"Thanks, but you can't help me," she says, unconsciously pressing her fingers further into my skin.
"Well, I'd like to try."
"Besides," she grins. "I'm your girlfriend, remember?"
The sentiment pulls at my emotions, and I wish to fuck this was true. Maybe this means she's at least open to the idea. As we round the corner of the paid parking lot, a question emerges, poking at my soul. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always," she says, letting go of my arm.
I silently lament the loss of her touch. But my curiosity persists. "What's the greatest fortune you've ever written?" As she hears the question, I watch her soft face in the passing golden lamplight. Emotion works its way through a myriad of expressions on her face. I'm expecting some sharp, sarcastic, or offhanded fortune. But when she answers, I'm completely smitten.
"I don't think I've written it yet."
Chapter Fourteen
Ellie
I sit by myself in a cozy corner booth at The Fishery, Southport's most exclusive dive bar on the Elizabeth River. Home to the best karaoke jams, team trivia, and beer-fueled paint nights in town. Tonight is open mic night, and I'm hoping some amateur tunes can help me clear my mind. I'm nursing a disgusting whiskey on the rocks that's watering down by the second as I wait for Brooke to make her appearance.
Mason had dropped me off at my bungalow two hours ago. Upon locking all my doors behind me, I immediately turned on every light in my house and inspected the entire place for intruders. Finding no one but Moxie, I expertly propped a chair under the handle of the back door since my deadlock is busted.
My phone is face down on the table in front of me, and I've been too afraid to read any of the text messages that had accumulated on my phone from my time spent with Mason. All from that unknown Wilmington number. Ignoring them wasn't my goal, but I didn't want Mason to think I was more interested in what was going on digitally than actually spending time with him. And besides that, if he found out I have a psycho ex-boyfriend lurking in the wings, he'd jet quicker than Maverick.
Why hadn't I just called John back after I got his voicemail? Could've nipped it in the bud. Taking a long sip of my whiskey, I can't decide whether that would've remedied the whole situation from the start. This would all be over if I'd just told him to screw off from the start.
"Hey!" someone shouts, approaching me from the side of the bar. The voice scares me so much, I jolt, sending some of my whiskey to slosh onto the table. But I sop it up with a pile of paper-thin napkins from the dispenser to my right.
"Hey," I say as Brooke pulls her pencil skirt down and slides in across from me. "Didn't know if you'd make it. Seriously need your help decompressing tonight," I tell her, relieved that Dennis isn't in tow.
"Rest assured, Ellie-bean. Your favorite ginger is here." Turning back to Greg, the buff, longtime bartender who always flirts with her, she raises her hand, motioning him for her favorite drink. Holding up three fingers at him, she giggles with a sly grin. "You seem jumpy," she says, reapplying her blood moon-colored matte lipstick. "Did you talk to John?"
Shaking my head, I take another sharp sip of whiskey.
Brooke turns her nose up at me. "I don't know how you drink that shit. Anyway, I've been thinking. Maybe you should call him back to tell him you'll file a restraining order or something. I know I told you not to make contact, but it could only help."
"Right. Because John is so rational and understanding," I say, rolling my eyes.
"Well, if he's gonna go all Barry Kolker on you then you have every right to White Oleander his ass. Permission granted. I'll tell the cops myself." She shrugs and pulls a pocket mirror from her purse to study her lip application, but when I don't respond, she continues. "So you're just going to keep ignoring him?
As if on cue, my phone buzzes against the table. Turning it over, I see another text from the Wilmington number. "Yup," I say, replacing the phone face down.
Greg walks over carrying Brooke's martini. "Here you go, sweetheart."
She squeals and looks up at him with puppy dog eyes. "Extra dirty?"
Nodding, he sets it in front of her. "Three olives. Just how you like ‘em."
She bats her eyelashes at him and takes a small sip. "It's perfect. You're an angel."
What I can't tell Brooke is that if I talk to John, he'll do whatever he has to do to gain power over me. Having seen him at the concert makes me nervous enough. But the fact that he can somehow control me without trying? It's what pissed me off so bad about our relationship for two whole years. I never knew how to stand up for myself. And sometimes to be a goddamn storm, I've just got to keep on ignoring him. It's how I keep the upper hand.
