

There's no sarcasm in his voice.

One of the things I admire most about Jade is how he's so accepting, and he actually makes an effort to see from other people's point of view. I doubt he listens to Fable – he told me once that he mostly listens to old retro stuff from the 80s – but he's never once mocked me for listening to them.

Compared to Alix, he's basically Prince Charming.

"I do love them. I really wanted to go..." I don't know how to say it without sounding like a neurotic wreck. "It's complicated. Crowds, screaming."

His face suddenly changes. Jade knows the whole story. My parents told him. "Of course. I forgot. Sorry."

"It's ok," I try to reassure him, feeling extremely stupid. Jamie's right. I really am ruining my own life.

"Anyway, I'll head off then."

"Sure, see you next Friday." Jade winks at me.

I turn around to pick up my guitar where I've leaned it against the counter. It's gone.

I look up and see that the guy with the dark sunglasses from earlier is standing right next to me, holding my guitar, his face hidden in the shadows of his hoodie.

"Excuse me, but why are–" I begin, before he cuts me off.

"Just follow me. Don't make a scene," he says, and strides out the door with my guitar before I can protest. I look across the counter but Jade missed it – he's already left his spot and is delivering a latte to a table on the opposite side of the cafe.

I have no choice but to follow the guitar-thief outside and get my property back myself.

The guy is waiting outside the front door when I walk out.

What's the hell is he doing?

I'm losing my patience quickly. For a moment, seething anger eclipses my natural timidity, and I forget to be shy.

"Give it back," I say, practically spitting out the words. I can feel my whole body shaking – whether it's from fear or rage, I don't know, and I don't care. He has no clue what this guitar means to me. I'm not going to let him take it without a fight.

I squint my eyes in the gathering twilight, trying to make out his features. It's not easy, with his face hidden in the shadows of his hoodie.

There are a couple of people walking down the street, so if he tries to run away with the guitar I'll yell. He's tall and could probably easily overpower me, but he's just standing dead still, staying put. Staring at me through those dark shades of his.

Scary.

The handle of my guitar case is still firmly clenched in his hand. His head is cocked slightly to the side, like he's trying to figure something out. Trying to decide on something. For a moment I'm reminded of a cat watching its prey, and I can feel my heartbeat speed up ever so slightly. Danger.

Then he turns away and holds his free hand up in a half wave, looking down the road. A signal. Oh my god. He's part of a gang. He's calling his friends.

"Give it back," I say, stepping forward and getting ready to fling myself at him. "Now."

"Why?" He asks. "You don't need it. Not where we're going."

The words sink in. He's going to take me somewhere. Him and his gang. He intends to kidnap me. My body tenses, but before I can spring into action and sprint away, I remember that he's still got my guitar. I swallow down my fear, trying to hide the shakiness creeping into my voice.

"Look, just give me back my guitar, " I say between clenched teeth, still trying to make out his features in the shadows. I can't figure out how old he is – he could be anywhere from his late teens to early twenties.

"No," he says.

He's looking down the road in the direction he signaled. I have to get my guitar back now.

"Give it back, or I'll scream," I say.

His quiet laughter sounds almost mocking. "Go ahead. It's not going to change the situation. Your guitar is coming with me, and so are you."

He's taller than me, and I know it's hopeless, but I lunge at him. He dodges me so quickly that I don't realize he's grabbed my wrist and pinned my back against him until I hear his cold, bored voice right next to my ear.

"Fine. Have it your way then," he says. "It's not like I need the trouble."

He releases my wrist roughly, and I swipe my hand up at his face as I stumble backwards and land on the sidewalk.

I managed to knock his shades off, and they clatter onto the concrete next to me.

He bends down to pick them up, inspecting them for a moment while I scramble up on to my feet. He mutters a few words that sound like "disgusting" and "ruined", before tossing the shades into the bushes that line the front of the Night Owl. His eyes flash angrily in my direction.

Without the glasses, I can see his eyes. Cold, dark hazel eyes glinting with disdain.

He pushes back his hoodie.

I find myself looking into a face I know better than my own reflection.

Oh my god. It's Felix Lockhart.