Page 29

THERE WAS A tropical depression festering out in the Atlantic.

It was the fourth storm of the season, and perfectly on time.

Tropical storm Darcy.

There still was a chance it might not hit.

The storm was a good week out, and the models projected it going every which way—most of them swinging back out to sea and missing us entirely.

I’d lived through enough hurricane seasons to know that it was too early to tell.

The hurricanes that were projected to hit us rarely dumped a rain shower, while the ones the meteorologists said would miss us entirely sucker punched us right in the gut.

Jimmy Buffett said it best—there was no use “trying to reason with hurricane season.”

And currently, my biggest problem wasn’t a hurricane named Darcy.

I massaged the bridge of my nose and stifled a yawn. The band ran way too late last night, and I didn’t get in until close to one a.m. Mom accidentally misplaced the coffee somewhere, so we didn’t have any this morning. I could’ve really used a cup.

I’ll be at the Rev shortly.

“Okay—oh.” He sounded surprised at something.

Everything okay?

“I think someone recognized me.”

Run , I advised.

“Ha, I’ll be there soon.”

I wasn’t joking when I advised him to run. Locals recognizing him was one thing, but tourists always thought that being on vacation meant that they could do whatever they wanted. But I was sure he dealt with people all the time, so who was I to say anything?

Crumpling up my M&M’s wrapper, I tossed it into the trash and picked up my sandwiches at the end of the counter. “Thanks, Red,” I told the old guy behind the counter, putting a ten in the tip jar, and left for the Rev.

At the corner, I turned to make my way up Main Street to the Rev, when I caught sight of a crowd in front of Cool Beans.

I backtracked a little, squinting to see if it was any concern of mine.

Two young women giggled to each other and parted, and there in the middle of the throng was Sebastian Fell, surrounded on all sides by people who wanted their photos taken or something signed.

He smiled at everyone, and laughed, and posed for their selfies.

Guess he did not run.

He probably wouldn’t have been spotted at all if he’d just bought one of those vacation shirts instead of walking around like a Gucci model.

I would’ve just left him, but then I heard his voice in my head, tight and frantic. “I’m going to be late—I should tell her.”

I inclined my head, listening.

“Smile. Oh, there’s two of you. Nod, yes, this is so funny. Ha, laugh. Please get your hand off my ass.” He stepped away from the young woman in question, turning so that her hand slipped away, and greeted a tween, stooping for a selfie with her.

I’d been in his head before without him realizing, but this was the first time while knowing that he was Sebastian Fell.

He sounded so polite and welcoming with the crowd, it was surprising to hear his voice so nervous.

Our fight came to mind—what had he said?

That everyone took photos of him, and talked at him, and gossiped about him, but never gave him a chance to be a person. He was a story to them.

Not real.

Just the way I had thought of him, too. I hadn’t gushed over him or asked for a selfie, but I never gave him the chance to be anything more than a story on Page Six.

Why was he even over here? He could’ve just gone straight to the Rev and passed this entire headache.

“The things I do,” I muttered to myself, and set off down the sidewalk toward the horde of people surrounding Sebastian. When I was within earshot, I cleared my throat and called, “Sebastian!”

He didn’t hear me as he autographed a receipt one-handed and returned the pen to the man with a “Nice to meet you.” And greeted the next person. They were queuing up at this point.

Todd came out of Cool Beans and stood helplessly beside me. “It’s like Disney World. One person got in line and then the rest of them. He just came for coffees. He’s been standing here for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Ah. That’s not great. Excuse me,” I added, trying to slip through the crowd.

A tourist shot me a glare as I slipped past her, and someone else told me to wait my turn, but I didn’t have the patience for that.

“Sebastian,” I called again, but he had his back turned, chatting.

I reached forward and slipped my arm into his, and said, “ Sasha .”

He jerked his head toward me. The smile plastered across his face flickered with anxiety.

Play along? I advised.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he replied, and with my arm through his, I felt him relax against me.

“Sasha, there you are,” I said loudly.

A few people beside us murmured “ Sasha? ” while giving each other confused looks.

