by Vivi Greene
“The tour is still on,” I assure him. “But I need time away. I can’t . . . I need . . . I need new songs.”
There’s another pause, this one longer. “Terry?” I ask.
“Lily,” he says, carefully, like I’m a horse he’s afraid of spooking. “I understand how hard this is. Really, I do. But I think you’re still in shock. Forever is practically in the can. It’s perfect. The first single is supposed to release in a few weeks. And besides, there isn’t time. You can’t write, record, and promote a new album in three months.”
There’s a buzzing in my arms and legs, the same whirring energy I used to get whenever somebody told me I couldn’t do something I wanted to do. “I don’t have a choice,” I say firmly. “I can’t get up there and sing those songs anymore. They’re lies, and I won’t lie to my fans. If Jed and I are done, Forever is done, too.”
“Lily,” Terry pleads.
“I have to go,” I interrupt. “I promise I won’t let you down. I just . . . I need to do this. I need to do it for me. Bye, Terry.”
“Lily!”
I quickly end the call and stand, wiping the sand from the back of my jeans. I take a deep breath and look out at the expanse of the ocean. The air in my lungs feels new, and the water—massive and indifferent—pulses a stubborn rhythm into my veins. It doesn’t care who I am. I close my eyes, and in an instant I feel it: coming here was, without question, the right thing to do.
The phone vibrates again inside my clenched fist. Buzz buzz buzzzzzzzzz.
Before I have time to change my mind, I wind up and chuck it overhead. It spins in a smooth, high arc before slipping under the still surface, swallowed into the dark, murky bay. I wait with an empty dread for the panic to set in.
But all I feel is free.
5
87 Days Until Tour
June 17th
THE FIRST FEW days on the island are a blissful blur of lazy mornings, long lunches, and epic sunsets on the beach. A side perk of tossing my phone out to sea has been that I’m not obsessively waiting for texts from Jed . . . though of course I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to get in touch. I’ve borrowed Tess’s phone to check in with my parents, and after a few pathetic e-mails from Terry begging me to stay on top of my social media feeds, I’ve even posted the odd photo of my toes in the sand. But for the most part, I’ve managed to stay completely off the grid.
Our rhythm has already slowed to a leisurely vacation pace, though Tess insisted, over our first breakfast of granola and yogurt on the porch, that we each jot down a list of summer goals:
Tess wants to learn to surf. Yesterday morning, she rented a board from the surf shop in town and has spent the afternoon getting battered by wave after wave.
Sammy wants to read more. She picked a romance novel from the living room shelves, but so far has mostly used it as a pillow on the beach.
And I want to cook, the way I used to with Mom, before all I ate were catered meals and delivery. Something about it feels meditative, having to carefully follow so many steps. It’s as if by constructing all these meals, piece by piece, I might be able to construct a better version of myself—a stronger version, one that doesn’t shatter to pieces every time I end up on my own.
But what’s constantly on my mind, what remains unspoken between us, is what’s really on my list: to write twelve new songs by the end of the summer, a new album to replace Forever, that’s better than Forever; an album I can tour with in the fall. To see myself, my music, in a different light.
So far, it’s been slow going. Today I stared at the blank lines in my journal, scratching things out as quickly as I’d written them down. There’s still a restless energy whirring inside me, reverberations of city life. I feel like a top that hasn’t stopped spinning, as if my body hasn’t quite caught up with my head.
And so it’s back to the kitchen.
After we’ve officially overdosed on lobster rolls and clam chowder, I decide to attempt my first home-cooked dinner. Sammy and Tess hover in the kitchen, waiting for me to lose my cool. I don’t. I make honey mustard chicken and coconut rice and a salad. I even toast some bread with garlic butter. There’s an incident with a pan full of sizzling oil and a finicky smoke detector, but when the food is finally plated and largely resembles an actual, edible meal, I feel like a bona fide gourmand.
“This is not terrible,” Tess says as we take our first bites at the round kitchen table.
