by Vivi Greene
“You’re the one who wants to be normal,” Tess says, linking her arm in mine as she drags me toward the car.
“Hop in,” she orders. “I’m driving.”
8
84 Days Until Tour
June 20th
THE HARBOR IS busy, bustling with fishermen in orange pants and suspenders loading and unloading gear and traps from a line of bobbing boats. We park in a half-empty lot, and as we get out of the car, a brisk ocean breeze whips my hair from my face.
I shiver. “I wish I’d known you made plans,” I mutter, rubbing the sides of my bare arms. “I would have worn something warmer.”
Tess glances across the street at a gas station/convenience store/fisherman’s supply shop. “They might have something in there.”
I head inside and quickly scan the limited selection, ultimately settling on an enormous gray hooded sweatshirt, the words I GOT LUCKY AT LUCKY’S BAIT & TACKLE printed on the back. An old man with thick glasses and crooked teeth takes my card without looking at it, pushing a glass bowl of hard candies across the counter at me. I choose a butterscotch to be polite and hurry back outside.
Tess and Sammy are at the end of the dock beside a small lobster boat. The front of the boat sweeps up into a high point, and there’s a wide, covered cockpit shielded by dirty windows. Two guys are busy passing empty crates onto the lowered back end.
“Where’s Noel?” Tess asks as I join them.
One of the guys, heavyset with a scruffy red beard, answers without looking up. “Probably sleeping in.” He laughs. “I swear, if this wasn’t his old man’s boat . . .” He looks up quickly, his mouth stuck in an O as he stares directly at me. “Holy shit, you’re Lily Ross!” A shocked smile spreads across his face. “Latham, you’re not gonna—” He’s interrupted by a slap upside the back of his head. “Jesus, what was that for?”
The slapper, a smaller guy with dimples and patches of light blond scruff, climbs out of the boat, wiping his hands on his cargo shorts. He smiles at me, holding out a hand. “Sorry about him. I’m Latham. Captain Obvious over here is J.T. It’s an honor to meet you. We’re all really big fans. I love that one song, what’s that one, about the summer . . . ?”
“That really narrows it down,” says a voice behind me. Tess breaks into a smile.
“Noel!” Tess rushes across the dock and I turn. I see his truck first, old and banged-up, with a familiar dent on one side. As Tess wraps him in a hug, my eyes meet his, and the back of my neck goes hot and scratchy.
It’s the guy from the intersection.
“Sammy, Bird, this is Noel,” Tess says, her face lit up. “He’s the only reason I survived my summers here.”
Noel smiles, shaking Sammy’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know about that.” He turns to me and his smile slowly fades. “Hello,” he says gruffly.
Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Hey,” I say much too loudly.
Tess looks skeptically from Noel to me. “You two know each other?”
“Not really,” Noel says, pulling down the tailgate of his truck. “Wasn’t much time for small talk while she was demolishing my truck.”
Tess furrows her dark brow, glancing at the dent behind the door. “You did this?” she asks me. “I thought you said it was a fender bender.”
Before I can make an excuse, J.T. cuts me off. “Hold up.” He laughs. “You got into a fender bender with Lily Ross, and this is the first we’re hearing of it?”
Noel shakes his head, lugging a few crates from the truck’s bed. He pushes them into J.T.’s chest. “Easy, fanboy,” he teases. “We’re late.”
Tess and Sammy laugh as Latham helps us all into the back of the boat. “We’re late?” J.T. is still ribbing Noel. “You’re the one who took his sweet time getting over here this morning. What happened, you get rear-ended by Madonna?”
Noel flashes the easy smile of someone who could have the last word but chooses not to and lowers the last of the traps into the back of the boat.
“Everyone ready?” Noel asks. He starts the engine without waiting for an answer and we sputter away from the dock, the harbor and the town receding into the distance.