"More importantly, how was Wilmington?" Brooke asks, raising her voice into an empathetic whisper as the first act of the night, a local poet begins reciting from a worn notebook on stage.
"It was good. Mason needed help picking out a gift for his little sister. Her sixteenth birthday is soon or something. He got her a leather purse and a concert ticket."
Brooke furrows her brow. "You had to go all the way to Wilmington for that? They have leather purses over at Moonwater. Shop local, save a whale," she mocks, flashing me a toothy customer service grin.
Laughing, I shake my head at her antics.
"Did you at least get any action on said way to Wilmington?"
"What, like did I give him Road Hand? Don't get your hopes up. Didn't happen."
"I meant more like Road Head, but sure. You like him, at least, don't you?"
An angsty teenager with a guitar makes his way toward the stage. This kid performs at every open mic night I've ever attended here, and his nerves are his fatal flaw. But his voice is beautifully raw.
"Of course I like Mason. It's hard not to. He's smart, funny, loves good music."
"And he's a nerd," Brooke states bluntly. "Don't forget that."
"Yeah, but so what?" I shrug and sip my drink. "I'm a nerd, too, sometimes. Today he told me he loved our banter."
"Whoa," Brooke laughs just as the teen starts in on a Tom Petty cover. "He used those exact words? Love?"
Nodding, I shoot her a casual so what expression.
"Ellie, this is serious. He wants to have your babies already," she grins.
My heart suddenly drops at her mention of babies, and I think back to John. How the pregnancy scare ruined his life, which, in turn, shit on my life. My expression must tell on me because Brooke apologizes under her breath.
Suddenly, from across the bar, a blurry figure waves at me. I'm not sure if it's the buzz I have going or my nerves, but I can't quite make out who it is. For a moment, my heart locks, and
I worry that it's John. But the amicable nature of the wave tells me it's someone far less intense. The figure makes its way across the increasingly crowded floor of the bar. When I see who it is, I heave a sigh of pure relief.
"Charlie," I say with more excitement than is warranted, but he responds warmly by leaning down into our booth and giving me a quick hug.
"How's it going, Ells?” Charlie is in his mid-forties, slightly paunchy, but immaculately dressed in a cobalt blue suit, a pink shirt, and a navy floral cravat. Despite looking entirely out of place at The Fishery, he seems to meld into the woodwork in every venue effortlessly.
"Going fine," I say with a huge smile. And as I say it, I'm surprised to hear how sure of that I sound. Somehow, my fellow festival organizer and financial backer being around keeps a deep separation to the annoying parts of my life. All for which I'm grateful. "Did we secure those last few vendors?"
"Indeed, indeed," Charlie says with an emphatic flourish of his hand. "But I'm worried about Monsoon."
My first thought goes back to the night of the bonfire when Mason called me out for my wretched whisper-singing. Which I do not do. But I'm suddenly confused as to why Charlie is worried enough to bring them up during the middle of open mic night.
"What's wrong? Did something go south with their set?"
&
nbsp; "No, Ellie. Nothing like that. They bailed," Charlie says with a pull of dramatic flair.
"What?" I'm in disbelief. I last confirmed their arrangements with their manager a few days before I met Mason last week. "That can't be right, Charlie."
"Right as rain. I'm afraid it is," Charlie says, taking a sip from his short-stemmed martini glass, a pinky clad ring sticking out into the air between us.
The atmosphere now feels thick and heavy, and my stomach starts to ache with the realization of what this actually means. "What the shit happened?"
"Apparently they got some offer from a bigger venue in Charlotte. One for which they're brilliantly happy to jump ship to so last minute. They're probably getting paid triple," he pouts playfully with a sneer.
"Damn it," I say, all but slamming my glass against the table.
"Hey! Don't worry about it though, chickadee. You can find someone else, right?"
