by Vivi Greene
“Don’t apologize to us,” Tess says abruptly. “You’re the one who wanted a change. You’re the one who said you were tired of all the rebounds, of getting hurt and writing about it.” She stands up, her chair screeching against the linoleum. “If you want to keep losing yourself and falling for the wrong people, that’s on you.”
“Losing myself?” I ask. “I thought you liked Noel.”
“This isn’t about Noel!” Tess shouts, turning quickly on her heel. I can’t remember the last time she raised her voice at me. In fact, I’m not sure it’s ever happened. “This is about you. We are your best friends. We are the only people who don’t kiss your ass and tell you what you want to hear all the time. Right?”
“Sure,” I stammer. “But . . .”
“But what? But only when you ask for it?” Tess stalks back toward me, her hands on her hips. “That’s not how real friendships work, Bird. Real friends tell the truth whether it’s comfortable or not, and the truth is you’re not ready.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and look to Sammy for support. She reaches across the table and squeezes my forearm. “She’s right,” she says. “You’re not. You said you wanted things to be different. Bouncing from Jed to somebody else, before you’ve had time to figure out what you want, for you . . . that’s exactly what you always do.”
I hug my arms around my waist, my heart pounding in my chest. This is what I was afraid of. Neither of them has any idea what the last few weeks have been like for me, or how Noel, how this whole island, makes me feel. I’m finally able to take a step back and see clearly again. Being with Noel has helped me, not only personally, but creatively. My life is different. My music is different. But I know protesting will only make things worse.
Tess throws up her hands and laughs, a hard cackle. “Now what?” she asks. “Now you write all your songs about Noel? About how he’s everything you’ve ever hoped for, and more? You drag your producers out here every other week to record your new sound? To trample all over this house like it’s their own private penthouse?”
She shakes her head and swats at the air between us, like she’s trying to erase me from her presence. She turns and walks down the hallway, pausing at the stairs. “I should’ve known bringing you here was a mistake,” she says, before loudly climbing up to her room.
Hot tears sting my eyes. Sammy gives my hand another squeeze. I know there are things she wants to say but she doesn’t. She doesn’t have to. I can read the disappointment all over her face.
“We just care about you,” she says evenly. “We don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
I nod and slip my fingers out of her grasp. My cheeks are still hot, Tess’s words still looping on repeat in my ears.
“You know how she is,” Sammy says with a quick glance at the ceiling. “She’ll get over it.”
“I hope so,” I say softly.
“It’s just a lot for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Us being here,” Sammy says. “This was her place. And now it’s . . .”
“Now it’s all about me,” I say. I remember the morning on the porch with Terry and the guys, the way the whole house was transformed in a matter of minutes. Tess hadn’t said a word, but I saw the look in her eyes, the photo on the table, carelessly knocked to its side.
“She’ll be fine,” Sammy assures me again. “She just needs to blow off some steam.”
I nod, wanting to believe her, but knowing that it won’t be that easy. Not this time.
Sammy leans back in her chair and yawns.
“Go to sleep,” I say. “You look exhausted.”
“Want me to stay?” Sammy asks. “I could make you some tea.”
I shake my head, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying. I have the best friends in the universe, and all I do is run them ragged. They rally around me and do everything in their power to make sure I have whatever I want, whenever I want it. And this is how I repay them? By lying to them? By doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t do?
“No,” I say. “I think I’ll just sit for a while.”
Sammy nods and gives my shoulder a squeeze. She switches off the light in the hall and turns off the ones in the kitchen, too. I think about asking her to leave them on but don’t. I sit in the dark, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick-tick of the clock on the wall.
Outside, the moon is hidden behind a cloud. I try not to imagine Noel crouching beside the orange glow of a fire as I pull out my phone. It rings five times before going to voice mail. I hang up and text instead.
Can’t make it, I type. Something came up.
I consider explaining more, or adding x’s and o’s. But instead I just write:
I’m sorry.