Sammy and I squeeze onto a small bench seat toward the back, the salty spray of the ocean misting our faces. J.T. and Latham are crouched over a pair of giant coolers, spearing thick slabs of bait with what look like giant barbeque skewers. Tess stands next to Noel, chatting. The roar of the engine and whoosh of the wind make it impossible to hear anything, so I just stare out at the water. The sun beats down in shimmering strokes, but the air is crisp as we pick up speed, and I’m grateful for my giant, if far-from-flattering, sweatshirt.
I haven’t been on a boat like this since I was little. My grandpa used to take me fishing every summer, when we stayed at their house on the lake. There’s a particular feeling you get, surrounded by water, with the sky so big and full overhead. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed it.
After a while, Noel cuts the engine and we stop at an orange buoy with two white stripes. The guys get to work, their movements a carefully choreographed routine. They pull up the buoy and hook it to a pulley that hangs off one side of the boat. A giant metal trap splashes out of the water. They swing it into the back of the boat as Sammy and Tess and I hover around the perimeter, water sloshing around our feet.
“Not bad.” Latham grins, lifting the hatch. The trap is crawling with blue-black lobsters of various sizes, their prehistoric-looking claws hinging slowly open and shut. The guys toss the lobsters into giant coolers stashed beneath the benches.
As we pull up to the next buoy, Noel gestures impatiently for more bait. He peels off his rubber gloves and walks to the back of the boat, brushing past me without so much as a look. Something about his active disinterest makes me bristle. “What have you guys been doing back here?” he shouts, peering into the cooler of bait. “Daydreaming?”
J.T. starts setting the traps as Noel hurriedly slaps some more chunks of slimy flesh onto the skewers. I watch him for a moment, that same stubborn instinct bubbling up inside of me. From the time I was a kid, I’ve had this thing about getting people to like me. It sounds ridiculous now, but it’s never gone away. Maybe it’s part of the reason I’ve been so successful—my fans can tell I need them as much as they need me.
I head to the back and kneel down beside Noel, rolling up my sleeves. The plastic bin is full to the brim with stinky fish guts and broken pieces of crab shells. I observe him quietly for a moment, then pick up one of the long needles and dig my hands into the slippery mess.
“Mackerel?” I ask, holding up a small, silvery fish.
Noel looks down at me, over his shoulder. His eyes are even lighter than I remember, almost transparent blue, and the skin around them is soft and freckled. He blinks in surprise. “Yeah. You fish?”
“I used to,” I say, piercing the fish with the sharp end of the giant needle and laying it into the trap behind us. “With my grandpa. Ice fishing, too.”
I feel Noel staring as I skewer a few more pieces.
“Lily’s full of surprises,” Tess interjects. “You should see her during hunting season. She’s a beast with a twenty-two.”
I roll my eyes as J.T. looks up from the traps. “Really?” he asks, grinning.
“No, not really,” I say, baiting more fish. “That’s just what I need. I can see the headlines now: Lily Ross: Armed and Dangerous.”
Noel laughs, a genuine chuckle, and I feel the quick thrill of success. “All right,” he says, pushing up to his feet. “Drop ’em in and let’s keep moving.”
Latham and J.T. fill the now-empty pot with fresh bait and lower it back into the water, while Noel starts the engine and steers us to the next buoy, a few hundred yards away. We keep on like this for most of the afternoon. The guys make a game out of scaring Sammy with flailing lobsters, and J.T. shows Tess how to pull in the pots. Whenever we get low, I help Noel with the bait. He doesn’t say much, but eventually he seems to relax. I wonder if he’s like
my grandpa, not really himself unless he’s on the water.
After the sixth stop, Noel steers us back toward land. I catch his eye from my spot on the bench and he nods me over.
“Want to drive?” he asks, not looking at me.
“Me?”
“Sure.” He shifts over a bit and releases the shiny wheel. “As long as you promise not to T-bone anything. Think you can handle that?”
“I can try,” I say with a laugh. He pulls the engine into gear and we jolt forward, a spray of wake kicking up alongside us. We bump over choppy swells and I squint into the sun. All around us is ocean, an endless, mirrored canvas, and suddenly I’m nine years old on a summer afternoon, with nothing to do and no one to please.