I know I can. But the fact that Monsoon, the Wilmington-local band I'd been following for years is now too good for Southport frustrates me in a fresh, painful way. Besides that, with all the drama I've had nagging at me today, this is the last thing I need. "Of course. I can find someone better," I say. "I have a decent list of backups."
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know this is entirely false. I watch Brooke take a long, delicate drink to avoid speaking up on the subject with her characteristic bluntness.
"Excellent, excellent," Charlie says, his large hands flying into the air like fat, white bats.
"What about this guy?" I ask with a nod toward the stage. Luckily, I'm half joking, and Charlie chuckles along with me.
"Better luck next time. Let's get another crowd draw," he says. "The Quirks should bring a lot, but if we can get another big name, our vendors will feel safe taking the leap with us again next year."
Next year? I can hardly get through this year's festival, let alone think about next year's. Nodding, I drain the last of my whiskey in a single, burning gulp. This project has suddenly become more overwhelming than it was ever supposed to bet. I had secured all of these bands months ago, arranged for their accommodations, and planned their rehearsal schedules with the venue team. The idea of having to start over is unthinkable.
"Of course," I say with a sunny smile. I hear Brooke snort in front of me, and I nudge her leg under the table.
"Speaking of a big draw," Charlie says with a coy smile.
I'm beginning to wish he would go away. I can only deal with so much bad news in a single day.
"Did you get us a press release into The Anchor yet?"
I think back to the meeting we'd had with all the volunteers last night but realize he wasn't even there. "Yes," I say. It's not a lie. There is a press release going to the paper. Just because it's not the one I wrote doesn't mean Charlie will be less excited about it.
"Excellent! Oh, that's so wonderful! I knew you were the right girl for the job the first time you got my double soy caramel macchiato perfect. Just beautiful, Ells!" Suddenly, he notices someone across the bar, giving them a giant, flamboyant wave. Leaning down, he kisses me on the cheek and departs.
"Yeah, Ells! Beautiful!" Brooke mocks. "How—"
"Piss off," I say, trying not to laugh at her.
Groaning, I take my hair out of its messy bun and run my fingers through it. "How the hell am I supposed to find another band in a week? I've had all of this planned for months," I announce over The Windmills who are now playing a swanky little cover of Jimmy Buffett's
"Come Monday," which would be particularly cute if it wasn't already a Wednesday night.
Brooke shrugs with little sympathy and sips her martini. "Just the nature of the beast, I guess. Maybe Mason has some suggestions." She waggles her eyebrows at me. "Or John."
"Seriously?" I snap at her.
"I know, Ellie. But Dennis said—"
"Oh, Dennis said. Must be right then." I roll my eyes so hard, my sight goes blurry for a second.
"Sorry, but as much as I hate it, he used to be friends with John, too."
My mind flashes back to all the threats and bruises. Not just the ones from the night of the concert. All of them. "He doesn't know John," I tell her. "Not really."
"I'm sorry," Brooke says and reaches out to take my hand. Normally this type of gesture makes me recoil, but Brooke keeps a hold on my hand and locks her eyes with mine. "John's an asshole. I just get caught up in old times is all."
"Me too," I say quietly, and as if on cue, my phone begins to vibrate with the unknown Wilmington number flashing on the screen. At this point, I recognize the number as John's, and I hate that the stupid digits have burned themselves into my memory.
"Fuck him," Brooke says holding her middle finger up to my phone as if he can see it all the way from Wilmington.
"No, thanks," I say. "Now, Mason? Yes, absolutely." I nod vigorously as we both laugh at my awful joke.
"You could always block him since he won't take a hint." Brooke finishes her martini, the briny scent of it floating across the table. "Whatever you end up doing, I'm on your side, okay?"
Smiling at her, I attempt my best PBS pledge drive voice, sweet and content. "We appreciate your contribution to Team Ellie."
"I'll design the T-shirts," Brooke squeals.