“Gee, thanks,” I deadpan, but I have to admit I’ve surprised myself. The last real meal I cooked was probably before I left home, when Mom made me help her in the kitchen on Thanksgiving. It’s nice to have accomplished something, even if it’s not songwriting. Anxious butterflies swarm my stomach—there are eighty-seven days until the tour, which sounds like a lot, but I can feel the hours ticking down already.
“Who wants to go out?” Sammy asks, stacking the dirty dishes after we’ve finished.
“Out?” Tess laughs. “Did you maybe get a little too much sun today? We’re on an island with three restaurants, one of which is also the post office. There is no out.”
Sammy drops the plates in the sink with a clatter, and I notice the pink lines of a burn on her neck. I feel suddenly guilty for dragging her here, where her fair skin and freckles will be at constant risk of sun damage, and where there isn’t a decent cocktail menu within a fifty-mile radius.
“There has to be something,” I insist on Sammy’s behalf. “What do people here do for fun?”
Tess leans back against the wide bay window. “You’re looking at it,” she says.
“No way,” Sammy says, turning off the faucet. “Get dressed. If there’s a jukebox in this town, I’ll find it.”
Energized by the possibility of stimulation, I grab Tess by the hand and pull her from the cushioned bench, shooing her toward the shower. I almost make it to the top of the stairs before I remember my journal, which I stashed in Sammy’s bag after the beach.
I race back downstairs and duck into the living room. The bag is slumped against the tattered ottoman, and as I pull it up by its leather handles, a magazine slides out and into my hands.
My heart drops.
There I am, in all of my clumsy glory, sprawled out on the shellacked floor of a midtown Starbucks. One arm shields my eyes but my mouth is locked in a pained grimace. In boxy white type the headline reads: Down on Her Luck: Lily’s Alone Again.
I’m in such a trance that it takes me a few moments to register the other tabloids that have tumbled out of the bag at my feet. I glance down and am assaulted with the same photo from different angles. More oversize type, exclamation points: Bruised and Brokenhearted: Lily Heads to Rehab and Where in the World Is Lily Ross?
“Shit.” I hear a voice over my shoulder. I stare at the jumbled collection of my own startled faces. Tess rushes into the room and sweeps the pile aside with one foot. Sammy stops short in the hallway behind her.
“I’m so sorry,” Sammy says. “I was trying to clean out the shelves at the grocery store. They only had a few of each . . .”
“I want to see them,” I say sternly.
Sammy bends down to scoop them up but Tess puts a hand out to stop her. “No,” she says stubbornly. “You don’t. It’s all garbage. None of it is real.”
I collect the magazines myself and walk briskly up the stairs.
“Birdie!” they call after me in unison.
I shake my head. “I’m good,” I say, my voice trembling. “Really. I just . . . I need a few minutes.”
I close the door to my room behind me and collapse onto the bed, my pulse pounding an erratic beat inside my ears. I try to count my breaths, to close my eyes and be present, but none of the usual tricks work.
This is not the first time my face has been plastered on the cover of trashy tabloids. It comes with the territory, particularly post-breakup. After my first boyfriend in LA, Sebastian, it was a circus. Word was he was cheating with one of his backup singers. Then: all his backup singers.
After Caleb, I was the one who was moving on too fast. I was “heartless” and “career obsessed” for ending things and moving to New York when my second album took off and his, well, didn’t. I could have set the record straight, done an interview and insisted that he broke up with me, but Terry was sure it would only make things worse. The best thing to do with this kind of press is ignore it. Days later, it’s always somebody else’s heartbreak, someone else’s mistake—real or fabricated—staring back at the world from the checkout racks.
But this time, somehow, I’m not prepared. Being here, away from everything, it’s easy to forget that the world is still chugging along. Jed is still touring, answering questions, being who his fans want him to be. I’m not. I’m nowhere. So I’m fair game.
I open the magazine on top and flip slowly to the center spread. It’s all there. Our last dinner date. The stupid soup. A grainy shot of me watching Jed’s car as it sped away, spare keys dangling in one hand, staring after him like an abandoned puppy.