9
81 Days Until Tour
June 23rd
I’M SECONDS AWAY from drifting off to sleep when my phone buzzes on the bedside table. It’s probably Terry, I think, with more bad publicity news, or an addition to the fall tour schedule I’ll have to stress about. Maybe a label guy, wondering when to expect the new music. Or my mom, who still likes to check in and say good night.
Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.
Thirty seconds later: another buzz. I sigh and flip the screen over, the blue glow illuminating the dark of my small room.
Two texts from Jed: Hi, and then, You there?
A quick burst of adrenaline shoots through my veins. I’d finally managed to stop obsessing over the last time he called. Since he didn’t leave a message, I’d convinced myself that it was an accident. A pocket dial, or an awkward slip of his thumb.
But now there’s proof. He finally wants to talk.
It’s been eleven days. Eleven days since my life collapsed, my world turned totally upside down. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago, all at once.
I swipe the screen awake. My thumbs hover over the keypad. Do I answer? Right after the breakup, it would have been easy. All Jed would have needed to say was that he’d made a mistake. That he missed me and wanted things to go back to the way they were. We could wipe the slate clean, pretend that none of it had ever happened.
But now, it’s different. The things he said—the things that were printed—will live on, long after the magazines have been tossed in the trash. Anytime anyone searches my name, it will all come back. We were a team, and now we’re not. It’s over.
I toss my phone back onto the nightstand and lean heavily into the pillows. I feel almost sick. How can somebody be two people at the same time? There’s Jed, the guy on the balcony I couldn’t wait to get to know, the person I imagined would be my other half forever. Jed, the guy who knew exactly how I was feeling, exactly what I was going through, exactly all of the time.
And then there’s the other Jed, at the restaurant, playing with his soup. Jed in print, telling our secrets, betraying my trust, making me look like a fool.
I groan and throw off the covers. Sleep is definitely out of the question.
Through the window, the moon is big and ringed in gauzy white. I pull on a long cardigan over my pajamas and stuff my journal and a pen into the oversize front pocket. Maybe I can distract myself by writing. I creep downstairs and find my flip-flops and a towel.
Outside, the air smells like rain. Afternoon showers kept us inside most of the day. I had taken out my guitar for the first time since we’ve been here and messed around while Sammy read and Tess tried to nap. I hadn’t played music just for fun in a while. Without the stress of trying to come up with a melody, it started to feel natural again.
I follow the moonlit path to the stretch of beach behind our house. It’s quiet, and a little bit eerie, and I think for a minute about turning back, but there’s something about the ocean that draws me in. I need to feel something big, bigger than the doubts and anxieties that live inside my head. Something powerful and self-assured.
I strip and leave my clothes and towel in a pile on the rocky shore, then splash into the ocean before I have time to change my mind. The water is brutal and exhilarating. It shocks my limbs and turns them instantly numb. My heart feels like it’s stopped beating. Good, I think. Maybe if my heart is frozen, it will stop aching once and for all. Moments or minutes later, when I feel on the verge of true hypothermia, I stumble over the rocks toward the beach.
Back on dry land, I close myself in the big, warm towel, and stare up at the glow of the moon. Ahead, the coastline stretches out for miles. I find a clear patch of sand, wiggle into my clothes, and nestle into a spot on the shore.
I lean back and close my eyes. A snatch of melody has been running through my mind since this afternoon. Sometimes it feels like songs flutter in and out of my consciousness like teasing butterflies, daring me to catch them.
I almost have the lyrics—something about morning amnesia, waking up in a strange bed and remembering, every time, that you’re alone. When I open my eyes each day, I’ve forgotten where I am, and why I’m here. It’s sort of like meeting yourself for the first time, just for a moment, before it all comes rushing back.
It’s not only the fact that I’m in a strange house. For the first time in years, I’m totally and completely unattached. The last time I spent a full week on my own was when I’d recently moved to LA. In what is now essentially part of the public record, I took a waitressing job and worked all of one shift before quitting. Sebastian was at my first table. He asked for my number with the check, and we went out the next night. Three weeks after that, we moved in together.