17
58 Days Until Tour
July 16th
THE NEXT MORNING, I’m brewing a pot of Terry’s imported coffee when there’s a knock at the door. I shuffle down the hall in my jersey bathrobe and peer through the stained-glass window. Ray stands on the deck, a small brown bag clutched in his giant fist.
“Thanks,” I say as he passes me the bag. I peer inside at the gooey pile of doughnuts. “Want to stay for one? Promise I won’t tell.”
Ray smiles and shakes his head. “K2 gets lonely.” He shrugs back toward the car in the road. “We’re listening to an audiobook. He’s on a Dickens kick.” He rolls his eyes and hops back down the steps, lumbering down the driveway.
I texted him early this morning out of desperation. I wasn’t sure that breakfast treats and Terry’s coffee were going to be enough to turn things around with Tess, but I knew I had to do something. I tossed and turned all night, replaying in my head all of what happened. When I decided to tell Sammy and Tess the truth about Noel, I knew they would be disappointed. But with Tess, it feels like something more. And she’s not one to “talk things out.” There’s only guessing what’s wrong, and doing whatever can be done to fix it.
Usually, this involves doughnuts. Every morning at camp there were doughnuts. Tess knew where they were kept in the kitchen and how to sneak in. Whenever one of us was down, or she was feeling city-sick, Tess would round us up for a late-night rendezvous, and we’d tiptoe down the woodchip-covered trail and stuff our faces in the dark with sticky, glazed goodness.
I stand at the stove, boiling water for tea—I’ve never been a coffee drinker, I’m jittery enough on my own—and I remember what Tess said about this summer. She thought it should be for us now what camp was for us then. Suddenly, I understand why that could never happen. There were no boys at camp.
It’s hard to imagine now, after years of serial dating and ping-ponging from one long-term relationship to the next, but when I was younger, boys were never on my radar. Or, I should say, I wasn’t on theirs. I’d get jealous, sometimes, about the way guys always waited for Sammy outside after junior high, showing off and acting like morons, fighting for her attention. In high school, it was clear that Sammy was on the fast track to popularity—captain of the dance team, prom queen, the works—while I was still going fishing with Gramps and goofing around on my guitar. But by that point, Sammy was too loyal to set me free. Sometimes I think she’s the only reason I got out of that place alive. Sammy, and writing music.
Tess was different. I could sense that she needed us, from the very first day of camp, even if she didn’t immediately agree. She mentioned her parents’ recent divorce only to say that getting rid of her for the summer was the first thing they’d agreed on in years. By the end of that first summer, Tess had dragged us out on all kinds of late-night adventures, and gotten us into more trouble than we ever would have found on our own. She replaced every Top 40 song on my iPod with obscure indie bands, and to this day, any cool cred I may have earned in my life or my music, I owe almost entirely to her. She’s a big part of the reason I moved to New York. I knew I wanted her by my side, physically and emotionally, for as long as she could handle being there. Which is why I can’t let
her stay mad at me for long. No matter how badly I screw up, Sammy and I have too much history for her to ever give up on me. But with Tess, I’m not so sure.
The kettle whistles and I pour a cup of tea for me, a mug of rich-smelling coffee for Tess. I arrange a pile of doughnuts on a dainty floral plate, and balance the whole spread on a tray, then pad carefully up the creaky steps. I knock gently on Tess’s door.
Nothing.
I open the door a crack. She’s sprawled on top of the quilt, her dark curls piled over her face. “Tess?” I whisper. “Are you awake?”
Tess grunts and rolls over. I edge the tray onto the wicker bedside table. “I brought you something,” I say, nudging her shoulder.
Tess inches toward the wall and tosses the quilt over her head.
“Doughnuts!” I announce cheerily. “I know they’re not Krispy Kreme, but they look pretty authentic. Cinnamon glazed . . . Your favorite.”
Tess doesn’t move. I watch the bulge of blankets rise and fall with her breathing.
“Real coffee, too,” I try. “It smells amazing. Here.”