“What are these people doing around you? Oh my god, are you signing things again ? I’m sorry about this,” I added to the closest person, a sunburnt tourist in a red visor and swim trunks. “He thinks it’s so funny. Pretending he’s that boy band guy.”

His anxiety quickly morphed into excitement. Like the last kid on a playground finally asked to play red rover. “You have to admit, bird,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “I do look a little like him.”

“If you were taller,” I replied, and his eyebrows shot up at the surprise quip.

“I am just as tall as Google says!”

Mm-hmm, but are you? I asked teasingly.

The group around us began to murmur disappointedly.

Someone even added, “He is a little short …”

Sebastian looked stricken.

“You’re awful,” he said.

I bit back a grin. You’re welcome.

“Now come on, we’re already late. Excuse us,” I added, holding fast to his arm as I dragged him out of the throng of people.

To his surprise, they didn’t follow. Of course not—even tourists knew that Vienna Shores didn’t get celebrities . Especially not the likes of Sebastian Fell. He was better suited for the Maldives or some nude beach in Spain.

I didn’t let go of him until we were on the block with the Revelry. Then I unwound my arm from his, finally, to unlock the front door and let him inside. He didn’t relax until I’d closed and locked the door again behind us, and his shoulders slumped in relief.

“I’m sorry, I would’ve been here sooner …” he began and offered one of the coffees to me. “It’s a Perfect Woman with an extra shot.”

“Oh—thanks. This is kind of exactly what I wanted,” I noted, taking a sip. It was a little cold, but still good. How thoughtful of him, and he even remembered what I liked. “Wait, did you go to Cool Beans just to get me coffee?”

He shrugged. Then his stomach made a noise.

I dug his sub out of the sandwich bag and handed it to him. “Here, we’ll trade, then. Turkey sub on white bread, provolone cheese and olives. Sans alfalfa sprouts.”

He took it with a widening grin, because I’d heard what he wanted, too.

WE ATE OUR sandwiches on the lip of the stage, drank cold coffee, and got to work.

Well, work in the loose sense, because the moment we sat down at the piano bench we couldn’t really agree on anything.

We didn’t even know what we wanted the song to be, what we wanted it to say, or how we wanted to make people feel.

“I don’t even know how I feel,” I muttered, staring down at the piano keys. There were eighty-eight keys and endless combinations, and I couldn’t imagine a single one.

“The empty thing,” he inferred.

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. You make it sound so normal.

“You’re burnt out,” he replied, setting his fingers on the keys. He started to work through the melody in our heads, as absently as twirling a piece of hair. “Give yourself a little grace about it. You’re going through something no one should.”

That made me still. I hadn’t considered looking at it that way, mostly because I was in it, and the only way out was through. Always through.

I chewed on my bottom lip. “Thank you. I think the worst part is that no one knows, except for you—well, and my manager. I can’t even tell my best friend, because I feel like a failure. Like I shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t have this problem—but I do .”

He inclined his head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Yes, no. I don’t know.

His fingers moved slower over the keys, the melody turning into a ballad of sorts. “We don’t even have to talk.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat. Stared down at the keys.

It’s like—like there’s this iceberg on my chest , I began.

And it makes it hard to breathe or think or—or create.

I keep trying to. I keep reaching deeper and deeper and I just …

I can’t find anything. Just emptiness. Just silence.

I felt the knot slide all the way down into the dread that made my chest tight and cold.

A foreign body that had crept in and nested just beside my heart.

“My heart has never felt so silent before,” I whispered.

It felt taboo to say it out loud. Here I was, successful and on top of the world.

I shouldn’t be failing. This sort of failure was for five years ago—eight!

It was for the beginning of my career, not this high up.

Not this far in. And the worst thing was, I didn’t know what I did wrong.

I didn’t know what I could have done differently to make sure this never happened.

I just knew that every time I opened my notebook, that terrifying ball of dread in my chest grew, and nothing I wrote was good enough—and that was assuming I wrote anything at all.

There wasn’t a voice in my head telling me that I was a failure.

There wasn’t that seeping, inky impostor syndrome bleeding out into my head. No, there was just nothing.

Nothing at all.

“And I don’t know if it’ll ever come back, whatever that it is. I just …” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be good at this.”