I’m not exactly used to taking things slow.
The melody—simple, and a little bit melancholy—runs through my whole body, but as soon as I find it, it’s gone again. I open my eyes and stare up at the star-studded sky, waiting for something, anything, to find me.
There’s a whooshing sound in my ears. My eyes snap open, dusty sunlight blurring the horizon. What time is it? Have I been out here all night? I hear a ragged panting and feel a slobbery tongue on my cheek. I sit up in alarm, but it’s quickly replaced by a pleasant surprise: there’s a long-haired black-and-white dog investigating my towel.
“Hi there, handsome.” I nuzzle the dog’s nose and he licks me again, this time more aggressively, until I’m pinned on my back, smothered in his salty, damp fur.
“Murphy!” a voice calls from down the beach. In the dim morning light, I see the shadow of a person running, a head bobbing up and down at the water’s edge. “Murphy, come!”
I’m laughing, shielding my face with my arms to ward off any further advances, when someone appears beside me.
“Murphy, enough,” the guy says firmly, lugging the dog by the scruff of his neck and nudging him behind his legs. His face is turned away, but I recognize the subtle smile in his voice. Noel. “Sorry. He’s usually not so forward.”
I wipe the slobber from my cheek and smile. “No problem.” The dog grips one of my flip-flops in his teeth and takes off toward the water.
“Murphy!” Noel groans. “Are you kidding me?”
“Let him go.” I laugh. “He’s having so much fun.”
“You sure?” he asks. “He’s probably going to sell it on eBay or something. He has pretty questionable morals.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching as the dog darts up and down the winding beach, waving my shoe back and forth like a giant chew toy. “He seems like a real menace.”
Noel chuckles, still out of breath from running up the beach.
“Do you want to sit?” I ask. “Looked like you worked up to a full sprint there.”
“That was nothing. You should see me when he steals a wallet.” He settles into the sand beside me. I fiddle with the tattered seam of the towel and pull down the sleeves of my sweater. Noel stares out at the calm of the ocean, and I sneak a glance at his profile. It still seems insane, and almost cruel, that there could be somebody so spine-tinglingly good-looking on an island so remote, and that I would end up sitting beside him, alone, on a beach, at sunrise.
I try to distract myself by wondering how old he
is. His blue eyes are deep and ageless, but there’s something boyish about him, too. Even when he’s not smiling, there’s a lightness to him, like he’s remembering a joke he’s not yet ready to share.
“You live near here?” I ask, trying to strike a perfect balance of breezy and polite.
Noel gestures up the beach toward a cluster of houses on a hill. “Just beyond the point,” he says. “There’s a path. It’s a bit of a hike from the water. That’s where the real people live.”
“Real people?”
“Year-rounders,” he explains. “People from here.”
“Not Tess,” I clarify.
“Not Tess. Not you,” he says. “You’re from away.”
“You can say that again,” I say, hearing the wistful self-pity in my voice and wishing I could erase it. I clear my throat. “What about you? You grew up here, I know. But do you still live here all the time?”
“Every day,” he says. “I left for college, but only lasted a little while. There’s a lot to complain about, especially in the winter, but after growing up here, it’s hard to live anywhere else.”
“I can see why.” I look out at the painted clouds creeping around the rising sun. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve spent this much time outside. It’s amazing how far away everything else feels. In a good way.”
“It’s like everything’s on a different scale,” he says. “Stripped down or something.”
I nod. It’s exactly how I’ve been feeling. Unencumbered. Raw. Exposed.
We’re quiet again for a moment, sitting in an easy, comfortable silence. It’s hard to believe this is the same guy from the car accident, the same guy from the boat. I no longer feel the insane urge to make him like me because, I realize with a jolt, he’s sort of acting like he does.
“Sorry, about before,” he says suddenly, as if reading my mind.
“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.