I waft the steam from the tray over in her general direction, but Tess continues to ignore me. Finally, I throw up my hands. “Come on!” I erupt. “I’m trying! I said I was sorry. You have to give me something!”
Tess whips the quilt from her shoulders and spins around to face me on the bed. “Give you something?” she spits back at me. “I give you everything! I work for you! I live with you! I do everything for you. Everything I have, everything I do, revolves around you. Is it too much to ask for something to be just mine?”
She stares at me, breathing heavily, sleep still stuck to the corners of her eyes. I sit, frozen, stunned and confused.
“Noel?” I finally ask. “But . . .”
“Ugh!” Tess groans, picking up a pillow and aggressively flopping it into my lap. “Not Noel! Not everything is about a guy, you know . . .”
“I know,” I say defensively. “I just don’t know what else I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says. “That’s the point. You don’t do anything, and still, it’s like, just by being here, you make everything different.”
I sigh, a strange sadness settling around my heart. It’s the same old story, the never-ending balancing act that has become my life. “Oh. That.”
I used to spend a lot of time worrying about how being around me was affecting my family and friends. At first, of course, all the attention, the fame, was exciting for all of us. But it wasn’t long before the newness wore off, and I could tell it was a struggle. It’s been hard for me, too, but I signed up for this. They didn’t. That’s why being on the island, for me, has felt like a magical escape. I feel it changing me, slowly breaking down the walls I’ve been so carefully building. But I’ve never stopped to think about how I might be changing it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know this was your place.”
Tess pulls the quilt into her lap, picking at the worn corners. “It was the only thing that always stayed the same. Every time I came back, no matter what else was going on, at school, my parents . . .”
I peer through the curtains of Tess’s crazy curls and see the same girl I met that first day of camp. No matter how much she complained about the early morning wake-up calls, the heat, the bugs, the silly camp uniform we had to wear on Sundays, we always knew the four weeks we spent there were her favorite four weeks of the year. We knew because it was the same for us, too.
“I know,” I say. I want to say more. I want to say that sometimes I hate all of the attention, too. But complaining about this life, this ridiculous, privileged, anything-is-possible life, always makes me feel uneasy. Like it might be snatched up, taken away in an instant, and I’d be left the same awkward girl I used to be, stuck in the middle of nowhere, dreaming. So instead, all I say is, “I’m sorry.”
Tess picks up the pillow and bats me with it again, playfully this time. “Me too,” she says. “I didn’t mean what I said about bringing you here. I’m sorry I’m such a brat.”
“You can’t help it.” I shrug playfully, handing her the plate of doughnuts. “It’s all you know.”
Tess nods earnestly and takes the plate into her lap. She peers at the doughnuts, gingerly picking one up and taking a bite. “Imposter,” she rules, dropping it back onto the plate with a thud.
I laugh and pass her the coffee. She takes a careful sip.
“Better?” I ask.
“Anything would be better than the watery junk they sell in town,” she says, taking another sip. “Are you going to see him again?”
“Who?”
Tess rolls her eyes. “‘Who?’” she mocks me, feigning innocence.
There’s a tightness around my heart as I remember the text I sent last night. “I don’t think so,” I say at last. I know it wasn’t my seeing Noel that upset Tess, but I also know that he’s a part of what makes this place so special to her. There isn’t a lot that happened in her childhood that she remembers fondly. I can’t ruin this for her.
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Tess says. “I want you to see him.”
“You do?”
Tess nods, licking her fingers.
“But what about all that stuff you said? I need to stop losing myself in relationships. I’m not ready.”
Tess shrugs. “You’re probably not,” she says. “But so what? This is who you are, Bird. It’s the reason people who have never met you send you holiday cards, and knit your face into sweaters, and light candles for you at church. They love your music, yes, but they also love you. Like, really love you. And it’s because they know you care about them. You care about everyone. You’d fall in love with a paper bag if it hung around you long enough.”