Chapter Fifteen
Ellie
I don't hear from Mason for several days. Come to think of it, I've been ignoring all signs of communication on my phone except from Brooke. She's hard at work on her SCAD portfolio, texting me every few hours with pictures of her progress and asking if specific colors look right in her sketches. I offer my limited opinion, but really, I don't know any better. John seems to have fallen off the earth altogether because I receive no more phone calls from him, thank God. In fact, I welcome his silence. And everyone else in my life can wait to hear back from me until I find a new band to join Stars Over Southport. Since Charlie dropped the news on me Tuesday night, I've fielded calls from Call Me June and Questionable Jargon, both groups saying they might pull out too if another, more impressive act doesn't jump on board. Needless to say, my Friday morning is incredibly stressful without the added anxiety of opening the Dream Bean on my own.
"Excuse me, Miss. I ordered a double non-fat, half-caf, low foam. This is decaf, high foam, and I'm pretty sure I taste a touch of cinnamon."
Recognizing the man as the Philosophy professor at the local community college down the street, I stupidly blink at him as he peers at me over round, horn-rimmed glasses. I try very hard not to picture him lecturing his class on Friedrich Nietzsche's nihilism while sipping his non-fat, half-caf, low foam double latte from his mighty podium at the front of the lecture hall because life is meaningless. Ironically, not so meaningless that he can't just suffer the messed-up latte.
"My apologies, sir. I'll bring it right over," I say, taking his latte from him. Observing the drink, I notice it was low foam enough for him to have already drunk half of it.
Dumping it down the drain, I start the second latte and glance over toward the overstuffed corkboard where the bright lime green Southport Music Festival flyer is hanging. Has anyone even noticed it? Would they recognize the bands or vendors enough to come? I push the thought from my head. The anxiety over the latest stress of the festival has driven away my sleep and hunger. Not only that, but it's exacerbated my cigarette craving. Mason would hate me if he knew, but I've been trying to cut back for him. Scratch that. For myself. Because of him. That makes me sound less desperate.
As I'm delicately swirling the foam to add our signature heart on top of the latte, the phone on the back wall begins to ring. After delivering the correct latte to Nietzsche, I answer the phone and wedge it under my ear against my shoulder as I rinse the coffee cup out and place it in the dishwasher.
"Dream Bean, this is Ellie."
"Hey, why aren't you answering your phone?"
The voice is one I recognize, but with a foggy brain so early this morning, I can't quite pinpoint it. "I'm sorry?" I ask, pulling
the phone away from my ear and glancing at the number on the caller I.D. Terror sets in, and I pray it isn't a Wilmington area code.
"What time are you done with work?"
"Mason?" I ask, still not entirely placing the voice.
"Yeah, it's me. You haven't answered your phone all week." His voice sinks into a playful growl. "If you're trying to get out of the trip, you're going to have to work a little harder. You're still coming, right?"
I look across the counter to where my phone is lying face down next to the cash register. And though I'd brought it with me, I've been avoiding reading all unknown texts since Tuesday. I feel my tone grow irritable, but I have no idea what he means. "I'm sorry, coming where?"
Mason clears his throat, and I think this might be the first time I've heard him disappointed. "The Sweet Tennessee concert. For Beth? You said you'd come with me to Raleigh."
"Shit, Mason." Not remembering, I suddenly panic. Yes, I remember the tickets. I think he'd purchased them while we were sitting riverfront in Wilmington. But I had no freaking clue he included me in those concert plans. He could've at least asked instead of just assuming. His sister doesn't know me like that. It'd be weird for me to show up to her birthday concert. "That's today?" I ask, trying to buy myself an excuse out of the trip. "I thought that wasn't for another few weeks." Pressing on my temple, I think back to the riverwalk. His expertly planned apps by the water. I was preoccupied at the time, worried that John was somehow following us and would start drama for all the worry Brooke had put in me. But as I retrace my mental steps, I only very vaguely remember Mason asking me about the plans. Had I seriously agreed to go with him?
Shit.
"Yeah, it's today. I have three tickets. You said you'd come. You actually sounded excited about it," Mason says, a hint of defeat ringing through his voice.
"Oh, I am excited. But I'm working," I say, the words sounding stupid and full of judgment. "Well," I shoot off at the mouth, trying to change the subject entirely. "Why did you call here, anyway?"
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