I quickly scan the poorly written copy, quoting various “inside sources” about our relationship, how it had been stalled for months. “Lily is ready to settle down, and Jed isn’t. The pressure became too much.”
I scoff. Pressure? The only thing I ever pressured him to do was sleep in on Sundays and eat fewer carbs. Tess was right. There’s not a single kernel of truth to be found anywhere.
But as my eyes travel down the page, they land on a quote that makes my stomach drop. “Sources say that Lily’s new album, Forever, was a promise to Jed. A promise he wasn’t ready to make. ‘It was never the big, epic romance everyone wanted it to be,’ says one inside source. ‘Maybe Lily thought they were Forever, but Jed never saw it that way. Just last month she wanted him to fly home to meet her family. He pretended he was busy with work, but really he thought things were moving too fast.”
My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. It was my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. My parents had planned a surprise party at the Italian restaurant where Grandpa had proposed. Jed promised he’d come, but at the last minute a bunch of appearances were added to his schedule. I hadn’t told anyone he was coming. He had a habit of double-booking himself, and I was tired of getting everyone’s hopes up.
There’s a timid knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Tess and Sammy shuffle carefully into the room. “Are you okay?”
Sammy slumps beside me and rests her head on my shoulder.
“He talked to them,” I say, my voice a trembling whisper. “He had to. There are things in there . . .”
“We know,” Tess says quietly. “We’re so sorry.”
“How could he do this?” I’m genuinely bewildered. I’ve been around long enough to know there’s no such thing as an “inside source.” He talked to the press about me, my family. And why? So he could have the last word in our relationship? So he could come out on top? If he wanted to make me look pathetic, it worked. Tears burn my eyes and I fight not to let them spill over. If I felt shock and heartbreak when he broke it off, this is a thousand times worse—now I feel like a fool.
“You have to forget him,” Tess urges. “I mean it. This is exactly why we’re here.”
Sammy rubs my back. “She’s right,” she says. “It’s not worth it. This summer is for you. For us, right? Remember how fun it was, just the three of us at camp?”
“No bugs or bad food,” Tess cuts in. “But otherwise, this summer should be like a grown-up version of the way things used to be. No responsibilities. No stress. Deal?”
I wipe my eyes and smile. “Deal.”
“Good,” Sammy says. “Now . . .”
“Let’s go out, we know,” Tess singsongs, finishing her thought. “Hold your horses, party girl. I haven’t even showered.”
Tess scoops up the magazines on her way out and stuffs them under one arm. Sammy lingers in the doorway. “See you downstairs?”
I shake my head and put on a smile. “You guys go ahead,” I say. “I think I’ll do some writing.”
“No wallowing!” Tess calls from the hallway.
“No wallowing,” I promise.
Sammy looks skeptical but blows me a kiss from the door.
I grab my journal from the nightstand, my guitar from its case on the floor, and cozy up in a corner of the bed, wedging the pillows behind me.
There’s so much I want to say. I could write a dozen songs in the next three hours about all the ways Jed has hurt me. But they would still be about him. Every time I write a song it feels like I’m giving little bits of myself away. And I don’t want to give Jed—or any of the guys I’ve dated—another piece of me.
A cool breeze tickles the back of my neck. I look out the window, where the sun has just set, casting an orangey-pink light over the treetops. The water sparkles beyond the jetties, the ocean reaching out in every direction, as far as I can see. This is why I’m here. Real quiet. Real life. Real time with real people who love me, who care about me enough to buy all ten copies of the junkiest magazines on the newsstand, just so I won’t see them.
This new album needs to be different. There has to be more to me than just a girlfriend, a lonely left-behind. Before Sebastian, before LA, I’d never been in a relationship. I made it nineteen years on my own, nineteen years that I spent binge-watching The O.C. with Sammy, daydreaming about moving to California. Or spilling secrets to my journal on a Friday night, about how lonely it felt to be different, to never know how to say or wear the right thing. Those secrets turned into songs, my very first songs—the songs that got me a manager, a record deal, a life beyond my wildest dreams.