I laugh, pressing the corners of my eyes to keep the tears from leaking out. “I just feel like I’m always letting you guys down,” I say. “I’m afraid I’ll screw things up again, and next time, you won’t be there. I’m worried you’ll give up on me.”
“Give up on you?” Tess looks at me like I’m speaking in tongues. “You’re the only reason I’m here right now. You cared about me when nobody else did. When my own parents couldn’t stand to be around me. I did everything to get you to leave me alone, and you wouldn’t.”
Tess pauses, her eyes glassy. The only time I’ve ever seen her cry was when she rode her fixed-gear bike into the open door of a garbage truck and cracked two ribs. She sniffles, looks away, and swats at her face with both hands. “There aren’t enough bonehead boyfriends in the world to make me give up on you.”
I lean my head on her shoulder. She lets me cuddle for a second before straightening and stretching for her coffee on the table.
I shift on the bed and reach into the pocket of my bathrobe for my phone.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I scroll through my contacts and find Noel’s name. My thumb is poised over the red Delete Contact button.
“Don’t do that!” Tess squeals. “I told you, I don’t care.”
“I know,” I say. “But I do.” I press the button.
Are you sure you want to delete this contact? the phone asks.
In a flash, I see Noel’s face. I remember the way he looked when I left him, after another night on the water. I caught him watching me walk away and he’d pretended he was searching for Murphy in the dunes. My heart clenches at the idea that it could be the last time I see him. It feels impossible that I won’t even get to say a real good-bye.
But not as impossible as losing Tess.
I press the button—Yes—and tuck the phone back into my pocket. There’s a sad tug on my heart, but I breathe through it. It’s for the best. I need to get back to work anyway. No excuses. No distractions. Even if it means no Noel.
Tess shakes her head. “Lily Ross, breaking hearts and taking names.”
I roll my eyes. “Better me than them.” I jump off her bed and scrounge around in the messy top drawer of her dresser. “Now hurry
up.”
“Where are we going?” Tess asks, lowering her feet to the floor and stretching her arms to the ceiling.
I find her bathing suit and toss it onto her lap. “We’re going to the beach,” I say. “Because we’re on vacation. And those waves aren’t going to surf themselves.”
18
52 Days Until Tour
July 22nd
TESS TRUDGES TO the shore with her surfboard, dropping it with a heavy thud onto the pebbled beach. “And that’s a wrap.” It’s been almost a week since I brought her doughnuts and dragged her into the water, surf gear in tow, and very little progress has been made.
To Tess’s credit, the waves haven’t exactly been cooperating; they’re either too small, or too big and sloppy, or they’re breaking too far out. As a show of solidarity, I’ve paddled out once or twice, zipping myself into her rented wet suit and splashing through face-fulls of whitecaps. I stood up on the board once, but just long enough to see a rock in my direct path, panic, and tumble off gracelessly.
“You’re giving up?” Sammy asks, her book spread open on her lap. She refuses to go swimming—Sammy’s afraid of sharks, an excuse she’s been using since the water safety class we had to take in the notably shark-free lake at camp—and instead has spent the week working her way through her romance novel. “But it’s your summer goal!”
“Don’t talk to me about goals, Speed Reader.” Tess slaps her towel at Sammy’s ankles. “You’ve been buried in that book for weeks. How are you possibly not finished?”
“I have bad eyesight,” Sammy says, pulling her reading glasses out of her hair.
Tess laughs. “I’ve heard those work better when you actually wear them.”
It’s a good question, actually—Sammy has been spending a lot of time on a book she hasn’t seemed to have made much of a dent in. She’s never been a big reader, but I’d know if my best friend was illiterate, right? I wave off Tess’s teasing, though, not wanting Sam to feel embarrassed.
“Ladies,” I intervene. “This is supposed to be fun. Nobody has to surf—or read—if they don’t want to.” I try not to sound smug, though I’m secretly proud of my own recent progress. In the last week, I’ve written two more Noel-free songs and proven to myself, once and for all, that my talent is not inseparably linked to whichever member of the male species I’ve temporarily decided is “the one.”