I close my eyes and imagine the summer I discover who I used to be, who I still could be, with nobody watching. The summer I write the songs I’m meant to write, songs that are more than just starry-eyed sagas or recycled broken-heart ballads. The summer I turn down all the noise and listen to the voice in the quiet, the voice I heard when I was a little girl, telling me to stop worrying so much about what everyone else was thinking. Close your eyes, the voice said.
Close your eyes and sing.
6
86 Days Until Tour
June 18th
THE CAR BLINKS and beeps and I stare at the dashboard like it’s the operating system of a spaceship. The last car I drove myself was the beat-up truck my grandfather gave me when I left Wisconsin for LA There were no tricks to getting it to start, aside from revving the engine and praying a lot until it caught. The Prius has an On/Off button that should be fairly self-explanatory but somehow isn’t.
Finally, with my foot on the brake, the keys in the ignition, a press of the button, and a whispered prayer, the Pree purrs to life. I glance quickly at the upstairs windows as I slowly back out of the driveway. I left a note for Tess and Sam on the fridge, but they were out late, and I doubt they’ll be rallying anytime soon.
I woke up craving eggs and bacon. And pancakes. So far, Sammy and Tess have gotten all the groceries at a market in town, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to find it on my own. The car bumps and lurches along the winding dirt road, feathery branches scraping at the window.
I expected to feel worse this morning. Last night, after the girls went out, I sat on the back deck for hours, watching the stars blink on and thinking more about my album. I was getting nowhere and gave up around midnight, stumbling upstairs to my room and collapsing onto the creaky twin bed. I slept hard and woke up seven hours later, in the same position, fresh and rested and ready to go. Even my body felt different, as if my bones had been shifted, my muscles stretched and realigned until all the usual touring-and-traveling aches and pains were gone.
The dirt road forks off and I turn onto pavement. The trees are thicker here and the houses closer to one another and the road. There’s a small schoolhouse, and a church, and a convenience store with a single red gas pump out back. Across from the harbor is a long, low building with a swinging sign, MCCONNELL’S FOOD AND SUNDRIES.
I park and
collect my bags from the front seat. There was a stash of canvas totes in the hallway closet, branded with logos from farms, the library, a bank. I grabbed a handful, along with a baseball cap I found hanging on a hook—faded blue with the red outline of a lobster. Now I pull my hair through the back of the cap and settle the hat low on my forehead. I dig around for my favorite comically oversize sunglasses and ease them on. The hat-and-shades routine hardly ever works anymore, but I still try.
I decide to make a list and I reach into my pocket for my phone, only to remember that I chucked it into the ocean. This morning, in a frenzied panic, I had snuck into Tess’s room and sent a quick text to Terry asking him to FedEx me a new one. Now that I’ve seen the tabloids, I feel disarmingly disconnected. It was a jarring reminder that even though Lily Ross the person is on vacation, Lily Ross the business is still chugging along. On a typical day, by the time I’ve been awake for an hour, I’ve grown numb to the endless beeping of alerts, texts, and e-mails. I’ve also talked to Terry ten times, my parents twice. No wonder I feel so clearheaded, I realize. I haven’t spent this much time alone in years.
In the market, I settle on a quick list of ingredients and begin to make my rounds. At the deli counter is a pair of girls in denim shorts, maybe nine or ten years old. They’re daring each other to do something, their eyes glancing furtively at the ice cream freezers. I stand behind them, knowing what will happen when they turn around. I brace myself for squeals, iPhones, maybe even questions about the magazines and Jed.
But the strangest thing happens. The girls look up at me and I smile. They freeze. Before I can say hello, they’re gone, giggling and scampering down the aisles and out through the chiming front door. I’m not sure if they recognized me or were simply scared that they’d been caught.
At the register, I wait behind a handsome young dad, his three little kids clamoring for more treats and hanging off the cart. He’s so preoccupied with them that he doesn’t glance in my direction. Then the middle-aged woman behind the counter swipes my card without noticing my name. I leave the store laughing, lugging the bags over my shoulder, and when my sunglasses slip off my nose, I don’t even put them back on.